The story of Daisy...

Changing Attitudes One at a Time

American Pit Bull Terrier: A medium sized, solidly built, short coated breed of dog. Pretty generic as far as descriptions go. My depiction of the breed was a bit more descriptive, and according to my son and husband, downright contentious. “An ugly junkyard looking mutt that resembles a pig on steroids,” I would tell them. “Such beasts surely would only be owned by thugs or men with challenged levels of testosterone.”

I chanted this anti Pit Bull mantra each time I caught my son scrolling down the list of adoptable puppies on the local animal shelter website. My husband wasn’t much help, having owned several Pit Bulls before we ever met; he was always quick to list the accolades of this particular breed. There was no way, I assured anyone listening, that a Pit Bull would ever cross our threshold to stay. But, as has happened too many times in the past, I underestimated the persistently persuasive abilities of my younger son Danny. Bargaining, begging and bartering, he used whatever swaying powers he could muster.

Of course, all of this was life BD; Before Daisy. Daisy was an eight week old Pit Bull puppy when she joined the Edwards household. All puppies are cute, I thought, when we first brought her home. Puppies are also a lot of work, but this was my son’s gig.

It wasn’t long after that I would be relaxing on my bed, catching up on my soaps and the top of her little white head would pop up. Still too small to see over the top of the mattress, she resembled a bouncing q-tip. Pretty soon she was sleeping in our bed, curled by my side. I would carry her on my shoulder like the solid, floppy eared, toddler that she was.

Daisy has never been overbearing in her affection, but she was also isn’t stingy. She patiently tolerates the hugs and kisses I constantly plant on the top of her head. We are amazed daily by her demonstrations of what we are convinced is above average canine intelligence. She tries so hard to please. No one is more disheartened than Daisy if she thinks she has let us down. All we have to do is shake our heads in exaggerated disappointment and off she goes, tail tucked, ears back, to the farthest corner of our home which just happens to be the tub in the boys’ bathroom.

Ironically, I now found myself in the position of contending with the prejudice against this particular breed of dog. Taking her for a walk around our neighborhood, other pet owners will cross the street or even pick up their pet while eyeing my dog with an almost palpable mistrust.

Then, in January, when Daisy was about six months old, there was an anticipated knock on the door. It was time for the annual Girl Scout cookie sales. I opened the door to the neighborhood youngsters. My friendly greeting was readily acknowledged and returned. Daisy’s enthusiastic welcome, however, was not well received. Although her tail was wagging with all the force she could muster, Daisy was definitely about to deal with some serious rejection. Erin, one of the youngsters, turned and ran back to her mother’s car, proclaiming in panic, that we had a “Pimpbull!” Or as we now like to refer to Daisy’s comical misnomer, a “Pimple.” Fortunately, we were able to complete the cookie transaction, after I relocated Daisy to another room.

The next day I assured Erin that Daisy was a very sweet and gentle dog, nothing like the reputation her breed has been burdened with. However, someone, probably an over imaginative classmate, had told her that “Pimples” possessed poisonous whiskers that, if touched, would imbed themselves in your skin. I assured her that this was not the case, a Pit Bull’s whiskers were just as harmless as any other breed. She listened politely, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced.

Months later while walking Daisy in our neighborhood park. Erin was riding her bike with a few of her young friends. The other girls immediately dumped their bikes to say “Hi,” but Erin conspicuously held back. “Honey,” I said softly, so as not to embarrass her in front of her friends. “I wouldn’t bring a dog around you if I thought she could hurt you.” Erin took a couple of steps forward and cautiously gave Daisy a few light pats on the nose. “See?” I started. “I know,” she said quickly, trying not to look at Daisy, “She’s a nice dog.” So, it wasn’t exactly a greeting card moment, but it was a start.

Is the Language of Love Spoken?

In honor of my parents, who celebrated fifty-five years of marriage this month.  I  love you Mom and Dad!


When I was a youngster any details about how my parents met and the courtship that followed were kept to the basic when, where and how. It was adequate information for me at the time; additional details weren’t solicited until years later. By then my romantic idealism was of a decidedly adolescent nature so I singled out the details that were of interest to me and disregarded the rest. In other words, I just wanted to hear the mushy stuff! It wasn’t until I was approaching my twenties, having accumulated a few years of my own dating experience, that I began to question the “how” of my parents’ courtship.

You see, my Mother is German; born and raised in West Germany. My Father grew up in a small farming town in Northern California. When my parents met my Father was a soldier in the United States Army stationed in Germany. My Mother spoke no English and my Father’s German was limited to the most casual greetings and pleasantries. When my father returned state side six months later, he brought his new bride with him.

Now, even in the best of circumstances and with the benefit of verbal communication, dating can be awkward and unnerving. How do you share your interests, future goals or even a good joke if you can’t make yourself understood? “How did you speak to each other?” I would ask my Mother. “How did you get to know each other?”                                                                                                                            

Sometimes I wondered if she asked herself the same questions. Smiling at the memory, she would explain how Dad would try to throw out a few German words combined with the appropriate combination of expressive hand gestures. “How did you even know he had proposed to you?” I asked. “At the time I had a pretty good idea by the look on his face,” was Mom’s response, “And then I went home and looked it up in the German/English dictionary.”                                                                                                                 

Since then, Dad is known for attaching a Bavarian accent to his English as though it will somehow make his words a little more German friendly. Mom gets annoyed when we giggle and tease my Dad about his “accent.” “At least he tries,” she’ll say to us pointedly.                                                                            

My Mother eventually taught herself how to speak and write English in addition to attaining United States citizenship. Dad’s German is a bit improved although he still incorporates his Bavarian inflection when speaking to my Mom’s family overseas.                                                                                                    

My parents went on to raise three children and are the proud grandparents of seven. Despite the initial comprehensive hurdle, my parents have translated the language of love into fifty-five years of family, marriage and commitment.

The Inevitable Disaster that is my Purse.....

Unintended Treasures



My purse is an unorganized, seemingly bottomless pit of knick-knacks, lotions, cosmetics, keys and coins. Everything in this ridiculously bloated but fashionable bag could easily be replaced, including the plastic pink light-up pig keychain and maxed out credit cards. Everything that is, except the small dog-eared papers, carefully folded and tucked into a side pocket of my wallet.

Friends and coworkers pull out their checkbooks to complete a transaction at the local coffee shop to reveal sleeve after sleeve of family photographs. Snapshots of toothless toddlers and youngsters in soccer and little league garb. Formal shots of awkward teens in shiny, stretch gowns and coordinating tuxedos are lined up carefully, chronologically, so they can be displayed like a human flip book.

My own wallet, in comparison, contains a rather sparse collection of photographs. There’s the picture of the boys sitting on the Easter Bunny’s lap, wearing rabbit-ear hats and crying, and then there’s the typical, one knee down on the turf, football photos. I don’t have an adversity to pictures. Both of my boys, not just the first born, have completed baby books. I also have an assortment of albums featuring exotic family vacations, ski trips and football careers, spanning peewee through college.

But, those tiny papers, they can’t be produced in multiples like photographs. There’s the check from a child’s play checkbook. It was torn out and made out to me; his mother, Barbara. Only he was quite young, and his spelling skills hadn’t matured yet. In his best printed penmanship, my first born wrote, “To Bardra” underneath he wrote, “For the love.”

Another of my treasures is a tiny gold gift card. I’d forgotten long ago what the gift was that it had been attached to or the occasion for which it had been offered, only that it was a gift my husband presented me with shortly after I became his wife. On the card he had written in his beautiful script, “To my wife, with all my love, your husband.” Underneath this inscription, he drew an intertwined B and K; our initials.

Another gift card as treasured as the gift to which it was originally attached, is covered in hand drawn asymmetrical hearts and arrows of alternating sizes. My youngest, wrote in the center of this card, “Happy Easter, It’s nothing, but it will be something to you. Don’t forget, I will always love you.”

I doubt that my family foresaw the treasure potential in these offerings. Somehow, it makes them even more special. I carry my treasures with me as proof of my fortuity.

Welcoming the New Year with a New Attitude!

To say it's been awhile would be a gross understatement.  But, it's a New Year and I'm here with fingers poised and ready over the key board.  The following is a story I wrote for my husband.  I was his ghostwriter, but the story is his.  I thought that honoring the memory of young Eddie Wilson would be an appropriate way to welcome 2013.


The Smallest Angel


At the very least, a personal encounter would be required for a skeptic like myself to even consider the existence of angels, but with my doubting nature would I even recognize it as a celestial meeting? My encounter with an angel did not happen in an ethereal mist of golden light and a heavenly euphony. It was more of a playful elbow into my side by an unheralded source.

I don’t know what it was that drew me to investigate the ground floor of the children’s hospital located across the courtyard from where I had been working. The halls were busy as staff and volunteers moved efficiently from room to room taking care of their young charges.

“Are you on the SWAT team?” I stuck my head in the hospital’s physical therapy room to investigate the source of such a bold inquiry. Barely supporting his weight between a set of parallel bars was a boy approximately 10 years old. It would have been hard to gage his scant years by size or stature. Eddie was slight and a little scrawny even for his age. His blonde hair stood straight up, possibly by design but I’m guessing by accident. His two front teeth were as prominent and oversized as the glasses perched awkwardly on his nose.

I couldn’t resist his inquisitive innocence and was encouraged to enter the room after receiving a friendly nod from the nurse supervising his exercise. I explained to the curious youngster the significance of the department of corrections jumpsuit I was wearing and that I was taking a break from guarding an inmate who was a long term patient at the medical center. “That means you can come back,” Eddie declared without an ounce of timidity.

He was friendly and hungry for attention. I shook his small hand, marveling with exaggerated amazement at his firm grip and asking him if he’d been lifting weights. He beamed and then laughed with obvious delight. In my own head, I had already committed to returning.

A casual examination of medical information posted on the wall of his room, told me that Eddie was suffering from a form of bone cancer. I discovered that his parents had all but abandoned him to the disease that he was fighting and to the medical professionals that were working tirelessly to keep him alive.

Generally, I would stop by to see him twice a week when I was on duty at the hospital. He had his nurse flip his bed around so that he was facing the courtyard between the two buildings and could see my approach.

I learned that Eddie had a tutor to keep him up with his school work. He also had a varied library of movies, but loved to watch Animal Planet, he’d never played any team sports but had taken swimming lessons, and had a taste for Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. We talked about sports, but never spoke of the illness that kept him confined to a hospital room.

One afternoon I passed the nurses’ station on my way to see my young friend, but instead of her usual welcoming smile, his nurse greeted me with an anxious shake of her head. I was confused at first and just stared at her expectantly waiting for an explanation. Eddie, she explained quietly coming from behind her desk, had passed away following surgery the previous week. I stood at the counter, my throat so tight I couldn’t trust myself to speak. A torrent of conflicting emotions flooded my head and my heart.

I had witnessed inmates, guilty of despicable crimes, cut open in the hospital operating room only for surgeons to find that a cancerous growth previously diagnosed had miraculously disappeared. Eddie was just a little boy. It wasn’t fair. Where was his miracle?

His parents, the people that should have loved this child the most, had failed him miserably; didn’t he deserve something to cancel out their breach? I was devastated, but I was also angry at what I perceived to be a painful injustice. A nun placed her hand over mine sympathetically. “He’s in a better place,” she said. I just nodded.

The nurse motioned that she had something she wanted to show me. She picked up a box from behind the desk. It contained some of Eddie’s personal belongings. She removed a piece of paper, explaining as she did that Eddie had been given a prompt to draw a picture depicting what he wanted to be when he grew up. The drawing was easily recognizable as my young friend with a head full of bright yellow crayon tinted hair. What stopped me short was the equally recognizable green, corrections jumpsuit he had drawn himself wearing.

Eddie had never displayed a bitter or angry posture in response to the hand he’d been dealt. No one would have blamed him if he’d noisily proclaimed outrage at his parents, the doctors or even God, but he didn’t.

For me, his drawing was more than a childish reflection, it was an obligation, a responsibility that I had to him. For Eddie each day held possibility, every experience was a lesson, every encounter an opportunity. He didn’t complain about what he was missing out on, or dwell on hurt or disappointment, but exulted in all he received.

I thought about the minor transgressions that set me off at home or work. I would take the lessons I learned at his small hand and make Eddie proud of the man that I am and that he wanted to be.