Pennies from Heaven

Wicked fun!

It was windy 'round the holler over the weekend. Redwood duff piled in heaps, fallen tree branches, pine bows stuck out of the pin-cushioned dirt. Downed patio umbrellas, branches shot out of trees like lightening bolts, stabbing the ground. I ain't exaggeratin.' They don't call them widow-makers for nuthin. Driveways, cars and power-lines suffered an onslaught of foresty-type debris. Debris is what you git when you live in deese woods. Den da wind blew out the 'lectricity of about 100 users. I only know this because I was one of the lucky 100, however, I do not know what possessed me to write like that (must have been that Zeus's Daughter book I recently finished.)


During the night, drugged to a stupor so I could sleep, I found myself waking up to the sound of crashing branches and the steady click-clicking of duff (Duff is the name of a beer brand on The Simpson's) onto the skylight directly above the bed, (who's idea was skylight?) Bella is sedate until she hears a noise, any noise, then she freaks letting her displeasure be known with a quiet little woof sound (say "woof" aloud to yourself. That's how Bella sounds - only make sure you say it over and over and over again with a short little breath in-between each woof. Woof, breath, woof, breath, woof, breath, woof.) Ever since the night the raccoons came into the kitchen and ate her dog food, and she was too frightened to get her puppybutt off the bed to see what was in the kitchen making all that noise, Bella now woofs quietly in the middle of the night when something disturbs her slumber. Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof...


Each day I discover more about Bella. She acts tough though she seems to be afraid of many things. Is that how I am? Is that many of us are? It's sort of a topsy-turvy version of walk softly and carry a big stick. Bella walks with a big stick (metaphorically speaking), but freaks-out about cars, vacuums,  generators, hair dryers, mixers, blenders, coffee makers, vibrators, heating pads, emersion blenders, crockpots, espresso machines, and panini makers (and panini makers are relatively quiet). Bella woofs at anything that operates using electricity or that starts with a motor. I don't think she can see very well either. She behaves at times like she's not getting the whole picture. (But then I do that as well.)  Her (what I perceive as) fear causes her to bark because she doesn't understand that she should STFU. Witnessing this I'm-going-to-behave-assertively-when-I-am-really-scared-out-of-my-wits behavior reminds me of the lone guy standing in front of the tanks in the 1989 Tiananmen Square protest though he was courageous as hell. Bella will stand smack-dab in front of an oncoming car and hopefully when the driver stops, she walks to the drivers side door to see who it is (and then wags her tail because she wuvs that person). Either that or she stands by the side of the road, leashed by my side in frenzied barking because how dare that car drive down the road.


To gain some sanity I resorted to using an aluminum can with pennies inside and as cruel as a shaking penny-can might seem, the can noise jolts Bella enough to get her to stop barking.  Sunday morning while attempting to start the generator with a barking corgi was for crazy-making. Something had to give and it wasn't gonna be me. (for once) I got the penny-can and shook it in Bella's direction, over the roar of the generator. She quit barking and reluctantly walked back into the house.


But what I want to know is why doesn't she bark at the noisy can of pennies?


For some time now I've been going through my belongings to get rid of stuff I don't use. When we were first married, Greg and I received a crocheted bed set from Aunt Cecil. The yarn used was primarily bright orange with multicolored pieces throughout. I think we probably used it the first week. It's really pretty ugly. This set has been taking up space since 1975. A dusty hat Greg wore during chemo that's been smashed under more junk. Lingerie, never worn -- some still with tags, all of it to large for me now. For weeks I've had this huge bag of "good-will" donations resting like a drunk against my living room wall. A week ago Bella decided to tear into the bottom of the bag when I had company over for tea, dragging bras and other pieces of lingerie out, pulling them across the carpet causing me to contemplate my idea of good will.


On Saturday I put Bella in doggie daycare (a blessing from heaven) and spent my day running errands, getting chores done that I can't do unless I hold a broom in one hand and the shake the penny can in the other. (She hates brooms too.) During Bella's absence I put the donation bag into the backseat of the vertical hotrod in case I had some time to go to Goodwill. Sunday after a morning walk where I saw a coyote which thankfully Bella didn't or couldn't see, and a visit with my son Eric to the dog park, I drove my donation carcass down the hill.


The Goodwill drop-off collection center is within Santa Cruz's infamous heroin highway district. In order to pawn my stuff off onto them get to the collection truck, one must drive past my x's house conveniently located near several homeless shelters and feeding kitchens, auto-repair shops, Costco, a neighborhood filled with industries and private schools, several self-storage facilities where it seemed no one ever picks up their stuff because there is a continuous garage sale every weekend, a cement factory, a cement "artist", a gas station and numerous medicinal marijuana outlets that I might use if I ever admit to the pain with which I am truly suffering. haha

Bella & a buddy from the dog park

All I really wanted was the Goodwill to drive to my house and claim what is rightfully theirs to begin with. When I arrived, the attendant was busy talking to someone. Sounded like he was on a conference call or having a full-blown Goodwill meeting in the back of the collection truck. I envisioned coffee and donuts for the goodwillers who worked inside. Funny thing though - this guy was completely alone except for donations. He didn't speak but a few words directly to me though (form, items, name) he was yakitty-yaking the entire time I was emptying my donation drunk out of the car. The Goodwill employee spoke directly to one bag of my (soon to be his) things, exclaiming "And just where did YOU come from?!" as if he were considering asking the old bag out on a date. He must have had a thing for crusty, puppy-slobbered lingerie and dusty chemo hats. He handed me my receipt, all the while talking, looking me in the eye yet saying nothing which reminded me of past relationships. Just a few words to the wise, I guess.

As I drove away from town, I was happy to have one more chore crossed off my list. I needed to get back home to the chaos and high winds in the mountains, the familiar barking of my frightened puppy and the periodic shaking of the dreaded penny-can to find serenity.