Category: Newspaper

Reprinted courtesy of the Weston/Wayland Town Crier

She caught me off guard when she called – and besides, the event was at least three weeks away. I told her I’d had only one class in flower arranging, but she assured me it would be a wonderful learning opportunity. So, I agreed to make a May basket for the Wayland Garden Club’s informal spring flower show. The process proved to be traumatic.

As I knew there were many talented floral arrangers in the club, I decided early on that I couldn’t possibly compete with their arrangements of spring flowers. I decided I’d make a simple basket of woodland plants instead. In three weeks, I thought, there’ll be lots of things in bloom. But spring was cold this year and as I began scouring the woods and nearby fields, I found there was little to be had.

Then I received my basket and my instructions. Panic set in. Name everything? I didn’t begin to know the names of all the plant life in my woods. I called another garden club member for assistance and during the conversation she mentioned something about “hardening things up” for two or three days ahead. I had learned about the need to “condition” cut flowers, but what was I supposed to do with tree branches, ferns and mosses!

Four days before the event I took to the woods and fields with clippers and a water bucket in hand. My husband came along to make sure I didn’t fall into the creek, and our two golden retrievers thought this early morning exercise a delightful outing.

Previous scouting trips had enabled me to find my materials – cinnamon fern, and skunk cabbage by the creek, red maple boughs, pussy willows and multiflora rose branches at the woodland’s edge. I soon discovered that ferns grew on underground logs and skunk cabbages have roots that go clear down to the water table! Neither would yield readily to my trowel, which bent to the breaking point. Covered with mud, I returned triumphantly to the meadow and proceeded to cut my rose bush greens. The bush had a fine healthy crop of thorns. Now I was bloody as well as muddy!

Heading home

Once we headed for home, my golden, Toby, decided to lead the way. Passing me, he managed to gather up all six rose bush cuttings in his long, feathery tail. When I screamed, he promptly sat down and proceeded to wag his tail furiously, beating my rose cuttings into the dirt. I spent the next 10 minutes pulling thorny rose cuttings out of his long tail feathers while my husband made remarks about this whole excursion being a “10 on the stupidity scale.”

Once home, I got out my floral arranging “cookbook” and proceeded to follow instructions.
Submerge clippings,” I read. I filled the bathtub, but the branches didn’t submerge. They floated. So, I got a heavy Turkish towel and forced them below the water’s surface. After their “bath,” the book said, they needed an assortment of “drinks.” “Some like it hot, some like it cold, some like it in the pot,” etc. Bleach and water for the Skunk Cabbage and hot alcohol water for the maples, it said. I gave the Skunk Cabbage two shots of Clorox and I gave the maples two shots of my husband’s Manhattan mix and hoped they’d all be happy.

Then it was off to the neighbors to look for violets in bloom. I found no violets, but I found Wood Anemones – which proceeded to wilt and die as soon as I brought them home. Back for more, which this time, I cuddled with the fern and cool wet mud and they seemed happier. I spent the next three days making frequent trips to the garage hovering over my specimens to see if they were still alive. I did not sleep for three nights. At 2:30 in the morning I was down in the garage checking the Anemones. I am going to make a fool of myself, I thought, in front of 100 women who know more about this than do I.

When the morning arrived, I arose early and began my arrangement. I had been imagining it in my mind’s eye for days, but what was I really imagining? I knew virtually nothing about what constituted good lines. Maybe I’ll get points for creativity, I thought, because I sure won’t get them for design. Dear Lord, I prayed, please don’t let them laugh.

Finally, it was done and I carried it to the show. The judge took one look and said “Who did this mess!” When the judging was over, I had come in last. The judges found my plant materials “interesting” but my arrangement “off balance.” That, I thought, was an apt description of the entire scenario. (Post note, it was 20 years before I did another arrangement for a garden club meeting!)

Twenty five years ago on March 31, I wrote this column about the first dog we adopted  from Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue.

It has been a year now since ‘Captain” came into our lives and he has made it a year unlike any other. On March 31, 1995, my husband and I adopted our first Golden from Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue. We had been members of the organization for years and had actively participated in many of its endeavors, but it was only after the death of our beloved Golden “Toby” that we decided it was time to adopt.

Captain had spent the first 2 1/2 years of his life running around the town of Munson, near Springfield, . He had been picked up by the local dog officer frequently and his owners had been admonished to keep him under control. Finally, when rather than pay a small fine, they preferred to have him put down, the dog officer turned him over to Rescue. And that’s where we entered his life story.

When we brought him home, he took a flying leap over the top of the sofa and subsequently was found standing on the coffee table. And to think we wanted an “older dogs.” because a puppy would be too much to handle…. now we had 70 pounds of undisciplined, unbridled energy to harness.

Captain proved to be a handful. Other than being housebroken, he had been taught nothing by his previous owners. Within 24 hours he was enrolled in an obedience class which he proceeded to totally disrupt. The first night he was a holy terror, running around and barking incessantly ignoring all of my commands .”Sit ? Oh no, this place is much to exciting. Down? Hey, no man, I gotta check things out! Stay? You’ve got to be kidding. Come? Forget it.”

At the end of the first class I was exhausted,  Captain had vomited his dinner, having gotten so excited and we had taxed the tolerance of all the other owners and their we-behaved graduates of the puppy kindergarten class. But as Captain’s story made its way around the room, everyone became supportive and repeatedly commented, “How could anyone want to put down a beautiful young dog like that?”

Six weeks later, on “graduation day.” I held my breath. Would he watch me, listen to my commands and obey? He did and my wild boy was the star of the class.

Rescue Dog Walk

In October, we took him to the Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue Dog Walk kicking off YGRR’s capital campaign to raise money to establish a shelter. Captain was a good boy, and although I still had to maintain a firm hand, he behaved in the presence of 400 other Golden Retrievers.

Soon there after, Rescue began selling its 1996 calendars and there was our Captain – Cover Dog – in a beautiful running pose my husband captured at Heard Farm. We were “proud parents” when his picture appeared in Dog Fancy magazine, in newspaper advertisements and in other media outlets.

Through it all, did I happen to mention that this golden-copper toned, massive-headed, brown=eyed bundle of love is the most affectionate, sweet klutz on earth? When I had knee surgery, Captain lay quietly at my side oozing love and devotion.

Is he now a perfectly-mannered, obedient, docile adult? Heavens no!” Come” is still viewed as a request rather than a command and he still barks noisily at every new dog he meets, But he has learned to play with other dogs less aggressively and he has learned that he no longer needs to run round the neighborhood in search of love. Captain’s boisterous insecurity is waning., we have been enlivened by his exuberance and our female Golden, “Electra,” thinks he’s “Mr. Wonderful ,”

Of course our home is no longer as neat as it once was – on snowy days – when Captain gets bored, he empties his toy box and our living room looks like a toddlers’ day care center. His long-feathered tail is still likely to sweep magazines off the coffee table and he has perfected the “coffee cup nudge” demanding pats while spilling my coffee.

There will never be another Toby. I still miss my gentle giant. But all “children” are unique and Captain is one of a kind. He brought us laughter  when there were tears and filled a far-to-quiet and far-to-clean house with his comical antics and long Golden hairs. How grateful we are for his “recycled” life and the opportunity we have been given to share it.

Note: We had Captain for nine wonderful years before he went to Rainbow Bridge

 

Reprinted courtesy of the Weston/Wayland Town Crier  May 13, 1993

When my husband and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary many years ago, he mentioned our planned celebration to some of his students. “How do you stay happily married to someone that long?” they asked. We thought their question a sad commentary on modern society. Alfred’s response was a discourse on the meaning of commitment in marriage and, while my husband’s remarks were absolutely on target, I recently discovered a new definition of marital bliss, Love is a workbench..

My discovery began when my husband announced that he was going out of town for a few days to attend a business conference,. Such news always sends me into orbit planning a host of household improvements I can make while I have long, uninterrupted hours at my disposal.

Since retirement, my “when the cat is away” adventures have usually involved painting, wallpapering or super human efforts at landscaping or gardening – all of which are designed to enhance the appearance of our home. This time, I planned a project for the sole benefit and pleasure of my husband. I would hire our neighborhood contractor to build my husband a work bench in our garage.

For years, you see, my husband had complained that he has no place to do house and yard repair work and no place to keep his tools in order. I decided that the end of the garage offered  12 feet of promise – once I had cleaned out the garage, made several trips to the town dump and swept away years of dirt and dust.

It took the contractor less than a day to build the work bench and me three days to clean the garage and neatly hang tools on the new peg board, organize all the nails and screws, clean up paint and various cans and put the new bench in working order. When all was done, the garage was so clean I could have served dinner out there. A bouquet of tulips and a homemade welcome home card were the finishing touches.

When my husband returned home, he received his new workbench and tool area with the delight of a little boy given his first bicycle – now he had new worlds to conquer – and new tools to buy!

To some young people all this might seem like “much ado about nothing.” It wasn’t a big gift. I didn’t buy him an expensive new camera or a new computer. But those are not gifts of the heart purchased with a “broken back”, a slivered hand and a torn fingernail. To those young students who wondered how one stays married to someone so long, my response is simple. The answer lies in discovering the romance of a workbench.

 

By Joy Winkie Viola, Town Crier columnist

Reprinted courtesy of the Weston/Wayland Town Crier

It was bound to happen sooner or later. I’ve been on a roll since I retired nearly a year and a half ago. I’ve tackled one project after another and often had several going at one time. Even now I have a new piece of unfinished furniture to stain, and once again I’m chairing the Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue spring auction and I have various household tasks I could and should do.

But I’ve got the midwinter blahs. In short, I’m bored. Just when all the snow melted and I had some enthusiasm for going out and tackling some yard work, another storm dumped a fresh load of the white stuff on our yard and dampened my enthusiasm for landscaping. Besides, it’s cold outside..

As I sit here at my desk writing, the afternoon sun warms my face and I begin to feel drowsy. The dog and cat are one step ahead of me. They are already napping in pools of sunlight on the carpet. I fight the urge to nap with them and pull out the folder labeled “When I retire..” In it is an assortment of clippings suggesting worthy endeavors for bored minds. One is a list of New Year’s health resolutions which appeared in Modern Maturity magazine two years ago. I scan the “50 healthy habits” and find myself attracted to #46 -“Never kill the urge to be silly.” I like that one and begin to think of ways to implement it.

Before long, my golden retriever, Electra, and I are in the car and headed off for an adventure. “We’ll drive to Natick,” I tell her (doesn’t everyone talk to their dog?) and check out that golden retriever wallpaper I heard about. I visit th4e wallpaper store and then head for Dover to investigate an antique/craft store complex I read about in the Boston Globe.

Somewhere on the other side of the Charles River, I make a wrong turn. I am now lost among Dover’s farms, horse barns and new developments. I stop at a gas station to get new directions, retrace my steps and now find Dover Center.. By now I am hungry, having forgotten to eat lunch. The Dover Market looks inviting, so I dash inside, buy a muffin and a cup of coffee, and return to the car.

While Electra and I are enjoying our “picnic,” I suddenly see a good friend from Millis getting into the car next to me. “What are you doing in Dover?” we exclaim simultaneously. I jump out of the car to greet her, the car door slams shut, and there I stand – my coffee, my muffin, my dog, my handbag and my car keys – all are locked inside the car.

“Name?” the Dover policeman inquires. “Address? License number?” Great, I’m going to make the Dover police log .””Date of Birth?” Old enough to know better, I reply. My friend is giggling. The policeman is smiling. My dog is giving me strange looks. And I am feeling very stupid.

“What did you do today,” my husband asks at dinner that night. “I was bored,” I replied,” so I went for a drive, got lost and locked myself out of the car. “”That’s nice,” he replied,” “What are you planning for tomorrow?”

 

 

By Joy Winkie Viola, Town Crier Columnist

            This winter I am struggling under the burden of 12 feet of snow. Oh, I know, the meteorologists may dispute that we’ve had quite that much white stuff fall on us, but there are more ways than one to measure snow impact. And I am dealing with 12 feet – four of which belong to two humans who track in and out with wet boots that leave muddy grid marks on the floor – and eight of which are attached to two golden retrievers. The latter eight are multi-capacity snow machines that regularly manufacture snow balls and ice balls, between toes and pads, that fall and melt wherever they land.

            Last spring, I redecorated our family room bathroom and was terribly proud of my dainty yellow and white creation complete with gingham-checked curtains, a plush yellow rug, and delicate yellow finger towels on the towel rack. Today it is the deicer room! The rug has been taken up, the finger towels have been replaced by a roll of paper towels and I use the top of the toilet seat as my command post for the deicing of dog paws. Old bath towels line the floor and the sink has become a depository for dirty snow and ice pellets. The nearby boot rack seems always to be overflowing and the floor tiles seem to be perpetually wet. Like children, it seems that the dogs no sooner get in and get dried off than they inform me of some compelling reason to go back out.

            Electra us a tomboy at times, but physically she is a delicate little English-type golden who somehow manages to play in the snow more daintily. But our big, red, eight-year-old male, Toby, has four feet the size of bear paws. And the ice balls between his pads come only in the large, extra-large and jumbo egg size.

As he finds this a hindrance to his mobility, I decided to be the good “mother” and make him boots in the manner my mother made me mittens – with long yarn attachments to prevent their getting lost.

            On the advice of a pet supply store owner, I bought a pair of children’s slipper socks – bright red with white rubberized soles – braided long stands of red yarn, sewed the yarn to the slippers, attached Velcro snaps, and then tied all the yarn tags to Toby’s collar. Trussed up like a turkey and sporting his four red and white “booties”, I proudly sent Toby out to play. He gave me a look that clearly said “Mother, you don’t really expect me to let my friends see me like this?” But I shoved him out the door anyway.

            It wasn’t long before he had three dripping red feet and Electra was pulling him across the driveway by the end of the fourth flopping red sock. Being the boy that he is, he buried himself in the snow, rolled over on his back, and came up running with four floppy red slipper socks flying in four directions on wings of carefully braided yarn.

            My husband trooped back into the house saying ‘I told you so.” I followed in my snow-encrusted Wellingtons and two happy dogs charged in behind me. And there I was, once again, confronted with 12 feet of snow. Will this winter never end?