Wilford Charles Brimley

If my dad were here and counting, he would be 123 years old today. My, my.

Born in 1891, he lived in the 19th and 20th Centuries. I don't know what he remembered of the late 1800s. He never talked to me about it.

He lived through the Great Depression, as did my mother, and I believe the Brimley family he grew up in never had a lot of anything. I remember hearing that one of the Brimley brothers got the family into debt--business failure?--and my dad's dad, rather than declare bankruptcy, paid it off. It took a long time to clear the debt.

This story is sketchy in my memory, but I think it's something like what I just wrote, and I didn't make it up.

Anyway, my dad was frugal, a bargain hunter (food and houses, and there are many stories about both or either house or food bargains) and a make do kind of man. I don't think he and my mom clashed much about that kind of thing, but, then, I wouldn't really know, would I.

I know they agreed on this point: Stay out of debt.

So my mother was no spendthrift, but, while she was careful, she liked her kids to have something nice, including music lessons, dance lessons, even oil painting lessons. Not to mention something nice to wear and a home they could bring their friends to--a presentable place to live. Daddy provided for that, and so did she. She taught piano for most of her life, single and married, and taught school, too.

One thing I took for granted, something not everyone can, my mom and dad loved each other, and they loved their family. We were safe with them.

Staying out of debt is one of the important lessons I learned from my dad.

He also taught me to love avocados, and my favorite way to eat them is the way I saw my dad eat them--a piece of whole wheat bread (I make my own, Daddy), avocado mashed on the bread, with plenty of pepper on top. I do use pepper but not in the amounts my dad did. And I might toast the bread.

Happy Birthday, my dear Daddy.

About a dog, or dogs

I walked to the bank yesterday afternoon. As I walked back home, two dogs barked at me. These are dogs on my very own street, mind you.

They sounded angry, one big and scary, one small and nasty. Glad I was that they couldn't get out. I don't know their names, but I know the names of Shuells' dog, Dash, next door. He never barks at me anymore, and Contas' dog, Bailey, across the street. He is an inside dog, and I never hear him unless I ring their doorbell.

But there are the others, and they either bark or get out and wander and make nuisances of themselves. And somebody's dog is barking right now, this morning, as I write.

I counted the dogs in my small neighborhood--eleven. Or ten dogs and one hound. The hound and his companions belong to the Clarks. Clarks were here when we built this house. I don't know which of their dogs have lived that long, but they have always had dogs.

However, all the other dogs, including the two right next door on the other side who bark their heads off--well, not really, though I kind of wish they would--if I step out of my house, came after. So I think I have the right to say, "Look, this is my place, so pipe down." As if that would do any good.

Here I must mention the adventure with the three small dogs at Andrew and Michelle's house Monday night, not in my neighborhood but memorable.

It was a party for Jacob's 21st birthday, but guess who had the real party. That's right, Wilbur (he's little but a big pain), Ready (the little dog whose insides are outside and who wears clothes because she is always cold and who chews her own feet a lot), and George and Betty's dog, Moochie or Smoochie (who is just a quiet sweet little dog at home, but not when he/she gets with others of her kind).

Here's the thing. I like dogs. I sometimes think of getting one. I also sometimes think of getting a new car, which I do not need.

I'll probably get a new car before I get a dog.

What a person can see right here in Boise

Yes, I saw the lunar eclipse. As I drove to the temple last Wednesday morning at 5 a.m. the moon was red and right in front of me the whole way. It was thrilling.

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Yes, I saw two great blue herons yesterday as I walked. They did not seem to be together, although they both circled over the river, one right above my head, and landed in a tree--not the same tree--along the river. Such majestic birds, and they look very important as they fly.

Of Dogs and Poems, for Ann to Ponder

Elizabeth Barrett, before she married Robert Browning, wrote a long poem to and about her beloved dog, Flush.

Flush was a cocker spaniel, and, if you read her poem, you will see that he was beloved indeed. It was almost a spiritual relationship. She would offer prayers while resting her hand on his head, with its gold ringlets. And so on.

I have to confess the poem was a bit much for me. Kind of like the Sonnets to the Portuguese, but to a dog. I had to drink water after I read it.

Three times Elizabeth paid a ransom to dognappers who took Flush. That is not a poem or in the poem. That is simply the truth.

I don't know if it was the same guy, taking the dog three times, or three different dognappers. I do know, or I'm pretty sure, that the dognappers were men. But that, while an interesting idea for me to suggest, is not the point here.

The point is that I do understand loving a dog. I loved our dog, Sweetiepie. And I despise anyone who would take someone's beloved dog and hold it for money. I will not get into the subject of kidnapping because I can hardly think of such things without becoming ill. I'm serious.

There is something else I thought of. After she married Robert Browning, what of Flush? Of that I know nothing. Maybe with a husband, she didn't need a dog. What do you think?

It's an Idaho Tradition, I guess

Many years ago, when we lived in Caldwell, we would see houses toilet papered, even our own house on a few occasions. But never have I seen a more beautiful toilet papering than the one in my neighborhood, done Friday night. So much toilet paper in so many trees, and so high up.

I walked over and told Jeff, the dad in that house, it was the most beautiful toilet papering I had seen in many years, and I asked how they could get the toilet paper so high.

"They just pitch it," he said. Jeff is clearly an athlete, very trim and muscled, so pitching it seemed no big thing.

Well, I knew they pitched it. But it's really high.

It's in honor of his daughter, an athlete at Timberline High School and also the perpetrator--with her friends--of a toilet papering of some of the football team guys. So it's payback.

She was not at home, but I met Charles and Solomon, her brothers, who were helping their dad with the clean-up. Big job. Really big job. Too bad they can't use all that toilet paper. I mean for its intended purpose.

Jeff is the guy who shoveled my driveway a few winters ago. He is principal at Meridian High School, where Solomon intends to go. Solomon is about nine or maybe 10. I asked him, "Is that because your dad is the principal?"

Solomon said it's because, "I want to help out their sports."

Could be, you know. He and Charles are out there shooting baskets a lot.

Surely you know what I 'm talking about--toilet papering a house.