Oh, The Shame of it All!

My granddaughter’s dog is a contrast in ears and tail. When she is behaving herself (which really does happen) her ears stand up in points. Her tail curls over her back.

Whenever the dog gets in trouble she looks sheepish. Her head hangs. Her eyes get that, “I really shouldn’t have done it” look. Her ears and tail droop.

Sometimes the look follows catching a rabbit in the yard.

Sometimes it is for barking profusely at the UPS deliveryman.

Sometimes that sheepish looking dog has found something really tasty that wasn’t quite rinsed out of something we are recycling.

Sometimes it is because, although the dog knows this is a “no dog on the furniture” household, she has, in our absence, chosen to disregard that rule.

Sometimes I wonder if I look sheepish when I get myself in trouble. Does my head hang dejectedly when I spend an entire afternoon cruising the paper arts stores on the internet or stop by Starbucks for a $4 coffee I could make at home for pennies?

Unfortunately, I probably rationalize my time or monetary indiscretions.

Does a dog have more discretion than I? Do her mistakes in judgment bother her more than mine bother me?

Yesterday, the dog looked sheepish.

Today we found two newly dug holes in the back yard.

Yesterday I got the munchies and ate ice cream right before bedtime.

I guess need to work on my sheepish look.

Oh, my!

We’ve become zoo patrons since we started babysitting for Little Man and The Princess. Here in the Twin Cities, we are privileged to have choices.

St. Paul is been home to Como Zoo for over 100 years. It was where we baby boomers went when our parents took us to visit the tigers and bears. It may be a little worn around the edges, but it does bring back good memories.

(One of those memories is when, as an engaged couple, we took three little kids to the zoo for an afternoon of animal watching. At the end of that experience, we decided since we were still in love, the marriage was sure to work.)

When we took the two grandkids to Como Zoo a few weeks ago, we had not realized it was Earth Day. Expecting few people, we were surprised to find hundreds of moms, kids, strollers, and, since it was early in the season, few animals outside.

We entered through the visitor building. There were two doors: left for zoo…right for conservatory. Our doublewide stroller would not manage the narrow walkways in the conservatory, but we parked outside the window and I pointed out the jungle.

Two and a half year old Little Man turned and gave me “the look” and said, “That’s the rain forest, Grandma.”

I stood corrected.

The Minnesota Zoo is a relative newcomer, having come on the scene some thirty years ago. The exhibits are easier to navigate. The Zoo is minutes away. And if that were not enough to convince us to choose it, our daughter bought us a grandparent’s membership.

We venture there weekly to visit different areas.

Little Man loves the tigers and the monkeys. The Princess was brave enough to touch a wolf pelt held by a grandmotherly volunteer.

And then there is the dead animal zoo. The dead animal zoo is actually a sporting goods store named Cabela’s. It was given the name years ago by a friend of ours who was surprised at the prominent displays of taxidermy throughout the store.

Little Man and The Princess ended up at the dead animal zoo with their grandpa one afternoon. At the dead animal zoo, kids can get right under the trunk of the elephant. They can see the lion up close and personal. Nothing is sleeping in a corner. And, if that were not enough, there are no strange odors.

Little Man and The Princess saw it all from the comfortable height of a shopping cart.

And when they get to the other side of the store, they wandered through a room of aquariums filled with (live) Minnesota fish. Little Man was fascinated with the fish.
Once was not enough, so Grandpa had to take the kids back to see some of the taxidermy a second time before heading back to the car with his little Cabela’s purchase.



Little Man and the Princess like going to the zoo. Guess which one is their favorite?

Moving

My friend Roxy’s move got me thinking of some memorable moves I’ve made over the years.

My childhood had been spent in one house, the one my mother had grown up in. Our family had moved there when I was only a few months old. We were there to take care of Grandpa, who was lost after Grandma’s death.

Moving did not happen again until, as an about to be married person, I went apartment hunting.

I remember looking at an apartment shown to us by a frazzled female caretaker. Her own apartment featured a Dutch door, and she kept the top half open so she could keep track of several turbo tots while she showed us the apartment across the hall.

The apartment needed many repairs. The caretaker was unsure when those repairs would happen and when we could actually move in.

The second apartment we saw was quiet, clean, and available when we needed it. We signed on the dotted line.

Three days before the wedding was “take possession” day. Our moving crew consisted of the bride, groom, maid of honor, best man, his wife (who would soon be my sister in law) the mother of the bride, brother of the bride, and, in a curious turn of events, the paternal grandparents of the bride. Grandma had insisted on helping. Nobody turned down Grandma when she insisted. Ever.

We loaded a borrowed truck with my bedroom furniture, a bookcase Grandpa had built for me years earlier, my parent’s old kitchen table and chairs, gifts from several bridal showers and the wedding gifts that had been sent to the house.

It seemed to me like there were more people helping that we really needed, but, as a novice mover, I went with the flow.

We learned a few things the hard way. The best man was quickly dispatched down the street to purchase some ice for the soda we had brought and a roll of Charmin for after we drank our fill.

Grandma stationed herself in the little apartment kitchen. “Where is the shelf paper?” She demanded.

I looked at my mom. Mom raised her eyebrow. I know. Don’t question Grandma. (Mom had learned that early in her marriage.)

“I’ll know the box when I see it,” I offered.

Not good enough.

“Go down to the truck and get it.”

I did.

Furniture began to fill the bedroom and the dining area. Furniture had been purchased for the living room, but it would take another week before it was delivered.

“I need a pair of shears!” Grandma loudly announced. (Grandma never called them scissors.)

“Hopefully I’ll see them in the next box,” I ventured.

I take a break from this story to mention that, as a teenager, I had received a Twister game as a gift. It had remained, unopened.

For anyone who might not have had the pleasure of a Twister experience, two or more people are directed to place a part of their person on various colored circles. Eventually, those playing are twisted and bridged around each other in odd formation.

I had never played Twister. I couldn’t imagine ever playing Twister. I had thought of leaving it behind, but my mother, a girl of the great depression years, had urged me to keep it so my future children would have it.

And so it was, that as that Twister game arrived in the next box, Grandma grabbed it and yelled, “This is what I’ve been waiting for!”

The thought of Grandma playing Twister was too much. I retreated into the bathroom when I sat on the edge of the tub and tried to control my laughter.

Soon after that, my mother, being a wise woman, directed everyone out except for the maid of honor and me. We got the rest of the apartment put together quickly.

I spent the remaining nights of my singleness with no bed (having already moved it to the apartment.) It did occur to me that sleeping on my parent’s sofa might just make me wake up feeling like I was playing Twister, but I never mentioned it to Grandma.

Ending and Beginnings

It was a good place to work for an old card maker like me.

It was a place where, when things were slow, I could play with the products and create samples for the walls.

It was an opportunity for me to travel to out of state trade shows and meet with people like Dee Gruening, Suze Weinberg, and Tim Holtz. It was also an opportunity to get specialized training from Kathy (lead designer for Penny Black) and Claire Hampton (Hampton Art Stamps).

Did I tell you I got to meet Tim Holtz?

It was a place where I learned to wear many hats: retail manager, buyer, designer, and instructor.

It was also a place where, over a period of four years, I made many new friends.

So when it came to an end, it was with mixed feelings that I walked away. Yes, I knew it was time to hang out the closed sign and move on. Still, the card maker in me begged for more.

My employers (also good friends of mine) were exceptionally generous, giving me free reign to take home anything I wanted.

I found things that called me name. “Judy…” said the Paper Artsy stamps, “Take me home.” I took a few sets.

“You need me,” called out the ribbon. “I cut lengths of several reels.

“Think of my name!” cried the Tim Holtz distress inks. Tim Holtz jumped into by basket.

When I was through shopping, I left my key for whomever rents the space next.

And then came the final sale. One day only. An outside crew was hired to administer it. I stayed home. I paced. A trip to the library was a challenge in not pointing the nose of my car toward the store to do a drive by.

It would be nice to know how they were doing. The manager in me needed information.

But I was strong, and I turned the car toward home.

Gratefully, I was able to get several reports throughout the day. (Remember me telling you the owners are also friends of mine?)

I am thankful to have held this position. It was a good place to work.

And now I’m ready for whatever comes next.