My oldest daughter came home with a simple glow stick bracelet from her teacher for Valentine’s Day, with the accompanying message, “You light up my life!” Tonight she wanted to activate it, but upon doing so, she found that only the tip came to life in a neon blue. She was of course disappointed and began to complain, when I took the little glow stick and said, “Follow me. I want to show you something.”
We walked back to her room and I said, “This little broken glow stick doesn’t look like much when all the lights are on, does it?”
“No,” she sighed.
“Well what if I turned out the lights and shut the door?” I turned out the light, and the little broken glow stick seemed instantly brighter. I shut the door, and in the complete blackness, the little broken glow stick looked like a beautiful beacon.
“Wow,” my daughter admitted, “why is it so different?”
“Because of contrast,” I replied, leaning on my photography knowledge. “The bigger the difference between the light and the dark, the brighter the light appears.”
I went on to make my moral point, “Good is like this tiny, ½ inch bit of light; you may not notice it, or think it makes much difference when there are many other “lights” around, but this broken bit stands out for all to see, when surrounded by darkness.”
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:5
These beautiful little works of art belonged to my paternal grandmother, a major bibliophile, and have been passed down to me, another bibliophile. For only standing around 12″ tall, they sure pack a lot of gorgeous detail that I just had to show off. Oh, and they spin too!
It lasted just two weeks. It was dirty, it was tough, it was an emotional roller coaster. It was warm, it was soft, it was needy. It was a black lab puppy that my children re-named “Sammy”. It was the first time we had fostered an animal, and the second dog we had ever taken care of as a family. The first dog had been, of course, a lovable black lab named Jill. Two weeks prior, during Christmas, my husband and I decided to sign our family up for fostering through our local animal shelter. He and my daughter had been volunteering there for a few months already, and she, at ten-years-old, had fallen in love with every cat and puppy there. She told her brother (aged seven) about them, and they had both been begging for a dog since.
My husband and I knew we were not prepared to take on a dog full-time, but we thought we could compromise by fostering. The kids were excited as we explained what fostering was and what it meant, emphasizing we would not be keeping the dog. Every day they asked when we were getting our foster dog. When the foster care coordinator called to see if we could take a black lab puppy, we became as excited as the kids. My husband picked her up on his way home from work, along with a kennel, leash, collar, toys, bones, and puppy chow.
What a sweet, adorable, dog! She reminded us so much of Jill. The first night we had her after the kids had gone to bed, I cried and cried. It was so nice to have a little, fuzzy body in the house again with floppy ears that felt like velvet. It was lovely to feel her snuggle up against me on the floor or sofa while she slept. I told my husband, “I want to keep her”, and he concurred.
By the next evening some of the puppy love had diminished a bit. Sam had us up an hour earlier than usual, she kept trying to investigate our old cat who wanted none of it, and had had a couple of accidents on the floor. Towards the end of the week I was feeling somewhat frazzled: More accidents on the loveseat and floor, trying to juggle taking walks in the January cold with three kids and the dog who wanted to pull me every step of the way, attempting and failing to keep ahead of Sammy’s predilection to stray socks, not to mention the barking, the whining, the escape-out-the-front-door attempts, the dog trampling and using the bathroom in my backyard flower beds or the deck, the muddy paw prints on my clean floor and furniture, even after I had carefully wiped her feet with an old towel. And we were never allowed to sleep in.
I was glad we only had one week left, “Are you sure we can’t take her in early?” I asked my husband. But during the second week, we had all begun to figure each other out and settle into a routine. Then the shelter called: Sammy needed to go in to be spade. We could leave her at the shelter to recover until Adoption Day (Saturday), or we could come pick her up again. We picked her up after her surgery. She slept all the next day, and the following morning she had bounced back to her energetic little self. We tried keeping her resting and still, but she didn’t find that tolerable. Instead, Sammy chased the toddler, who squealed with delight, up and down the hallway.
And then it was Adoption Day. Despite our repeated warnings that it was coming (both for the kids and ourselves), we all felt a little anxious as we drove to the shelter with Sammy in the backseat, wedged in between the kids. It was a downright unceremonious drop off. A lady we had never met led us to Sammy’s prepared pen, guided her in, and quickly shut the door. Sammy looked confused, but we tried to reassure her: She wouldn’t be there long. She was too cute and sweet. I believed she would be adopted that day.
We turned to leave the poor pup amidst all the much older, much louder dogs’ carrying on. We were near the door when the toddler suddenly went back to Sammy’s cage to let her out. My son kept asking us, “Why can’t we adopt her?” We all took two steps into the quiet hallway, and my ten-year-old daughter burst into tears. No one from the shelter asked us any questions, there was nothing more to be done. We went silently home, everyone lost in their own thoughts. I felt sad, but also relief. Sammy was a good dog; we would miss her.
A few hours later I called the shelter to find out how Sammy was doing, “She was adopted today!” the lady cheerfully told me. I shared the news and the kids took it well. It’s been a few weeks now since Sammy found her new home. It’s been oddly quiet in the house, and none of us have gotten outside as much as we should have. We’ve been sleeping in a lot and socks are all over the floor. I wonder when our next foster dog will arrive?
Spoiler alert: After fostering several more puppies, kittens, and cats with SICSA, we finally experienced a “foster failure” and adopted Ginger, a sweet Lab-Pitt mix in Sept. 2015.
I’ve been reading Vanity Fair, by William M. Thackery. It is a large, long book and I hesitated to pick it up at first. Still, it is considered a classic, and I have a personal goal to read as many classics as I can. I took a deep breath and began, and have been delighted ever since. After a few chapters, I began to notice a pattern and, just as Charlton Heston’s character learns the terrible truth that Soylent Green is people, so I excitedly proclaimed to my baffled husband my suspicion that Gone with the Wind was Vanity Fair.
While I have not read Gone with the Wind (yet), I have enjoyed the film many times, much to my husband’s chagrin. He is in for a disappointment, because I am about to enjoy it again.
I had my suspicions when first reading about the characters of Rebecca Sharp and Amelia Sedley, or should I say, Scarlett O’Hara and Melly. Just as with Scarlett, Rebecca is a strong, power-hungry, conniving little woman who can hold her own, and how! She is not entirely evil, but is certainly a very selfish person. Rebecca, like Scarlett, plots to become popular and rich, and sets her pretty, flirtatious eyes on any man who might fit the bill. Rebecca is rather shameless, always flirting with men young and old, single and married alike, thoroughly enjoying the attention and praise lavished upon her. The ladies are less thrilled with Rebecca’s charms.
Amelia’s character is highly contrasted with Rebecca’s, just as Melly’s is with Scarlett’s. Amelia and Melly are both very quiet, kind, and gentle souls who give their all to everyone else, hardly ever thinking of themselves. There are some significant differences between Melly and Amelia, for instance, Melly’s character seems very strong, although quiet, while Amelia nearly always seems childlike. Still, the caricature between the two is quite similar, even their names are alike. Both love with all their hearts, charm people by their goodness, submit to duty, refuse to gossip, lead quiet lives rather than flaunting about in high society, and, they pray sincerely.
The famous party scene at Twelve Oaks in GWTW, might have been lifted right from the pages of Vanity Fair. Another interesting similarity is that GWTW is set right before the outbreak of the American Civil war, while Vanity Fair is set right before the Battle of Waterloo, and although VF doesn’t go into it, Thackery mentions that the town of Brussels had been turned into a military hospital, just like Savannah, GA in GWTW. Thackery describes too, the anxiety and pain of reading the list of wounded, missing, and dead, a poignant scene in GWTW.
All these might have been mere coincidences until, about halfway through the “novel without a hero” (VF), Rebecca utters the famous flippant phrase of Scarlett O’Hara, “fiddlededee”. My suspicions were confirmed! I squealed to Ryan who was trying to sleep, “She said, fiddlededee!!!” No more evidence did I need, the case was closed.
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