Chapter 9 Part 1
As dawn arrives, so, too, does my internal alarm clock. I practice my reclining meditation, and then by rote, reach for my daily action-plan page. But this time, I think twice, rip it up and get out of bed.
I address Uncle Sam in the Ziploc bag. “What would you do?” I wait a minute, and then nod. “Got it, thanks,” I say.
Two hours later, I’m standing at the bottom of Mount Wilson in the San Gabriel Mountains near Pasadena in hiking attire. I stare up at the Observatory Tower, 6,171 feet above me, and announce, “Well, as Uncle Sam would say, ‘Nothing like a good ascent to clear the cobwebs of the heart and mind.’” I take a deep breath and start climbing, focusing on one step at a time, forcing myself to hike at a slow pace so I can take in the scenery and foliage. That attempt soon fails as I find myself mumbling out loud and quickening my pace. “Go into the woods, he says. Go cold turkey on the FSJ, he says. Find yourself, he says. How do you find yourself? After all, I am where I’m at. Right? And how do you deal with grief? Just go be, he says. Doesn’t being still require doing? After all, to be is a verb that means some sort of action is taking place....”
When I finally look up I realize I’m more than halfway up the mountain.
“Okay, take this in, Maddy,” I tell myself. I scan the beautiful horizon and suck in the fresh mountain air. I’m about to continue when I hear a soft whimpering noise. I look around and under a cavelike rock formation is a skinny, mangy black puppy. The crying puppy awkwardly hops out from under the rock toward me.
“Oh my goodness, ”I exclaim .“Are you all right, little one?”
The puppy leaps into my arms. Its paw is injured and bleeding. I wash the blood off with water and tie my bandana around the paw to protect it. I look at the puppy’s face.
“You are adorable. What am I going to do with you?” The puppy licks my face and a bond is sealed, forever, whether I want it to be or not. I look at the peak of the mountain approximately two thousand feet away and then at the puppy. “Well, this is a first. I’ve never abandoned a climb, but I’m certainly not going to abandon you, now, am I.”
And with that, I turn around with the injured puppy in my arms and begin my descent. What I am about to discover is something not even the best business plan in the world could have predicted.
For the next five days, my sole focus is the puppy. I scour the newspapers’ Lost and Found sections and place an ad in a dozen newspapers and on several Internet sites. I check with multiple dog pounds but there seems to be no owner in sight. I take the puppy to the vet and have her dewormed and defleaed.
The vet says, “She’s a healthy puppy, mostly Border collie with some Lab. She was smart to find you.”
I gladly pay for all the necessary shots and licenses and nurse the puppy back to health with the best puppy food my credit card can buy. I buy Puppies for Dummies and house-train her in one hour. She promptly pees on tabloid journals on my outside patio. Having her pee on the FSJ would be sacrilegious for me and is therefore simply not an option. I am impressed by her quick-study. I buy her toys and play with her while trying to think of a name, even if it’s temporary. And yet, I realize I’m falling in love and that this puppy isn’t going anywhere. At least that’s what I think until my landlord tells me no pets are allowed in the building.
I fill Sierra in on all the details of the past week, including the puppy. “The puppy sounds adorable,” says Sierra. “But do you want to give her away?”
I look at the black puppy rolling on her back with her head upside down, paws in the air, whimpering ever so slightly and staring at me.
“I can’t. She’s too cute. I’m puppy-whipped. You should see her right now, on her back with her paws in the air, pulling a Lassie and...”
“Is that all it takes to turn you into mush?” chuckles Sierra. “Look, there’s a real easy solution here. Give up the apartment and move into Uncle Sam’s cottage for a while, until you find yourself. If you get lost, call me. I’ll come over and tell you where you are.”
I can just see Sierra smiling on the other end of the line.
Once I make the decision, everything becomes quite easy. I give notice on my apartment lease. Eve helps me sell all of my possessions except for one duffel bag of clothes and one duffel bag of important paperwork. Then I take the puppy with me on my friend, the red-eye, to Michigan.
My father picks us up at the airport. Charlie gives me a big hug. “Welcome home, honey.” He quickly loads my two duffel bags inside the car, then stands back and gives us the once-over. “You look good. Lighter, Maddy. And that puppy’s a cutie-pie. What’s her name?”
“I finally came up with the name on the plane,” I say. “At first, I was going to call her Hepburn because inside the house she’s like Audrey and outside she’s like Katharine. But I finally settled on Siddhartha—Sid for short.”
Charlie smiles. “Is that because you two are on a journey to find Buddha together?”
“I don’t know about finding Buddha, Dad, but we’re definitely on a journey together. What we’ll find, I have no idea.”
“Oh, almost forgot,” he says. He reaches inside the car and pulls out a Financial Street Journal. “I brought you the paper.”
As he starts to hand it over to me, I leap backward, waving my hands in the air, and immediately shut my eyes, as if the paper has cooties. “Ohmigod! Please keep that away from me. In fact, throw it away. Please! I’m trying to kick the habit.”
Charlie cocks his head and then tosses the paper in a garbage can. “Okay,” he says. “This is a first. Shall we go?” We pile into the car and leave the airport.
I calm down as Siddhartha squirms a little in my lap. “So, how is everyone?”
“Everyone’s fine. Your mother is telling stories at all the local schools and libraries now. Daniel still lives with us. He and Rebecca are still in limbo. Andy seems to be okay. Keating is getting bigger and bigger, and I convinced Daniel to get a teaching degree.”
“Is he doing it?”
“Reluctantly. Oh, before I forget, I turned the electricity and water back on at Uncle Sam’s cottage and had his car tuned up, so you’ll have your own transportation.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say as Siddhartha settles calmly into my lap now.
“I haven’t cleaned out his place completely. I gave his clothes to Goodwill. That’s all I’ve managed to do for now.”
When we reach Jackson, Charlie helps me get settled into Uncle Sam’s cottage on Clark Lake. We watch as Siddhartha frolicks in the water. She runs endlessly back and forth between the water’s edge and me, goading me into a game of tag.
“This is another first, someone with more energy than you,” says Charlie. “When you get your bearings, let me know and Mom and I will drive out here and take you to dinner, okay, hon?”
“Thanks again, Dad. I really appreciate it. But Sid and I are going to hole up for awhile, so don’t expect to hear from me right away. Okay?”
“Take all the time you need.” He gives me a hug, gets in the car and drives away.
While Siddhartha cocks her head and lifts her ears to contemplate the difference between butterflies and ladybugs, I wander around Uncle Sam’s cottage, lightly touching the artifacts in the house and studying the books that line every wall. A faded red hardcover catches my eye. I pull it down off the shelf. It’s a book on rituals published in 1932. I take the book with me to the outside deck and plop into a chaise longue. Under a warm sun, I leaf through the book’s pages while keeping an eye on Sid.
The book identifies all kinds of rituals from the ordinary to the extraordinary, citing examples as involuntary as breathing or experiencing nature, to the more voluntary kind like creating a sacred space or private garden, making tea and conversation, to bathing, walking, writing, cooking, doing a chore, giving a gift and even making love. The book also lists the act of storytelling and honoring the past as rituals. There is a separate chapter on rituals as rites of passage that include religious confirmations such as bar mitzvahs, and the staples of birth, graduation, marriage, anniversaries and death.
The author points out a crucial common theme among all cultures—“the need to create tradition and practice it over and over again...so that ritual is a reinforcement of memory, the memory of knowing who you are.”
I close the book. “Okay, so if I repeat a custom, I’ll know who I am. But what is the definition of custom?” I look up. Siddhartha is gone. I leap up and wander the property calling out her name. I pass a faded white sailboat lying between the shed and the dock. Siddhartha’s black head pops up from inside the boat. Curiosity and mischief shine in her eyes. I smile, relieved. The boat elicits a flash from my past. I lick a finger and hold it in the air, testing the wind like I did as a kid. I nod to myself, and then clap my hands. “Come on, Siddhartha! We’re going sailing!”
Siddhartha practices walking the length of the boat while I clean it out, checking to make sure the mainsail and the rudder still work and that there is no damage to the hull. I change into my one-piece swimmer’s suit, pack a lunch for Sid and me, include an emergency kit, life preserver, tackle box and fishing rod, and set sail. Siddhartha stands perched at the helm excitedly taking in the experience for the first time, while I take in the process of renewal.
The little Sunfish does well as we explore Clark Lake. I teach Siddhartha how to sail, explaining my actions and stressing the importance of safety. She stares at me and wags her tail.
What a good listener, I think.
“Did you know that the Sunfish boat is the most widely sold sailboat in America?” I ask rhetorically. Siddhartha suddenly turns around, giving me her rear view while propping her front paws on the bow. “Sid, are you listening? This is important information,” I say. Siddhartha growls. I spot the log in front of us and steer the boat in the opposite direction. “Good going, Sid. You’re right. That was more important than knowing the market value of a Sunfish.”
We sail back to shore and I tie the boat up to the dock. Siddhartha leaps to solid ground. I pluck a daisy and place it on the bow of the boat, repeating the tradition from childhood. Placing my hands together in prayer, I say out loud, “Thank you, Sunfish, for showing us an afternoon filled with nature and for bringing us home safely.”
That evening, I make a fire in the living room’s stone fireplace. Siddhartha sleeps on the floor near my feet. I lounge on big floor cushions staring at the fire, thinking about the demise of Uncle Sam, Tara, Smitty, Mr. Haggerty, and even Lights Out. I start journaling the thoughts that roll through my head, writing down my memories of each one of them. I write for hours and hours until the fire burns out and I crash on the cushion with Siddhartha at my side.
The next day, I head to the local market to stock up on groceries and canned foods. I return to the cottage and fill up all the cabinets. I take the overflow of canned goods into the basement where Uncle Sam kept a storage bin of food and batteries in case of a tornado. I’m loading the bin when there’s a sudden loud commotion followed by Siddhartha’s whimpering. I drop the canned soup in my hand and run to the other side of the basement. I find Sid awkwardly trying to pull herself out from among piles of fallen debris from an old, unstable cabinet that she had obviously tampered with.
I take her in my arms to make sure she’s okay. She licks my face to say thanks. “What are you attempting to excavate, huh? Silly thing, you.”
I let her go. She scrambles away, continuing her archaeological rounds. I stand to dust myself off when Siddhartha prances back into view proudly carrying a tall, felt top hat in her mouth with the name Stansbury sewed on it. My mouth drops. “You found my hats!”
In silhouette against a setting sun, Siddhartha and I walk along the water’s edge. I wear the felt top hat and perform an odd combination of skips and hops for Siddhartha, who watches, bemused.
I match disjointed dancing with equally disjointed lyrics I created twenty-five years ago:
“Oh, Stansbury! I’m struttin’ down the street! Feeling you with my feet! Oh, Stansbury, you got the beat! Of hometown love! Praise Stansbury forever!”
Siddhartha jumps up on me, excited to join in. I hold her front paws in my hands as we pivot together. “Okay, so I’m not a lyricist like Tara, or a singer. Sorry, Sid.” And I sing a reprise off-key again.
One day, I take Siddhartha on a walk along the outskirts of town. A row of newspaper machines startle me. I feel a compulsion to look, as if the Financial Street Journals inside were beckoning. I backpedal, trying to control the urge to buy one. But then I shift directions and sneak toward the row of papers, peeking at the headlines, confusing Siddhartha as she unwillingly performs yet another about face. I back up again, feeling an urge to sink my teeth into the meat of a front-page article. I take a deep breath and with all my might, pull away from temptation once and for all. Siddhartha faithfully trails behind me. As Sid and I round a corner, I come face-to-face with the local bowling alley. I stop, stare through its large plate-glass window and wonder.
My routine provides continuity. Long morning walks in the woods with Siddhartha, followed by intensive dog-obedience training, bowling practice, cleaning up the cottage, documenting Uncle Sam’s fishing lure collection, sailing in the afternoon with Siddhartha, fishing off the dock for dinner with Sid, and if that fails, heading to the cupboards for refueling. In the evenings, I follow all that up with readings from the works in the many bookcases, and writing in my own journal by the fireplace while Siddhartha sleeps.
One night during a thunderstorm, I’m reading and discover a passage where the author claims that only by caring for animals can man really know how to love himself and others. I look at Sid conked out on the couch next to me with her head upside down, front paws straight up in the air, back legs spread for that ever-desirable tummy rub. I gently rub her stomach.
I pull out my notebook and instead of recording my thoughts I start an old-fashioned handwritten letter to Victor.
Dear Adviser Winston,
I write to you from my native country of Michigan. The emotional armor I felt compelled to wear in the city has begun to evaporate here, allowing for a sense of perspective I have not had in years...if ever, where I can see that the quest for success has blinded me. I recognize a drive for approval, but from whom and why, I wonder. The addiction to work, compliments of a freelance life, has been replaced by a compulsion to find myself. Excavation is taking place on Clark Lake. I am, however, happy to tell you that I am determined to find my Self and have a good life, unlike a few of the unhappy CEOs I came to know through Lights Out. I do have some help on my journey...her name is Siddhartha. And I’m in love. Is it okay to have help on this journey if the companionship is humane, but not human?
Sincerely,
Advisee Banks.
P.S. Have not picked up a newspaper in two months, with exception of puppy potty-training purposes.
Days later, I’m ready to start seeing people again. I invite my parents to the cottage for dinner and to meet Siddhartha.
One look at Sid, and Eleanor is smitten. The two take an instant liking to each other. Eleanor plays with Sid like a grandchild, cooing and tossing her a toy. I show my parents the results of Sid’s recent education: sitting, lying down, rolling over and shaking on “hi five.”
“I think you two should go to dinner and leave Sid and me together here,” says Eleanor. “I’m sorry, but she’s just too precious.”
Charlie lifts a brow. “I think she’s serious.”
“Me, too. Come on, Mom. I promise to tell you Siddhartha stories on the way.”
Eleanor finally pulls herself away from Sid. “Okay, but if you ever need a dog-sitter, call me.”
I lock up the cottage and tell Sid we’ll see her later. Then Charlie, Eleanor and I pile into the car.
“Where are we going, Dad?” I ask.
“I thought I’d take you to the Eagle’s Nest.”
“Why is that familiar?”
“It’s where your dad and Sam went the night he passed away,” says Eleanor.
“Oh, right, seems like I’ve heard about it since then, though,” I say, realizing I left my black ribbon at the cottage.
Once seated inside the restaurant Charlie orders a merlot, Eleanor orders a pinot grigio and I order a cold local beer.
“So, dear,” says Eleanor, “what are you doing out here all by yourself?”
“Licking my wounds and trusting that new bearings will arrive soon.”
“I still think it was a good business,” she adds. “Mom...if you don’t mind, I’m on a business diet.” “Well, this is a first. Honey, are you feeling all right?” Charlie grins. “You sound like me now, Eleanor.” The waitress returns. “Drinks are on the house.”
We all look surprised. “Why is that?” asks Charlie. The waitress shrugs.“ The bartender insisted.”
We all turn our heads. Standing behind the long well-worn wooden bar, nodding a warm hello, is Richard Wright.
I recognize him immediately and wave back. “That’s Richard Wright,” I tell my parents. “Uncle Sam’s friend who used to own the only local funeral home in town. He told me he was coming to work here but I forgot.”
Richard Wright appears at our table. “Hello, Madison, Mr. and Mrs. Banks.”
“Please, Charlie and Eleanor,” says Charlie.
“Thanks for the drinks,” I say.
“I always keep my promise, just like Sam did.” He smiles. “So what brings you to town?”
“The business died....”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Real sorry.”
I try to stay off the business track. “Thanks. I’m staying at Uncle Sam’s for now.”
“Well, if you need anything at all while you’re up here, you call me. And if you need a job, or a reason to pass the time, I could use an extra hand behind the bar. Place gets pretty busy in the summers. You know how to pour?”
“Thanks, Richard. I’ll keep that in mind.”
We chitchat some more about local weather and how much we all miss Uncle Sam. I start to wonder if my chance meeting with Richard Wright is fortuitous and if his offer might be something I should seriously consider.
Sierra is the next person to arrive at the cottage a few days later. She gets out of her car and we hug each other, holding on tight. It is a long, heartfelt embrace until Siddhartha whines to get in on the action. Sierra sees the puppy and swiftly abandons our hug to kneel down next to Sid.
“Hey there, Siddhartha. You’re quite the pretty one, aren’t you.” Siddhartha tenderly places her paw on Sierra’s arm and licks her face.
“And smart, too.” I smile.
Sierra laughs. She pets Sid and looks up at me. “She’s got such a sweet disposition. You found a winner, Madison.”
“I didn’t find her. She found me.”
“Know what I think?” says Sierra, standing up now. “I don’t think she found you—I think she rescued you. Honestly, I’ve never seen you look better.”
“Really? Well, maybe we rescued each other. You look pretty wonderful yourself.”
“I brought you a present.” She pulls a Ziploc bag from her purse. “Homemade chocolate chip cookies.”
“Thanks,” I laugh. “This time I promise to eat every last one of them. Come on. Let’s go for a sail.”
Sierra, Siddhartha and I set sail in the Sunfish, laughing and splashing each other. In the middle of the lake, we settle down for tuna fish sandwiches and cookies.
“So how are you doing without Lights Out?” asks Sierra. “I’m not doing. I’m being. Or trying to. But I gotta tell you, being gets boring.” When she laughs I ask, “Sierra, how did you get your business to grow so fast?”
“First of all, my business is a much simpler one. But what I did do and still do is practice flexing the muscle of gratitude.”
“The muscle of gratitude?” I say teasingly. “Sounds like the title of a sermon.”
“Well, it is in some ways. It’s about getting into clearly defined affirmations such as ‘I am grateful for my happiness,’ ‘I am grateful for my successful business.’ Say it enough times over and over and voilà, success and happiness appear.”
“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work for me.”
“That’s because you get stuck in the past. Drop the regrets, sweetie. Just take a deep breath and exhale them.”
I take a deep breath and exhale. Sierra applauds. Sid gently puts her paw on my hand. “The next step, Maddy, and this is crucial, is to keep moving.”
“How do you know you’re going in the right direction?”
“You make it the right direction...because the only wrong direction is no direction at all. That’s getting stuck in a state of paralysis, and well...then you might as well turn the lights out.”
“Was there something I did in college that made me successful? Like, did I practice a certain custom or ritual?”
Sierra laughs. “Unrelenting drive and passion. And when you hit an obstacle you found a way around it—no, through it. I have no doubt you’ll find your way through this one, too.”
“No, I mean was there something I did on a regular basis?”
Sierra thinks for a moment. “You used to take Tara and me out to dinner every week and tell us we were your most trusted friends, and then you’d ask us to advise you on all aspects of your business and give you feedback.”
“Did I listen?”
“All the time,” says Sierra. “A lot of times you still did it your way, but you made us feel such a part of your decisions that we always believed we were part of your success.”
I ponder that, and then hesitantly reveal a deep insecurity. “Do you think I can still be successful as an entrepreneur?”
Sierra holds my hands in hers. “Yes. Your results have yet to play themselves out. I’m just waiting for the green light so I can be back on board. You can always count on me, Maddy.”
“I know. That’s why I love you. You can count on me, too.” “I know. That’s why I’ll always love you.”
We reach over to each other and share a small kiss of gratitude.
“I am grateful for our enduring friendship and love,” I say in a mock-affirmation monotone.
Sierra throws water on me and laughs. “Smarty-pants.” Siddhartha emits a small woof.
“Was that a bark?” asks Sierra. We laugh. “Let’s sail back in.” We swing the sail around and head back to shore. “So, how’s Milton?” I ask.
“Great. It’s really nice having a different balance of energies.”
“What about women?”
“Right now I’m happy with Milton, but he doesn’t own my sexuality. I don’t have an either/or conflict about it...and neither does he.”
“Did you use affirmations to set it up that way?”
“Absolutely.” Sierra grins.
We dock the boat and all three of us pile out. Sierra collects her things. “I wish I could stay longer but I’ve got an edit session tonight. Walk me to my car?”
Sid and I accompany Sierra to her car, where she gives Sid a loving cuddle. “Goodbye, precious.” Then she offers me a deep hug. “Remember who you are,” says Sierra. “Which is anything you want to be. Now just keep moving.”
I watch her drive off as the setting sun casts colorful hues against the horizon. Sid and I stop at the mailbox. Inside is a letter from Victor. It’s handwritten—with meticulous penmanship, of course. With Sid by my side, I read the letter aloud for both of us.
“Dear Advisee Banks,
Great to hear from you. Glad the excavation is going well. Sid sounds like a loyal friend and I’m sure will help you reach your potential, which always takes precedence over accomplishing a goal. Loving another (even a puppy), requires risk and intimacy, but the sense of mutual belonging is well worth it. Dogs are masters at teaching us how to recognize happiness in the simplest things. My happiness today consisted of three green lights in a row, two great parking spaces, an awesome steam shower and making contributions to Mothers Against Drunk Driving and pharmaceutical research (as I’m hoping to abate a future comprised of cubicle rats as leaders—i.e., students on Ritalin). If you ask me, happiness is about NOT being annoyed. It’s as simple as having tea with a friend (who may never even drink the tea she orders). It’s about being the best you can be without judging yourself by the standards of others but by the standards you choose to define yourself. It’s about letting sunshine in and regrets out. Hope I don’t sound pedantic; just know it comes from a place of genuine caring. Please keep me posted on any and all future archaeological findings.
Sincerely,
Your Adviser Winston”
I look at Sid. “What do think, Sid? My Adviser Winston. Good thing I’m not the possessive type like Alyssa Ryan.” Siddhartha sits, staring at me. “Come on, let’s go visit the bar.”
I walk over to the Eagle’s Nest with Siddhartha in tow. Richard greets me with a free beer.
“How goes it?” he asks, seeming genuinely happy to see me.
“It goes. But I was wondering if I might take you up on your offer to bartend. The only thing is, I don’t know much about bartending.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” he says. “You know how to pour?” “Yes.”
“You know how to listen?”
“I’m told I could use some improvement in that area,” I say, remembering Victor’s channeled message to me back in my Los Angeles apartment.
“No problem, I’ll get you some Q-tips.”
He signs me up for duty and tells me Sid can come, too, as the bar mascot.
My routine now includes working every night. While Siddhartha plays the role of adorable-but-distracted hostess, Richard teaches me the art of tending bar. In the hour before the bar opens I receive lessons on the stocking of beer and liquor.
“What about fancy drinks like a Pink Squirrel?” I ask.
“You don’t have to worry about those. Most people around here like a good ale beer or fine glass of wine. All you have to be concerned with is listening. It’s really a care-giving experience,” he tells me while wiping the bar clean.
“What if they don’t want to talk?”
“Oh, believe me, they want to talk, it’s human instinct. And they want to be heard, which is where the art of paraphrasing comes in.”
“Paraphrasing?”
“Yep,” says Richard, topping off all the bottles of hard liquor. He points out,“ I like to keep the whiskeys to the right and the vodkas to the left.”
My curiosity is piqued. “What exactly is paraphrasing?”
“Rephrasing what someone says without repeating it word for word, so they know they’ve been heard. I tell ya, it’s just like when a grieving family comes to see you in a time of need. Never ask for the stats first, though,” he adds, getting agitated by a jogged memory, “which is what that Tribute in a Box wanted me do. They’ve got it all wrong, insisting I take notes, makin’ the whole thing so damn clinical and uptight when it’s supposed to ease the pain of a survivor. Ya never take notes at a first meeting. You use counseling skills to help people deal with loss.” He shakes his head, clearly irritated.
“It’s not worth getting so upset over,” I say gently.
“You’re right.” He pours himself a shot of whiskey, kicks it back and settles down. “Anyway, I was saying, when a customer starts talking at the bar, you do like a funeral director—you ask them to tell you about what happened, to explain what the whole ordeal was like for them. Be a mirror. The trick...is to do it with compassion.”
“Be a compassionate mirror, so to paraphrase,” I say.
“Right.” He smiles at me like I’m an A student. “You reflect back to them the meaning their words have for you.” He looks at the clock, which reads five, walks to the door and flips the Open sign around. “Watch me.” He winks. “I’m pretty good in action.”
The first patron to walk in takes his regular seat at the bar. He’s a sixty-year-old man named Guy, who wears long-sleeved thermal shirts under dark green overalls with heavy work boots. “Hey, Richard. You finally got some help,” says Guy.
“That’s right,” says Richard. He introduces us. “This is Guy.
He’s here every day at five, sharp. This is Maddy Banks, Sam’s niece. So be nice to her.”
“Is that so?” asks Guy. “Sam was a helluva guy. Best fisherman I ever met.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Can I take your order?”
“I’ll have the usual.” He winks.
“That’s a tall ice-cold glass of draft ale,” Richard tells me. I pour a glass for Guy and hand it to him.
“Sally’s fences around her garden’s come undone again,” Guy says.
Richard gives me a look and turns to Guy. “What happened?”
“I suspect some deer jumped clear across them, except for one who took the whole damn fence down. I’ve been fixing it for a week now.”
“What’s that been like?” asks Richard.
“Hard work, especially in this heat, but Sally makes damn good lemonade and meaty sandwiches. And she plays her music in the house loud so I can hear it. Pretty symphony music...makes the day go by a lot quicker.”
“Sounds like the deer’s mishap with a fence is providing you with some work and keeping you well-fed and entertained while you’re at it,” says Richard.
“Yep. That’s exactly what it is,” says Guy, then he takes another sip of beer.
I smile at Richard, impressed. “That was good,” I whisper.
“That was nothing,” he says softly. “It’s more challenging around grief, when you’re trying to help someone resolve unresolved feelings.”
Siddhartha sticks her nose into Guy’s leg. He looks down and smiles. “Now who’s this little fella?”
“That’s Siddhartha,” I say. “She’s a girl, so it’s Sid for short.” Guy reaches down and pets her. “Hello, Sid.” He grabs a bar towel and plays tug-of-war with Sid for a while. He looks at Richard and me. “I had a dog once. A golden retriever. She was a great dog.”
“What was her name?” I ask.
“Dunlop, because I found her as a puppy in a pile of opened-up white paint cans. Took me a month and two cans of paint thinner to get all the paint off of her,” he says, smiling at the memory.
“What happened to her?”
“Couple years later I took her to a groomer for a good washing. When I came back to get her, they said she’d died.”
“What! How did that happen?” I ask, horrified.
“They never really told me,” says Guy, getting a little teary-eyed.
“That’s insane. Did you sue them?”
Richard jumps in. “So what I hear you saying, Guy, is that you took Dunlop for a grooming and when you returned she was gone.”
Guy nods his head.
“What was that like?” asks Richard.
“Pretty bad. It didn’t make any sense, ya know? For a long time I felt like it was my fault. What if I hadn’t taken her there to begin with?” He takes a gulp of beer as if to swallow his painful memories.
“I imagine it must have been a painful way to lose her,” says Richard.
“Yeah,” says Guy. “I never talked about it before.”
“Sounds like you needed to talk about it.”
“Yeah. I think so. Thanks for listening.”
“No problem,” says Richard. “The next beer’s on me...in memory of Dunlop.”
Guy offers a nod of deep gratitude.
I’m amazed, and turn to Richard. “You’re good.”
The next six hours are a blur of activity as I learn the ropes of tending bar and meet the locals—carpenters, builders, painters, writers, doctors, manufacturers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters. Eleven o’clock rolls around and Richard flips over the Open sign in the window to read Closed. I help him lock up for the night, but not without a few questions.
“What does Guy do, Richard?”
“Oh, he’s sort of like the local handyman but deep down he’s quite brilliant. He can invent whatever it takes to fix a problem. He’s an unsung engineering hero,” says Richard, locking up the liquor storage bin.
“Does he have family?”
“Only family I’ve ever heard him mention is that dog, Dunlop.”
“He started to get upset about it.”
“That’s healthy. It’s all part of the protocol of grief.” He faces me. “That’s love.
Remember, Maddy, you can’t love someone unless you’re willing to grieve over that someone. Need a lift home?”
“No, thanks. Sid and I like the walk.”
“See you tomorrow, then. And, Maddy, you did a great job. You’re a hard worker, just like your uncle.”
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BEHIND THE CHAPTER:
This chapter is dedicated to the dogs of our lives! For it is the real life TAO who inspired the canine character of SID (short for Siddhartha). And it is Tao who met Casey during a ritual morning walk... who in turn introduced me to my now adopted brother, Jay Newman of Thrive, FP, who has kindly sponsored this chapter. This chapter is a metaphor for those times in our lives when we need to dig ourselves out of a hole... so check out the associated YouTube link to see how Tao (the way of the dog) can turn hole digging into an adventure.
And... if you're a writer seeking ways to generate passive income to support your creative endeavors, then you might want to explore these kinds of opportunities at Thrive, FP...
Below is the story of how I met and remet Jay. The associated links are for Thrive, FP, Tao--the way of the dog, and friends Tao and Casey...
Thrive, FP
512.692.4195
www.thrivefp.com
Special Note from the Author:
After completing the manuscript for THE FUNERAL PLANNER I went on a walk with Tao (my four legged daughter) who befriended a white lab named Casey. That's how I met Jay Newman, Casey's dad. There was an instant connection between us. As our dogs played, we chatted about movies; both of us having worked in the film business sharing common experiences. We quickly became dog walking buddies and I discovered his wife was from my beloved hometown in Michigan and that his work in real estate sparked my love for investing in the tangible. One day Jay invited me to meet his father to discuss investing opportunities. Upon seeing the address I realized our paths had crossed before. "Do you have a sister named Nancy who died ten years ago?" I asked. Jay was shocked. "How do you know my sister?" "We used your parents' house as a location on a film I produced. I remember getting to know Nancy who was my age and was dying. Six months later I attended the funeral and never forgot it-it was unique." And then I remembered a flash of Jay walking past me as night fell during Shiva and every one gathered around a camp fire to take turns sharing stories about Nancy. I never experienced that kind of collective healing before so in addition to the loss and experience of my father's and brother's funerals, it was Nancy's "life celebration" that set the stage for THE FUNERAL PLANNER. Since then, Jay has become a brother to me and I a sister to him. Four years later I successfully invested in Thrive, FP, his real estate private finance company with great faith, which is a great passive way to supplement the income of an author! Jay now lives in Austin and we continue to share our unique connection. It is with great pleasure that I share this tale to remember the spirits of all of our loved ones and the mysterious ways in which they unite humanity.
Lynn Isenberg, Author of The Funeral Planner Trilogy and Digital Series
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AUTHOR’S NOTE:
We hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Funeral Planner! We will be posting a chapter every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. If you just can’t wait to read the latest episode about Maddy, Eve and Sierra and their entrepreneurial adventures The Funeral Planner Trilogy is available online at the usual suspects (Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Sony). Also check out LynnIsenberg.com for more information.