Template problems

My blogger template is all screwed up and I can't manage to fix it. Even trying to change templates, I can't get the code problems to go away. I'm afraid to lose the stuff I posted but I may have to start all over. What a bummer! Anybody have any ideas on how to fix this stuff?

A Soldier

As the bodies of our young American men and women pile up in the morgue of the escalating bUSH military action in Iraq and Afghanistan, I think we should read this poem by Robert Frost.

A Soldier

He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,
That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,
But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.
If we who sight along it round the world,
See nothing worthy to have been its mark,
It is because like men we look too near,
Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,
Our missiles always make too short an arc.
They fall, they rip the grass, they intersect
The curve of earth, and striking, break their own;
They make us cringe for metal-point on stone.
But this we know, the obstacle that checked
And tripped the body, shot the spirit on
Further than target ever showed or shone.

Robert Frost

Skipping Winter

When I was in that New York elementary school, one of my teachers verbally polled all the students in my class about what temperature of weather we enjoyed. I was amazed as student after student repeated the same answer...80 degrees...80 degrees...80 degrees. I was horrified as the poll got closer and closer to me because I could not say that I liked 80 degree weather. I felt different. Different to a child is a terror best not contemplated. My turn arrived. The teacher was looking at me. I rolled my eyes down and to the left, and quietly breathed out the soft words, "60 degrees...". Audible gasps were heard around the room but the teacher smiled and said, "I'm with you on that! I like the cool weather best too!" OH MAN! The teacher agreed with me? The only thing better than that was when I was the only one in class that would get a 100% grade on the algebra tests.

So now, I live in Florida. My family began their migration here in the early 1960's and one by one, cousins, siblings, aunts and uncles came to call Florida home. Nieces and nephews were born here and consider themselves natives. I spent my teenage years between Florida, Arizona and New York so I don't feel like a native of anything, acclimated to anything. All I know is that I still like 60 degrees. The Florida winters are warm in comparison to New York but we still have cooler temperatures to look forward to starting in October. I live for the end of October. The end of the soul sucking heat is the only thing that keeps me from plunging into sweaty despair. This year? No effing break. I opened the sliding glass doors this morning to let the bullpup out and got a whiff of the perpetual eau d' hotmoldyair that instantly stagnates my attitude. Whatever brightness and energy I may have woken up with, is suddenly sagged by 74 humid degrees making my pajamas stick to me instantly. It's January 8th. My air conditioner is set on 73. In only 6 weeks, the Florida winter will be over and summer will begin. I've been robbed of winter. I've endured nothing but summer since last March and now I still have to go another eleven months before I can expect or hope for some relief.

You don't have to tell me about global warming. I read the book. Saw the movie. I'm hoping to get up to New York before the safety valve in my skull blows from my boiling brain.

Dangerous and Vicious Reindeer

Even if there is a whole box of open cookies, a peanut butter kong or a brand new tennis ball out there, I never go out to the woods during hunting season.

photos by spiralsands

Revisionist genetics says that my head is so big because I need to hold my antennas...er...antlers on.

photos by spiralsands

Mommy? Can I totally chew these when you're done?

photos by spiralsands

I can pick up Santa's air-to-ground radio transmission with these dual VHF antennas!

photos by spiralsands

Reindeer mug shot...

photos by spiralsands

I'm learning that what's on my head is not as important as that cookie in your hand...

photos by spiralsands

Love you, love that cookie in your hand...

photos by spiralsands

It's a Doggie Dog World!

Is that a cookie in your pocket or are you...well...you know....

photos by spiralsands

Bedtime?

photos by spiralsands

The three bums are sleeping in MY spot.

photos by spiralsands

Happy Viola.

photos by spiralsands

Throw in a Doberman for good measure. Saffron is fawn colored.

photos by spiralsands

To Everyone at the Pit Bull Rescue Central

"I looked at all the caged animals in the shelter...the cast-offs of human society. I saw in their eyes love and hope, fear and dread, sadness, and betrayal. I was angry. "God," I said, "this is terrible! Why don't you do something?" God was silent for a moment, and then spoke softly, "I have done something," was the reply. "I created you." "

(quote courtesy of the Doberman Rescue Inc. website)

WHO LIKES PUPPY PICTURES!

Getting PHAT!!!

photos by spiralsands

A re-run of the photo from last summer's posting.

photos by spiralsands

The greatest dot in the whole wide world!

photos by spiralsands

Closeup of warm clean puppy.

photos by spiralsands

Clean puppy swaddled.

photos by spiralsands

Play break! Thank God!

photos by spiralsands

Viola baby pictures for my new friends at pitbull-l.

photos by spiralsands

Daddy died on October 16th, 2006. The next two post were written at the end of September.

Ghosts of Dying

Who are you, you ghosts of dying, you dark figures that my father sees in the early morning? He doesn't seem afraid of you. He told Theresa, his wife, about you but Theresa says that she can's see you. I can't see you either. He told me about you this afternoon. You come and go out of the walls. Why must you confuse my dying father with your dark shadows darting about? He says you have some "crazy whiskers". He seems amazed at your crazy whiskers! Why must you appear to him if you have nothing to say? If you are messengers, deliver the message already and go away. Stay on your side of the wall! He isn't ready for you quite yet. He's still trying to tell me how to plant an orchard, his last lesson. All your popping in and out keeps distracting him. Ghosts, I only have him for a little while longer, so please leave him alone.

Daddy's Girl

He rolled his head slowly to his left. His blue eyes looked directly into mine. A moment! Daddy and his girl. I felt my damn tears welling up. His eyes are so blue, clear, like a crystal desert sky. My stepmother left us alone as she ran out to the supermarket for food and a rare break in caring for my dying dad. I was watching him while she was gone.

"I'm babysitting for you Dad!" I said brightly trying to be funny.

His face squeezed out a little smile. That silly sense of humor was still there and at that instant, it surfaced through the fog of confusion and morphine. He looked away again out the windows surrounding us in his sunroom where his deathbed was located. His normally raspy voice was even raspier than ever but I understood him when he said, "Before all this happened, I wanted to go fishing this year."

I never fished with my dad, well, except for when I was about 12 or so. But that wasn't really fishing, was it? My dad didn't think so. He came to pick up my sister and me on a Sunday and drove us to Englewood Cliffs in New Jersey. The Hudson River, hot coffee and doughnuts, cold cold wind. There, people were fishing. We, however, hung a string from a stick and dipped it into the dark water. I pretended to fish with high expectations. My father never forgot that day. He was always disappointed in how inadequate our time together was. Last March, only one week after he found out he had cancer, he told me how regretful he was and he said it was pathetic that he didn't really ever take me fishing.

Honestly, I never wanted to fish. But over the past years, as my daughter expressed an interest in fishing, I bought several poles, learned how to tie a knot and she and I went out on a few occasions. We fished from Dunedin Causeway, from Honeymoon Island Beach, from the Sunshine Skyway pier and from the old A1A bridge on Amelia Island. Got sunburned. Got thirsty. But never caught one single fish! We figured the fish didn't like the rubber worms we were trying to lure them with. When Dad found out we went fishing a few times, he got really excited. Back then he was newly retired and thought he could steal a few hours away with his girl, grandbaby girl and our fishing poles.

But it never happened.

Now Dad was lying here, only weeks away from leaving me forever. He knew about my beautiful New York property with the fish pond and he had apparently been thinking about it.

"There's a new way to catch fish," he said. For a few minutes he attempted to describe a type of bait system he had read about in a magazine. I didn't really understand what he was trying to explain so I told him I would do a little research and get the details. But then, there it was again, the regret. There was his jaw falling open in grief. There was that big tear falling over his cheekbone, rolling down to his ear.

Just yesterday, I told him that I had cancelled my cable TV and that I wish I had back each and every hour that I ever spent in front of that dumb box.

"Yeah," he said softly and looked out the window.