A Farewell Toast to Doug Cartledge

 Doug Cartledge in British navy uniform circa 1943.

When my father, Doug Cartledge, died in February, he was the second-oldest islander (my mother is the oldest) on Middle Bass, Ohio.  My parents bought their house there in 1954 and raised four children there.

Historically, because of the precarious travel conditions in northern Ohio in winter, when someone dies a service of some kind is held the next summer so islanders may pay their respects. Our family discussed how best to do that for a man whose hearty and generous personality combined with a native British reticence and the conviction that nothing should interrupt islanders' work in the summertime.  Then,   too, my father had friends all over the world, some relatives, some acquaintances made after he brought the first computer to the island and used it to reach out to the wide world.  How to encompass so many things?

Being our father's children, we came up with a novel solution. We invite you to join with us in a farewell toast on Saturday, July 17.  Where ever in the world you may be -- England, Italy, Wales, Arizona, California, Hawaii, Virginia, Florida, or the islands -- raise a glass in a farewell toast to Doug Cartledge at four p. m. your local time.


We'll all be at Charlie's cottage from four to six that day. If you happen to be on the island, you're welcome to drop by.  If we can locate Mr. Punch, he'll be the special guest -- but sitting peacefully in a chair rather than throwing the smelly baby out the window.

My father's American Punch & Judy was published in 1979, and for decades he'd don his stove pipe hat and put on Punch and Judy shows for children on the island.  (Between them, he and my mother also did all the carving and costuming of the puppets.)

The dedication on the frontispiece of his book reads as follows:
 "This book is dedicated to our grandchildren, to their grandchildren,
and to anyone who has ever laughed and will continue to laugh
at the age-old antics of Punch and Judy.  To them we leave a legacy of fun and remembrances."

Would that we all might leave such a legacy.

First Cousins Once Removed

I went out to the fairgrounds ten days or so ago to meet up with some cousins whom I haven't seen in eons.  Pictured are Cousin Carolyn, me, Cousin John (whom we still refer to as Cousin Jackie when talking to my mom, and John's wife Paulette.

Carolyn and John's father was John Brown, who married Oma. He had a sister named Gladys, who married Steve Havanas.  He had another sister named Lily, who married Charles Harkness; and they beget my mother -- which makes Mother a first cousin to Carolyn and John (who are around my age) and makes them my first cousins once removed.  (Their children and I are second cousins.)  Genealogy lesson complete.

The last time I saw Carolyn was at my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary, in 1993.

The last time I saw John was 1955-ish, when he told me if I touched a birds' nest the mama bird would find me and peck my eyes out.  For all these years, I couldn't remember which big boy had told me, but on the way to the fairgrounds it was Jackie. He was 9 at the time and couldn't have guessed that 40-some years later I'd put up a hummingbird feeder, and, when the first hummingbird came to feed and hovered inches from my face, I sat in something just short of terror wondering if it were going to peck my eyes out.

John and Paulette, who are from Houston, have been square-dancing for years.  Carolyn and her husband Steve, who live near Detroit, started a few years ago. They were in town for the 59th National Square Dance Convention.

The 60th Convention will be in Detroit, and within five minutes of arriving back home, I'd convinced Michael that he (who square-danced a little in high school) and I (who square-danced a little in high school) should take lessons and join the cousins at the convention next year.

Outside their natural habitat, people in square dancing clothes may not appear chic, but put 6,000+ together in one place, and you begin to see the beauty.  Some costumes are reminiscent of quilts, with carefully pieced designs -- in bold, bright, contrasting colors. And, as I mentioned earlier, there are those colored petticoats and glittery shoes.

Carolyn's husband Steve, Cousin Carolyn, me looking totally wacko, and Cousin Jackie.

The secret of flea medications

Say hello again to Hoddie, the formerly dying Chihuahua who got a clean bill of health from the vet on Monday.  A week or so ago blood tests revealed a cancer that prevented her blood from clotting, and the vet also showed Jennifer the large tumor in the dog's mouth.  He said they could take her to an animal hospital emergency room immediately for chemotherapy, pay $7000, and end up with the same inevitable result:  a dead dog.  So they took her home and babied her and watered her with tears and alternated the small quilts I'd made for her and Larry, swapping them out every time she sneezed a storm of blood everywhere.

She was sick every single day last week, and then Sunday she wasn't quite as sick, and then Monday the tumor was gone and her blood test results were normal.  Her vet, who is in his mid-70s, said he's never seen such a thing before.

I don't believe in miracles, and if I did this situation would infuriate me, because the world is full of human beings who need a real live miracle more than Hoddie, no matter how dear a dog she is. I believe in bio-chemistry, and the steroids that invigorated her enough to eat again and allowed enough time for the toxicity to get out of her system.

The vet still doesn't think the flea product Jennifer used caused the problem, but he did tell her the difference between bobo brands and the expensive ones. The cheap products leave out the ingredient that inhibits the chemicals from entering the dog's blood stream. And that, we believe, is what combined with Hoddie's particular body chemistry to nearly kill her -- "nearly" being the critical word.

Why I Shall Take Up Square Dancing at my Earliest Convenience

Reason number 1: 
Petticoats.  Silver, gold, and every color of the rainbow.  Not only that, some square dancers pile on the petticoats, wearing more than one at a time for extra color.  How much fun is that?  Especially since 75 yards of fabric can go into each petticoat.

Reason number 2:
Shiny Shoes

Every child in the country who ever took a dance class has worn shiny shoes, but me?  Never, except for the time in 1968 when I went to a formal dance wearing a gold dress made by my mother, sparkly gold stockings, and gold shoes.  Not only that, but you can get these shoes in wide sizes.

Independence Day, 2010

Today is Independence Day in the United States, so I've gathered together a group of Old Glory stamps plus a few other symbols -- the Statue of Liberty, the Liberty Bell, a dove of peace, Paul Revere -- to celebrate.  Hats off to the land of the free (unless you count the facial recognition software in every parking lot and the scanning devices in airports that show every wrinkle under a person's clothes) and the home of the brave.  And a toast to my grandson, Bradley, in the Navy stationed in Hawaii, and my nephew, Jon, in the Navy and stationed in Virginia with his bride, Nicole.

And They Call It Puppy Love

Update:  Hoddie did not have cancer. She remains alive to this very day, June 1, 2015

The circle of life, as is its wont, is kicking us between the eyes.  My daughter took her younger Chihuahua, Hoddie, to the vet this week.  Hoddie had a rash on her stomach, which Jenn thought was the result of a bobo brand flea product she'd used on the dog. The vet said not, that, rather, Hoddie has a cancer of the blood and also tumor at the back of her mouth. For $7000 she could have started chemo immediately, and, the vet said gently, the result at the end would be what it will be without chemo:  a dead puppy. Everyone is very said, even me, and she hated me until the time I took Koko to visit her.

The photos that follow are Hoddie quilting with Jennifer; Hoddie and her best friend, Troy; and Hoddie doing her groupie imitation, following a few paces behind Koko, staring in adoration. 
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And then there's Laramie Jean, born of good drugs and the BEEPing of an isotope while I lay still on a gurney being radiated.  Laramie has been called, variously, a street dog (because she was picked up wandering Preston Highway), a funny dog (because she's ever present in the moment, even if that involves flattening herself on the floor to crawl under the shelves at Feeder's Supply because she thinks she's spotted a treat. She, by the way, is the same age as Hoddie and Koko.  They're all 7, which makes Hoddie's imminent death even more of an insult to our emotions.

These photos show the single most exciting moment of Laramie's life (not counting the time Michael cooked bacon).  We stepped outside in the evening, and when she lowered her nose to sniff a leaf, the leaf hopped away.  She was ecstatic and still, weeks later, sniffs the spot where the tadpole once sat for his portrait.  The final photo shows her celebrating my attention to paperwork.

How puppy love came to mean something young and fleeting I'll never understand.