Bunches of Muffins

When I was a very small girl, my brother and sister had a dog named Sandy. I don't remember Sandy much, other than what I've seen of her in pictures. (Click here to see Sandy in my sister's arms.) Then when I was maybe 8 or 9, I was given my very own dog. Her name was Muffin.

I loved Muffin, but I quickly learned that owning a dog was hard work! Just managing all that input and output is a huge job. And I was in charge of both ends.

Muffin was 110% mutt. (Honesty time: The photo above is of my friend Brillo. Muffin was a bit more mutt-like and larger.) She was high-strung. Loved to runrunrunrunrun all around the house. And always peed on the floor when Dad got home. I think he expected Muffin to behave in a calm, civilized way that was counter to her nature, and that made her extra nervous.

Muffin was medium-sized and, I thought, perfectly suited for riding. She didn't mind playing dress-up. She was cuddly and snuggly and my best friend.

Other than peeing on the floor, and chewing up our shoes and escaping and making us chase her down the street a few times a day, she was a very good dog.

Some months after we got Muffin, we went to Virginia to visit family for a couple of weeks. For the life of me, I can't remember if it was at Christmas - or if it was a summer visit. But what I do remember is missing my dog the whole way home. I remember bursting into the house and yelling, "Muffin! Muffin! Did you miss me? Come out, girl!" I looked in all her hidey places. And then, someone - my dad? my mom? my sister? told me that Muffin had gone away. She'd been taken to a nice place in the country where she could run and play outside and have a wonderful time and we wouldn't have to worry about her being hit by a car. Oh, I was furious. F.U.R.I.O.U.S. I felt betrayed. And incredibly alone.

Perhaps a month or so later, we got the news that Muffin had been hit by a bus on a country road.

So that was Muffin no. 1. My first pet and only dog. A series of hamsters and guinea pigs followed over the next several years - bunches of Muffins.

Stitches in Time

When I was about three, I woke up one drizzly spring morning and decided I needed to wear a cape. And test my super powers. I cannot tell you why a three-year-old dressed in a polka-dotty dress and a calico cape was able to walk out of the house (and around the corner) without adult supervision. Perhaps mom was painting? The point is, I did. (I don't have a fat lip in this photo, so I think it was the Christmas before the events in this story took place.)

I have this surreal misty memory of opening the back door and stepping out into the cool drizzle. And skipping around the corner to my friend Kristine's house. Where we proceeded to jump off her porch into the bushes, testing out our capes. I think hers was a blue towel.

On one of my flying leaps I apparently slipped. And somehow caught my lip on a big nail somewhere. Ohhhh ... it was nasty. And loud. Kristine was screaming bloody murder. I probably was, too. I remember her mom running out of the house with a towel over her shoulder (she'd been washing the dishes). She took one look at me,  clamped the towel over my bleeding lip and ran around the corner with me in her arms to my mother. We only had one car, which my dad had taken to work. So another neighbor had to drive us to the hospital so I could get stitches.

This is where the memory gets a bit fuzzy. I remember the numbing stuff they put on my lip was very very bitter. I remember freaking out that the doctor was going to use what looked like a GIANT CURVED KNITTING NEEDLE to sew my lip back into place. And it was going to hurt and I thought maybe I would be just fine as is. I think my sister was on duty at the hospital that day and somehow found us in the ER. I also vaguely remember my brother being in a car accident and being wheeled in on a gurney right next to me. And my sister had to run frantically back and forth, tending to the two of us. But that might be mixed up with another memory. Perhaps they can help me sort that out? I was very young, after all.

My mom had - and a dear aunt has - stitches in the same spot - scars on the same side of our mouths. Connecting us like stitches in time.

Hooked on Bonnets

When I was in second grade - at least I think it was second grade - our teacher read us Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I was instantly hooked. I wanted to be Laura Ingalls.

My mom, who always nurtured my imagination, created for me two very authentic calico dresses with matching sunbonnets so that I could dress like Laura. My sister bought me 100-year old lace-up boots that had been re-soled. This was not just for dress-up time. This was my wardrobe. If Laura had just two dresses, I could be fine with that, too.

If you can imagine, I was an odd child. So I had no qualms trotting off to school dressed like a young girl from the prairie in the 1800s. For Christmas one year my amazingly gifted mother created a life-size Laura doll for me. Seriously - she was exactly my size. Here she is - a bit bedraggled today - but isn't she cool?

Look at her little booties with the vintage leather and buttons! Look at her little bloomers and heavy leggings (I'm sorry, Laura, had to hike up the dress a little to show your fans). The elastic is shot ... actually, poor Laura needs an overhaul. Sadly, I did not inherit my mother's sewing talent. Or her sticky tuna fishes or whatever Cathy said today. When I had to sew the patches on Lizz's Girl Scout sash the night before her fly-up ceremony? I used staples.

Poor Laura spent a few years in a plastic tote, but she's out now, stirring up memories. Laura was the little sister I wanted. My companion. My confidante. I even took her to school for a while and my teacher let her have a desk near me!

Oh - I have to find those photos from the Sesquicentennial when our whole family won Best Dressed Family or something like that. I found those not too long ago when cleaning out my dad's house. Now where did I put them ...?