Another rant about off leash dogs and I ponder why the leash lawbreakers get to run the show

The dog has finally left us alone and gone to sniff the wreaths. The dog’s owner is barely visible in the picture, far to the right. That’s as close as she got to her dog, which was roaming around off leash.

Disclaimer: I am about to rant. And rant in a way that you may think is petty. If you think I’m petty then this post is probably meant for you. 

So I’m at White Haven today, in the “Little Lambs” section, pondering the graves of the three infant children of a couple named Michael and Molly Nier, whose  infant daughter and two infant sons died within a three year period, when I hear a woman’s voice behind me say something that sounds like, “Uh oh”.

I love walking in this particular cemetery, because it’s safe and quiet and solemn. I like the tranquility. I think, I pray, I write in my head. I read the headstones and talk to the cemetery workers. I listen to the birds and take pictures of the foliage. It’s a little sanctuary. And the best part is that I can walk Bailey there with relative assurance that we’re not going to be surprised by other dog walkers. It’s not the case with the other places where I can walk Bandit.

Bailey, in case you don’t know, has some reactivity issues with other dogs. As in, if approached by a strange dog she may react in a way that causes harm to the other dog or anyone trying to separate them. It’s a behavior problem we’ve worked with in training, and we have learned to manage the situations as well as help her learn how to manage her impulses. She’s made incredible progress. I mean, really incredible. And now she even does really well in organized situations with other dogs. She can go to classes with other dogs. She can meet another dog nicely and then we do a  quick “break!” and she comes back nicely. We always work on this with another behavior-savvy dog owner whose dog is on leash.

Notice that I say “organized” situations. Surprises, like a strange dog bounding at us from out the blue? Not such a happy scenerio.  Bailey can start out happy and wiggling her butt with joy, but in an instant things can go very, very wrong, and if the other dog is off leash, there’s no way to call it off Bailey.

Translation: when my dog is on leash, I have control over her. When your dog is off leash, you not only can’t control your dog but you cause major problems for me.  Because at no time do I ever have any control over your dog.

Which is why walking at White Haven is so great for both dogs. It’s really close to home, so I can take one dog for a walk, then go home and switch. (Yes, Bailey’s issues extend to her brother Bandit. They are always separated by gates in our house. They can walk perfectly fine together as long as one person walks one dog and they don’t have to ride together in the car.) There are very few places in this cemetery where we can’t see into the distance, giving me a chance to avoid funerals, other walkers, and one maintenance golf cart that for some reason Bailey really doesn’t like. Bandit? No problems walking anywhere. You just have to make sure he doesn’t pee on everything in sight.

So there’s some background. Now, back to this afternoon.

I’d already walked Bailey, gone home to switch dogs, had walked with Bandit and am now on my way back to my car.  And again, I’m standing in the infant section for several minutes, really taking time to read the headstones and wonder about this couple and their loss, when I hear someone behind me.

I turn around and find a big, slobbering (literally, slobber just falling from its mouth) Golden Retriever headed towards me and Bandit. I tell Bandit, “No, no, no, no,” pull his leash tight to me and call to the woman to get her dog. She kind of lollygags where she is, about 20 feet away, calling to the dog, who blatantly ignores her. I call, “Get your dog!” Nothing. I yell louder, “Get your dog! This is very dangerous!” She ignores me while her dog ignores her.

OK, I know that you’re thinking, “I get how this would be a problem with Bailey, since you just told me about her issues. But Bandit is the good dog. And this is just a big, stupid Golden. What’s the problem?”

As nice as Bandit is, he’s not always a fan of other dogs. But at least he’s predictable, in the way most dogs are predictable. At this moment, Bandit is sniffing the slobbering dog but I can see his ears going back and his eyes narrowing and I know that some snapping may ensue if the Golden comes any closer to me. Bandit likes a buffer zone between me and anyone else, two- or four-legged. He’ll send out serious warning signals if he thinks someone is going to violate that zone or otherwise just pisses him off. But I don’t know what this other dog is going to do if Bandit reacts that way. I mean, my dog looks all nice and friendly at this point, too. And Bailey can’t read other dogs’ signals so I know from experience that it can be all happy tail wagging one minute and blood the next. This dog’s owner is clearly clueless; I can only assume her dog is, too.

Translation: a smart dog owner knows their own dog but is always be prepared for the worst from someone else’s dog.

I call again to the woman, “This is really dangerous!! Get your dog!!!” The woman puts her hand to her ear to imply she can’t hear me. I yell louder. She ignores me, her dog ignores her, and I’m getting more and more pissed off by the second. I’m walking away with Bandit but the Golden is following along.

I yell to the woman that she needs to keep her dog ON THE LEASH so I stop walking, and, to make a point, hold her dog’s collar for a second and tell her to come and get her dog. She tells me to leave her dog alone. I let go and basically scream (yup, at the top of my lungs), “PUT YOUR DOG ON A LEASH”. She tells me I don’t have to talk to her like that.

I pull out my cell phone and contemplate calling 9-1-1. My heart is pounding, because I know that this scenerio could go completely awry in an instant if Bandit snaps at this dog and it freaks in return. If that happens, the owner has no way to pull her dog back, mostly owing to the fact that it’s not only off leash but she’s still about 20 feet away. Do I keep walking and have her dog follow? Do I stand there and wait until her dog decides to leave, hoping that Bandit loses interest?

And running through my mind? “God, if I had Bailey with me, this would be really, really bad.”

Three lessons I learned this month about following God

So I’m up at 7 AM because I need to write. Not want to write or have something I’d like to think about writing. I neeeeeed to write. Like, if I don’t write it, it’ll cause me great pain.

It’s about the concept of following God.

As you know, I’ve volunteered for a project recently. Without going into a lot of details, I was ready to work. Ready, willing, and able to do this and this and that, because I’m very experienced at this and this and that, and I’m very good at this and this and that, and the project needed this and this and that.

Perfect match, right? So I volunteered. And talked at length about doing this and this and that and thought I was part of the team and all was good.

Except – and if you’ve ever volunteered for something and God was in any way involved – this and this and that just wasn’t happening. That and that and this other thing were going full speed ahead, and a whole lot of other that and that and this other thing were happening and successful. Except me and my this and this and that were over on the sidelines by ourselves saying, “Hey, what about us?”

It’s frustrating, isn’t it?

The problem, of course, wasn’t the project. The problem was me. I was focused on what I’d volunteered to do, not on what was being done. Sure, I can do this and this and that, but maybe this and this and that isn’t needed any more. Or maybe someone else stepped up to do this and this and that and they do it just fine.

But I wanted to help. I wanted to be part of the whole thing. I offered and they said yes and then everything moved and I was left behind.

Really. Even I see how glaringly arrogant that sounds.

So lying in bed last night, feeling left out - boo hoo for poor me - it occurred to me that if I focused instead on what did happen instead of what didn’t, maybe I’d learn a lesson.

Or three.

Here goes …

Welcome to Paradise, Uganda

Me. Africa. Not two words you’d expect to hear in the same sentence, right? But it is with lots of excitement (and a few tingles) that I’m happy to share with you that I’ve signed on to help my old friend, the very creative and talented Jesse Sprinkle, and his music partner, the also very creative and talented Kurt Johnson, with an amazing new project: Paradise, Uganda.

For the last few years, Jesse has been traveling to Kampala, Uganda with the Ugandan Water Project. While there, he’s been working with street kids living in Kivulu, a slum hidden in the shadows of the city. Not just working with, not just befriending, but falling in love with these kids and their country.

And if a musician is looking for a way to help his fellow man, it only makes sense that there’s some sort of music involved. Right? Enter, Paradise, Uganda. 

In 2013, Jesse and Kurt will be traveling to Uganda to record music with the street kids for the project, “Paradise, Uganda”. It’s a “musical collaboration of love and hope.” Proceeds from the project will directly benefit the street kids.

My job is to run the blog for www.ParadiseUganda.com. I’ll be blogging about the project, Africa, how you can help, and probably lots of personal reflections as I step back into the world of music and faith. (Let’s face it; the last few years of my life have pretty much been spent trying to find meaning in my life and avoiding anything music related. It’s no accident that my search and this project collided head on from out of the blue. God spoke. I’m going to listen this time.)

We’ll also be sharing amazing photographs from Africa on “Wordless Wednesdays”, and Jesse and Kurt will be blogging about the project, their creative process, their thoughts as they work with the kids, and anything else they want to share.

It’s going to be exciting, I promise. Because there’s more …

I’ll also be talking to some of the artists who’ve already signed on to support the project so they can share their thoughts about Africa, serving and our place in this big, wide world - artists like The Almost, Anberlin, Demon Hunter, Dead Poetic, Bill Malonee/Viglantes of Love, Brendan Benson, Poor Old Lu, Kutless, Tooth and Nail Records, Terry Taylor (DA), Eisley, The Choir, Lovedrug, The Waiting, One Republic, and Denison Witmer.

Did you just get tingles, too? Oh, good.

I know your next question: am I going to Africa? Of course I’ve invited myself along on a trip; that’s no surprise. It was mostly in jest, at least at this point. A trip like that costs money (so you know if I do go I’ll be hitting you all up for support). But I also have learned that I don’t need to be involved in everything to be of service. Yes, it would be easier to write about something I’ve experienced first hand. But one of my strengths as a writer (if I have one) is that I can extract great information from people to tell their story. So I don’t necessarily need to go to Africa to tell the story of people who’ve  been to Africa.

But if God sends me to Africa … well, you better start praying now for Jesse and Kurt. Because you know I can be a giant pain in the ass to be around for extended periods of time. Imagine being trapped with me on another continent.

But that’s down the road. For now, you can follow along on the Paradise, Uganda FB page and website. Stay tuned, folks, the ride has just begun.

(NOTE: if you’re not logged into WordPress, you’re going to see some stupid video ads at the end of this post. Please ignore them. I don’t know how to make them go away.)

Emma Moore, Sarah Bardwell and me

It took months, but a reward was finally offered for information leading to the disappearance of Emma Moore. While the citizens took up the search immediately, the mayor and police insisted Emma left town of her own accord. When her body turned up in the river, they were proven wrong.

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately doing research on a woman named Emma Moore, who I learned about when I went on the “Mischief, Murder and Mayhem” tour at Mt. Hope. (For the record, I am there so much I joined the Friends of Mt. Hope and volunteered to be a tour guide in the spring.)

Anyway, in Rochester, NY in 1854, Emma Moore went missing. Left home one night and simply disappeared. She was a single, 37 year old seamstress who had a loving family, a good job, some money of her own, and no reason to leave town without letting her family know where she went.

Her disappearance stunned the community, and for months afterwards thousands of citizens met nightly to coordinate a search for her – since the Mayor and police refused to believe she’d come to harm or investigate her disappearance. (In fact, she disappeared in November of 1854 and it took until February of 1855 before an official police reward was offered.)

The citizens scoured the areas surrounding the city, the Lake, the river. They followed every lead and interviewed hundreds of people. The raised money and donated time and diligently searched for the woman they hailed as a modest woman of impeccable character.

Then in March of 1855, the body of Emma Moore was found, frozen in the river. When the coroner examined her body, he found she was six months pregnant.

Her 26 year old fiance was the prime suspect, but while an inquest found that Emma had drowned, the jurors were unable to determine if she had been murdered or if she committed suicide. Emma Moore is buried in an unmarked grave in her family’s plot, the woman once known for her impeccable character hidden away forever due to the scandalous nature of her death.

I’m fascinated by Emma Moore, her life and her death. In an era where woman had few rights or money of their own, she had a little money – about $20 cash left in her room, $20 cash on her when she disappeared, a savings account with about $100, and notes that indicated she’s lent out small amounts of money to friends.

In an age when woman married young, she was single into her middle years. Unmarried and with a much younger fiance. Was that unusual? Despite the fact they were engaged about 3 years, why didn’t they marry? He apparently had lost fingers in an accident and was unable to work (he was a cutter in a tailor’s shop); how would Emma have felt about working to support a younger husband – because upon marriage, anything she had would have become his.

How unusual was it for a woman to be sexually involved with a man to whom she wasn’t married? We like to think of our ancestors as pure and innocent, but was that really how it was? An unmarried, pregnant woman today doesn’t raise an eyebrow. But in 1854? Another story.

And of course, there’s the big mystery: Why did she disappear? Who knew she was pregnant? Was she killed or did she commit suicide? There’s much to believe the truth lies with the former.

I’m also enamored with the story of another woman, Sarah Bardwell. Her interment records indicate that she died of “insanity”. How does one die specifically of “insanity”? I get that you can die of causes related to insanity – suicide, walking naked around town in December and freezing to death. But just … going insane until you die?

Sarah Bardwell died of “insanity” after spending the last 25 years of her life in an asylum.

So I did a little digging and found a newspaper notice of her death, which said:

“Under the effects of religious excitement, at a time well remembered by many of our old citizens, Miss B. suffered mental injury, from which she never recoverd, and the latter years of her life were spent in an excellent Asylumn at Brattleboro, where her friends had placed her with the hope of restoration at first but where she remained for comfort and safety.”

From all accounts, the Asylum in Brattleboro was fairly progressive; treatment included nature walks and painting and music and lots of rest. And the “time well remembered” is most likely the Finney revivals that swept Rochester in the 1830s, making the city a hot bed of evangelism for the entire nation.

“Insane” is a little subjective, in this case. So you know I’m doing research into the Finney revivals, what a “mental injury” from that experience might look like, and what it would be like for a woman to be committe to an insane asylum in the 1850s.

What ties these two women together? When Emma Moore disappeared, Sarah’s brother was the Police Justice.

One of the things I’ve determined this year is that maybe my purpose is to give voice to those who can’t tell their own stories. It’s a general idea that I’ve been able to apply specifically without committing myself to any one genre of writing. And that realization has been really helpful for me. I can share about animal issues, although I find that I’m less and less interested (and often completely turned off by the aggressive, angry, divisive animal scene; but that’s a story for another day).

More importantly, I can share Emma and Sarah’s stories, two women lost in history but whose stories are interesting and important.

And soon, I’ll be sharing about some children in Uganda. Stay tuned for more on that.

From the column archives: “That’ll be an extra $25, please”

On a trip in 2006. Nope, still don’t know how the plane stays in the air. (That’s Key West below. If I have to crash, I guess it’s as good a place as any, right?)

In my continuing effort to pull out columns that might be worth reprinting in an e-book, let me share another of my favorites. It’s from 2008, just after the airlines started charging passengers to check their luggage. (Who knew I would be right, and that airlines would start charging to check our first piece of luggage? Really, I should play the lottery more often.)

Anyway, for the record, my brother-in-law, who is both a commercial and military pilot, has tried for years to explain to me how a plane stays aloft. I still don’t get it. Not that that should surprise any of my regular readers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

That’ll Be An Extra $25, Please
by Joanne Brokaw

I need to emphasize right at the start that I’m not an aeronautical expert. I can’t figure out how a plane flies without flapping its wings like a bird, so it will come as no surprise that I don’t understand the new airline policies about luggage.

If you’ve traveled by plane recently you know that most airlines, in an effort to offset rising fuel costs, are now charging passengers anywhere from $25 to $100 to check a second suitcase.

I thought perhaps the airlines were encouraging passengers to pack lighter so the planes would weigh less and therefore use less gas. But on a recent flight, our take-off was delayed so the crew could add ballast to the plane because, as the pilot happily informed us, the passengers “didn’t check enough luggage.”

Excuse me. Did you want me to check a second suitcase or not? Because I had a lot of stuff I could have packed if I knew you needed more weight. I just didn’t want to pay an extra $25 to haul three pair of black boots, two jackets and four pair of jeans through the friendly skies, just in case I changed my mind about what I wanted to wear while I was in Ohio for 48 hours.

I’m not sure what the charge for checking a second suitcase is intended to accomplish, if it’s not to make the planes lighter. Sure, the airlines will generate some additional income – for a while at least, until passengers learn to stuff everything into one suitcase. Then they’ll be forced to start charging us for the basics, like checking our first suitcase, using the lavatory during a flight, and breathing pressurized cabin oxygen.

First, though, the airlines are trying to save a few bucks by flying more slowly. One airline expects to save $42 million this year [at the time of this writing] by extending each flight by two or three minutes.

So let me get this straight. First you make me cram everything I need into one suitcase (and still keep it under 50 pounds) while you turn around and add extra weight to the plane? And now you’re going to fly slower (as if being suspended magically in the atmosphere for hours isn’t nerve-wracking enough already)?

How about a compromise? I’ll agree to pay an extra $25 for a suitcase filled with shoes so that your airline staff doesn’t need to add ballast to the plane, and I’ll be patient and wait three more minutes to get to my destination. In exchange, you’ll have let me collect tips as I undress in the security line. If I have to remove half of my clothing just to get to my gate I might as well get something in return.

Think about it. With a long enough wait going through security, I could make enough money to pay for that extra suitcase.

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Read more columns from the archives

Musings on the job hunt (and my lack of employable job skills)

This is the kind of “help wanted” sign I need to see.

I’ve joked recently about my attempts to find a job. A real job. One where I do stuff and people pay me. Unlike writing, where I think about writing stuff and occasionally actually do write stuff, and sometimes I get paid four or five months later.

Don’t get me wrong. I love writing, and for a long time I had several fabulous editors I loved writing for. They are still fabulous but I’m not so much in love with crafting paragraphs for dollars. It kind of burned me out. It’s a lot of work for very, very little money, and as the industry has changed so has the income possibilities for writers like me. Lots of writing with pay tied to page views, which means that you not only have to write but then market the heck out of whatever you just wrote. All to reach minimum goals for minimum pay. It’s a great way to supplement a career as an expert something, but not such a great way to maintain a steady income.

I have a resume – at least, what I’ve always thought a resume should be. It’s a list of the jobs I’ve had for the last five years or so. For those of you actually more experienced at job searching in today’s culture, it probably will not surprise you to learn that my resume has yielded me zero responses.

That’s because, apparently, today’s resume isn’t supposed to be focused on your past job experiences but on your skills. As in “stuff you know how to do that people are willing to pay for.”

I’m screwed.

Over the last month or so, I’ve been brainstorming with friends (including my sister, who is a hot shot human resources expert) about what kind of job I might be good at. And like. And get paid for. (Those are all not mutually exclusive, I might add. Although it might be a lot to ask for.)

So what kind of job could I do? I am not trained in any speciality and I have been out of the traditional workplace for more than a decade. And let’s face it: I’m not really that much fun to be around all day long, especially if I’m hungry or need a nap.

I admit it. I’ve been spoiled.

My sister keeps telling me that I underestimate the effect that I have on people. She might have a point (if she meant that it’s a positive effect). I do very much like leading groups and I enjoy making people feel needed and special, taking time to include them in things when other people might not. But being nice isn’t really a marketable job skill, unless you can get paid just for making people happy. (And not in a job that requires you to stand on a streetcorner at midnight.)

Ada, my dog trainer friend, told me recently that she thinks I’d make a good dog trainer. For many years now, I’ve been an avid amateur student of dog behavior, communication, and health. I’ve read books, I’ve taken classes, I’ve done some online study. I volunteered at an animal shelter, I’ve interviewed and written about rescue groups. I even attempted to shadow a dog trainer. In short, I love all things dog. I can talk with legitimate knowledge about genetics, dog breeding, behavior, socialization, dog evolution and other dog-related topics. I love educating people about how to better communicate with their dogs, care for their dogs or choose a lifelone canine companion.

The problem? I’m kind of afraid of other people’s dogs. At the shelter, I worked at the front desk. I couldn’t even walk the dogs – partly due to the fact that several dogs I got chummy with ended up taking a one way trip to the tech room, if you get my drift. I don’t have the heart or the stomach for that.

But I also had several instances where I found myself, alone, trying to get a dog in or out of a cage without letting it escape (and not always successfully). I took one dog out for a walk and when he jumped up to put his paws on my shoulders, pinning me against the wall for several panic-filled minutes, I decided that maybe working with dogs wasn’t for me.

Plus, when I shadowed another dog trainer I learned that, in general, dog owners are pretty clueless and happy to stay that way, despite the fact that they are paying large sums of money to become educated on how to have better relationships with their dogs. My fear of strange dogs is eclipsed only by my low tolerance for stupid people.

And you already know about my lack of math skills. I mean, seriously. No numbers. When I was considering bartending as a possible career, it was the task of adding drink prices in my head that convinced me it wasn’t the job for me. Take three drinks at $2 each, then add in a drink that’s $3.50 and I’m in trouble. I need to figure that out by counting on my fingers; what do I do with the 50 cents?

So what am I qualified to do? Here are some of my skills. Somewhere out there, there has to be a job for me:

From the column archives: Mind Reading Mommy

There’s more than a little mischief going on behind that charming smile …

I once had a conversation with my daughter where her contribution consisted almost entirely of the phrase, “What’s that?” I don’t know whether I should have felt honored, because she thought I was so powerful that I could read her mind, or frightened, because she’d found new way to systematically drive me insane.

Here’s the column I wrote about that experience, pulled from the archives of pieces that have appeared over the years in various newspapers and online. If you’ve got children, you can probably relate.

Mind Reading Mommy
By Joanne Brokaw

Parenting is a tough job. Not only are you expected to birth another human being, you have to feed, clothe, teach, bathe, chauffeur, discipline and otherwise raise the child so that they become a productive member of society.

Oh, and let’s not forget the mind reading.

I remember once when my daughter was about three years old, we were driving on the expressway, wrapped in our little automotive cocoon, when from the back seat I heard her sweet little voice ask, “Mommy, what’s that?”

“What’s what?” I asked.

“That.” I looked in the rearview mirror to see her sitting in her car seat pointing out the front windshield.

“Is it inside or outside the car?”

“It’s that thing, right there.”

I looked ahead as I drove and ventured a guess. “The windshield? This glass that we’re looking through?” I reached forward to tap the window.