Dawn Groves Land

I finally picked up a paddle and started my annual spring foray into the ocean. Kayaking the Puget Sound is always a treat but with the recent spate of warm days and bright evenings, it moves into the realm of the ecstatic. People dont realize that its much more than dragging a plank through water. A well crafted forward stroke is a picture of grace, authority, and timing. It involves every part of the body. The blade dips into the sea quietly. No slosh means no lost energy. As the waist rotates, it pushes the paddle along. The paddle-side foot presses against its foot rest to gain strength. The blade then slips easily out of the water at an angle, just past the hips. No resistance. And that’s just the forward stroke. I haven’t even begun to talk about boat control.

After reading Lake Superior University’s 2009 list of banned words (http://www.lssu.edu/banished/current.php), I’ve been trying to come up with a list of my own. Turns out there’s a lot more stuff to ban than just words:

1. Jeans that reveal butts when seated or squatted.
2. Dogs pooping. Dog shouldnt poop at all.
3. People advising about weight loss.
4. Laugh tracks.
5. Celebrity without skill, talent, or honor.
6. Litter.
7. Anyone who doesnt think I’m adorable.
8. People who don’t like animals.
9. Mucous
10. Did I mention dog poop? Add cat poop to that. Poop in general.

I’m sure I’ll think of many others.

Last night I watched a television program about unusual pets. There was a Capybara — a South American acquatic rodent that is bascially a giant guinea pig. A hundred pounds of boxy cuteness. Round rump. Square face. Big sniffer. Likes to swim. Affectionate. I want one.

Then there was the featherless Cockatiel named Oscar. A victim of feather and beak disease, she looks like a walking version of one of those fryers in the poultry freezer. Oscar is 13 years old and happily serves as a mascot for an animal shelter. She snuggles against her owners neck. She loves to be stroked. I want her too.

If someone else would clean up aftern them, I’d have a dozen pets. One husband, two daughters, a dozen pets and someone to handle the pooper scooper in the back yard. And an indoor lap pool. And a wife. My husband and I both need a wife.

I love getting my quarterly cut and color at Hair Today on 5th Avenue. My nose-ringed stylist, Minion, regales me with youth culture and advice. This time we discussed my latest midlife crisis project: tattoos.

“I’m thinking of getting a tattoo, Minion.”

“Oh RAD, Dawn, that’s so cool! I know this awesome tattoo woman on State. She’s a bitch but God what an artist.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah like if you ask her if it’ll hurt she’ll get pissed off and say ‘So fucking what?’ But her stuff is super high quality.”

“Do you have any tattoos?”

“For sure! Check this out,” Minion lifted up her foot to about my eye level. Lord, she’s limber. “This butterfly on my ankle is the oldest. Two years ago I got some curlicues across my lower back and last year I got a rose on my ass. This is my latest.” She proudly rolled her shirt sleeve up to reveal a mustard yellow floral spray on her deltoid.

“I can’t wait to get another,’ she continued, hands back into my hair. “I’m thinking of asking for something sorta Asian you know, yin and yang stuff. I’ll probably stick it on my inner thigh or maybe my other butt cheek.” She slapped her hip. “Lots of room back there.”

“Minion!” called Raymond from behind the shampoo sink. “I want Serena to get a little daisy tattoo.”

“Give me a break, Raymond. You are so out there”. She leaned down to my ear. “Serena is his pug dog.” Minion rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the subject at hand.

“So, Dawn, what kind of tattoo were you thinking of?”

“I have a vertical scar on my stomach,” I said. “I thought I’d turn it into a vine or maybe a dragon twisting around a pole.”

Minion’s face lit up. “That is so RAD! Is your scar like really big?”

“Well, yes.”

“Wow,” her eyes twinkled. “I wish I had one.”

“Or maybe I should get something here.” I pointed behind my ear.

“How about flowers down your neck! So cool!”

“I don’t know. Seems like it might hurt.”

She ran her index finger up and down the side of her neck. “Probably. But they all hurt.”

“That’s not encouraging.”

“Oh, chill. After the first few pokes you go sorta numb anyway. ‘Course my ankle hurt super-more than my ass. But the end result is like awesome so no big deal.” She pulled the waistband of her lime-checked jogging tights down her hip about three inches to reveal a short-stemmed crimson rose, complete with thorns, etched into her flank

“God, Minion,” complained Raymond, “will you please put that thing away?”

She glanced at him and snapped her waistband.
“Bite me.”

Looking back at me, she fussed with my hair a bit more. “For sure it hurts and you bleed but then you have this artwork that is timeless. I mean, when I’m sixty I’ll still have my tattoos!”

“And that’s good?”

She ignored me. “Maybe I’ll get a tree next. Something classy. What looks good at sixty, Dawn?”

“A retirement plan.”

“No, I mean in TATTOOs.

“Dollar signs?” I was trying to be helpful.

“Awesome!” She spun me around, spritzing a halo of lemon scent. When I paid my bill and headed for the door she called out, “Hey, Dawn! Next time look for dollar signs!”

I smiled. “I always do.”

END

Dan’s beloved grandmother is dying. His mom flew back to Madison earlier this week. Last I heard, his mother and her sister-in-law were shopping for a dress.

“Does Mom need an outfit to wear to the funeral?”
I asked Dan.

“No, Grandma needs it.”

“Excuse me but isn’t Grandma going to be dead?”

“Yeah, she needs something to wear in the casket.”

“Oh.”

In my youth I thought that memorials were a waste of time because death wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. You just moved into a new body. That was when I was ten feet tall and immortal. Now that I’m shorter, older and closer to death, I have a compassionate appreciation for memorials of all kinds. I understand the need to eulogize a loved one, to mourn in public, to perform rituals such as purchasing a special dress, to keep remembrances close at hand. (I still have my late father’s tired black car-coat hanging in my closet.)

What is difficult for me to understand, however, is the attraction of burial. Cremation is so much neater, cleaner. I’d much rather have my body purified by fire instead of pickled and powdered.

Everyone has their own memorial style. When my brother and I divided up my father’s ashes, I ceremonially dispersed most of mine into a glorious lake, storing the remaining quarter-cup in an etched granite box on our dresser. On the other hand, my brother keeps Dad in the back of his refrigerator, stuffed into a round plastic Tupperware container with a fluted yellow top. “What if someone thinks there’s food in that container and opens it up?” I ask. “Not gonna happen,” he says. “No-one wants to go anywhere near the back of my refrigerator.”

I really like ashes. They’re appealing, like tiny pieces of seashell. I can touch them and feel close to my dad again. Best of all, I don’t need to visit a cemetery to see them.

My meditation buddy, Michael, died of stomach cancer a few years ago. I loved Michael and truly grieved his passing. To help honor and remember him, I wanted his ashes on my home altar next to Dad. During Michael’s Zen memorial service, I kept my eye on the urn perched next to a statue of the Buddha. After the ritual I sidled over to Buddha, checked left and right, and deftly scooped a handful of Michael from the urn into my coat pocket. Then I scooted back to Dan.

“Guess what?” I asked Dan.

“What?”

“Guess what I have in my pocket?”

“Whaaat?” He looked at me long and hard.

I leaned into him, whispering, “Michael.”

“Jesus, Dawn! Did anybody see you do it?” Dan glanced around the room.

“Nope.”

“Why didn’t you just ask his mother if you could take some of his cremains?”

I stepped back. “She doesn’t know me from Adam. It would seem ghoulish.”

“Oh and carrying his ashes in your coat pocket isn’t?

“Nope,” I smiled, running my fingers gently through the sandy contents. “It’s comforting.”

END