THE RIDE ALONG DOG
and
CONNIE THE MOUNTAIN WOMAN PART II
Once Al began working in Gainesville, Georgia, about a third of his day was spent on the road. By the time he returned home, it was early evening. Al walked Murphy, ate supper, and then got ready for the next day. I worried he’d run himself down, but he was a trooper and never complained. Nevertheless, when Al finally retired for good, I think he realized it was time. He’d earned a good salary, made our financial situation much more secure, and enjoyed his last tour of duty. Soon, he’d begin to adjust to life at home, running whenever he felt like it, taking Murphy for long walks, and reading every true-crime book at the small library in town.
A few years before we moved to the mountains, I got hooked on a series of books written by the author, Jon Katz. Katz had been a writer for the Washington Post, the Boston Herald, and on tech sites, penning criticisms of technology, media, and culture. Then, he had an epiphany of sorts, quit his tech-centric profession, and eventually moved to a rural farm in upstate New York. There, he wrote about his life with dogs, primarily Border Collies. What I loved about Jon’s books was his unromantic yet complex relationships with his many animals, especially his dogs. As far as I know, he’s still writing a series on his farm that often has to do with problem dogs, yet ones who had a transformational impact on his personal and professional life. One of the notions I especially enjoyed was a term Jon uses… ride-along-dog. Perhaps someone else coined that phrase, but Jon Katz described it best in his series.
I’ve noticed that in rural landscapes across the country, men and women take their dogs everywhere. Often, those people use trucks for their primary transportation. They are farmers, tradesmen, lawncare specialists, own land in the country, or just like trucks. They use them to haul supplies and materials that require the function a truck can provide. Their side-kick is often a dog who rides on the passenger seat, or maybe even in the truck's bed, God forbid. If they go to the feed store, the ride-along dog goes with them. On jobs, they usually tie their dog to a tree with a water bowl nearby. If they need to check their herds in the fields, that ride-along dog is a companion and does his master’s bidding, herding sheep, goats, or cows. In Katz’s complicated life, the dogs are not human substitutes, as they can be with other dog owners like Al and me. Instead, he respects dogs for what he believes they are: working animals. Once you read a dog book by Jon Katz, you’ll want to read all of them. I suggest reading them in order so you’ll see how Jon changes because of the profound influence of dogs in his life.
So when Al began to live in our mountain community full-time, he took Murphy dog with him wherever he went. Back when we still lived in Springfield, Ohio, Murphy would ride with Al to the donut store or go with him on a hike in the park or around the reservoir. But our dog Murphy became a faithful ride-along-dog in Murphy, North Carolina. If Al went to the library, Murphy went with him; if Al went to the donut store, Murphy sat next to him in the front seat of our twelve-year-old Chevy. If Al had an appointment and the weather was good, Murphy rode with him and stayed in the car. When Al took our trash to the dump, Murphy was there to experience it in all the dump’s glory. If Murphy wanted to hike in town, Al drove her.
Al and Murphy are best friends. Murphy loves both of us, but she is most attached to my husband. I am genuinely thrilled it has turned out that way. We do not have the same relationship with our dog that Jon Katz seems to have with his dogs. However, like Katz, we treat Murphy with respect and the knowledge that we are the bosses in the end, and she is the ride-along-dog that must do our bidding. When we finally came to that division of duties, she began to behave better and in her best interest. Now, when we say WAIT, Murphy does. Now, when we say NO, she stops what she’s doing (usually). Now, when we want her to return and say COME, she obeys the recall. Let me tell you…it was a long process!
*
When I finally had the first of two knee surgeries, we had lived in the mountains for over two years. I couldn’t walk Murphy Brown anymore. I couldn’t stand out in the yard and talk to neighbors for long. The pain was finally more than I could bear. My orthopedic surgeon’s office was in Gainesville, about two hours away, and over the mountains in North Georgia. At first, it seemed essential to me to understand why my knees had failed. My mother had a similar problem, and I had spent some of my work life standing. For over thirty years, I rode my bike thousands and thousands of miles over mountains in Ireland, throughout states on organized rides, and just for pleasure. Over time, climbing hills and riding my bike as much as I did probably added to the destruction of the knee joints, but I will never regret riding. I knew that having surgery would be hard, but I didn’t know how tough it would be to recover from that surgery.
I was in the hospital for almost three days, and then Al picked me up in our older car because I had more room to keep my leg straight. He’d left Murphy at home, knowing he’d have his hands full getting me into our house. At the hospital, I’d been given a walker, a cane, and other things I’d need after the surgery. The first hurdle was getting out of the car. Then, I had to climb the fourteen steps to our log house. The previous owners had built the log home on a high foundation, probably as a nod to the river in back of it that had never flooded but might do so every thousand years. The cane was useless on the steps, and so was the walker. It was our luck that it started to rain when Al helped me out of the car. We’d practiced how to traverse steps with the rehabilitation specialist in the hospital. It was an entirely different hurdle when I climbed the steps to the house. We finally decided I should sit backward on each step, then, with Al’s help, push myself up each successive step. It worked, but we both got drenched, and I was exhausted when we reached the top. Somehow, Al got me inside, and I could use the walker to get around the house's first floor.
After about ten days and visits by outpatient nurses from the local hospital in Murphy, I began physical therapy at a rehabilitation facility fourteen miles from our home. Those ten days were critical because, during that time, I was not working the knee with physical therapists to prevent scar tissue from building up along the incision. Soon, I realized I was in trouble. Because of the scar tissue, my knee would only bend so far, which was not good. As a result, I’d be unable to climb steps well or ride a bike, and the impairment could hinder me for the rest of my life. Therefore, I had to have another procedure to break through that tissue. While under local anesthesia, my doctor had to manipulate the new artificial knee, bending it all the back, thus tearing apart the scar tissue. It was an awful experience, but once done, I was walking without too much pain the next day.
Murphy knew I was in pain. She’d come into the downstairs bedroom, where I could more easily get to the kitchen and bathroom and lie on the floor beside my bed. I had to use a machine that exercised the knee consistently to help restore mobility. Murphy would come close to the bed and whine until I reached down and patted her head. She is such a good dog; she sensed I was in pain, and I believe she knew that her presence would make me feel better. It did.
I soon stopped using the walker and picked up the cane. Somehow, I’d make it to the lower level exercise room, sit on the stationary bike, and try to spin the peddles in a full revolution of the crank. Initially, I could only rock the peddles back and forth, but in time and with a lot of hard work, I could spin the peddles, as cyclists like to say. Once I could stand and walk more easily, Al, Murphy, and I took short trips to state parks near North Carolina and North Georgia. The three of us would walk the trails and enjoy the park's beauty, and at the same time, I was making myself walk on the unlevel ground without falling on my face. That’s what I call progress!
It took me about nine months to get full mobility without any resistance in the knee. I had the second surgery on the other knee about two years after the first. When it was over, I wished I’d had it sooner. Finally, after almost three years, I could walk without pain. I could work in my bountiful vegetable garden, fertilize my azaleas, and prune my roses. I can’t do some things, but I can compensate or ask for help. Best of all, I am back to walking Miss Murphy. Al and I have continued our love of the outdoors, hiking the trails in the area and in state parks near and far with Murphy, the ride-along-dog beside us. Thanks, Jon Katz!
*
CONNIE THE MOUNTAIN WOMAN-PART II
Connie and I became friends after we met that day on the road. We’d see each other occasionally, like when she brought me eggs from her chicken coops, or I’d give her jars of my peach and habanero jam, which she loved so much. Together, we had our version of a swap meet, where we exchanged things between friends. But most of the time, we talked by phone, sometimes every day, and more often than not, we’d speak once a week whenever Connie had something on her mind that she wanted to share. Or when I started worrying about her and would call to ensure she was okay.
I must admit that I’d never had a friend like Connie. I’d had plenty of casual buddies and a handful of good friends, both men and women. My life up until then had been so hectic, plus we’d moved so often that I did not take the time to develop many long-term relationships. Once we moved to the mountains and I found the peace I’d been seeking for so long, I let myself enjoy a close friendship with Connie, the Mountain Woman, as I call her.
To some, it may seem an unlikely alliance. Connie had grown up in rough, scrabble towns of Eastern North Carolina. I’d been raised in an upper-middle-class family in the suburbs of Charleston, West Virginia. I went to college; Connie went to the school of hard knocks and had to fight to hold her place in a world dominated by men. At times, Connie has the vocabulary of a drunken sailor. Still, she’d been a longshoreman for years, then drove long-distance trucks delivering products from coast to coast and border to border. None of that mattered. We shared a kinship that was made stronger by our mutual love of animals.
As I said before, Connie is a great storyteller if you can understand what she’s saying. She has what I lovingly call a mountain woman’s dialect. She slurs some vowels, and sometimes it sounds like she’s rolling marbles inside her mouth, making it hard to parse her words. I often had to stop her and say…Connie, I have no freaking idea what you just said! So she’d repeat it a bit slower, and I’d get the essence of her train of thought. Connie makes me laugh. That laugh is not a chuckle. I laugh so hard my shoulders shake. I imagine that sounds odd, but you are fortunate if you have a good friend who makes you laugh, even at silly or stupid things. I know I am lucky because of her wonderful sense of humor.
Sometimes, that humor can be a tad on the raunchy side, but that’s how she is, and I accept it. Her husband Ritchie was funny, too, and together, they seemed to have a good but often explosive relationship. It could be that Ritchie was an Italian from a boisterous New York family who voiced their opinions regardless of the consequences. But Connie can be just as brutal and to the point when Ritchie screws up. After watching them together for a couple of years, I could tell that although they fought like two roosters in the same coop, they loved each other.
When Connie told me she had a lot of dogs, I’m not sure I believed her at first. Few compact cars can make it down or up her steep driveway, and she allows almost no one to do so without permission, regardless of the vehicle. Not many folks have seen her home and land personally, so few can verify her claim of having a lot of dogs. I, however, have a Jeep. I can go anywhere if someone allows me the right of way. After she became comfortable with me and knew I would not pass judgment, she gave me that permission. For most of the time I lived in Murphy, I thought I’d seen most of her dogs and can attest that they are healthy, happy, and loved. However, years later, I learned I had not seen all of them. I was never invited into her house, nor did I ask to go inside. I think I was afraid of what I’d find there. Later, I learned that my fear was well-founded.
On the other hand, when Connie stopped by my house, she was always welcomed. Sometimes, I’d have to make her wipe her shoes on the mat outside our door, as they smelled of chicken poop, or take them off and come inside barefooted. But she obliged, knowing I usually keep a tidy house.
*
There is an assortment of chicken coops at the bottom of her dirt and gravel driveway. One is a relatively attractive large wooden structure surrounded by chain link fencing. Inside the coop, there are about thirty chickens and a rooster. Nearby are several other similar coops but without the nifty indoor facilities. I know Connie likes her chickens because she sells almost all of her eggs, but I think she loves them because of their beautiful colors. Every time I have been to her property, I am amazed by the colorful cornucopia of chickens at every turn. Even though it is not the most fastidious of places by any means, to say the least, the animals she cares for are healthy and seem well-fed. I know for certain she loves them all.
In the center of that menagerie is a duck pond. It is more like a mud arena with ducks and geese, several kiddie pools of water, and a small dog house that serves as a nesting spot where the ducks lay their precious eggs. I have never eaten a duck egg and never intend to, but they are popular with those who like to bake. Supposedly, duck eggs are rich, and when used to make batters and cakes, the baked goods come out of the oven moist and delicious.
Connie met her husband Ritchie at a terminal in Montgomery, Alabama, while driving a big truck across the country. Divorced for ten years, Ritchie had a couple of kids who lived in Brooklyn, and from the sound of Connie’s stories, the two of them hit it off. They partnered while driving cross country, fell in love, and married. I believe their first dog was a Pug, one of those small, close-to-the-ground dogs with cute faces that look smashed. They named her Delilah. All of Connie’s dogs have names, many of which have secret meanings or backstories not apparent to people like me. Delilah traveled the country with them, sleeping in the tight quarters of the cab, eating food and drinking water out of cups, and getting her potty breaks on the fly.
When living on the road year after year became tiring, Connie decided to buy a house in the mountains. Someone had recommended the sweet town of Murphy, and she found a modest home at the bottom of a steep hill. The two of them would crash there after driving for weeks at a time, and it was there that Connie had her strokes. At the hospital in Murphy, her doctors told Ritchie that Connie would probably not live long. A few years after her first stroke, she had a second one, then a mild heart attack, and finally, doctors said she had Grave’s Disease that would impact her vision for life. So, things didn’t look promising for her long-term survival. But, knowing Connie as I do, she did not let that be the last word. She fought back, regained her strength, and eventually returned to the road with Ritchie. But the joy of traveling the highways across the country had wained, and she finally settled back at her home in Murphy. She plans on staying in that home until she leaves this earth. Eventually, Ritchie quit the road and worked odd jobs for extra money. Finally, at sixty-two, he applied for his Social Security and began to receive his checks.
Early in their forced retirement, the two bred Pugs and Dachshunds and sold them to friends and family for extra money. Ritchie was a soft-hearted animal lover. He’d often claim a puppy from a litter because he’d fallen in love with a particular dog. Once, a Pug they named Peewee was born blind, so they decided to keep him as long as he lived and fill his days with love and affection. Slowly, their dog family grew with these additions. But then and without warning, stray dogs would find their way to the bottom of that steep driveway, looking for food and hoping for a home. Once there, and in the welcome arms of tender-hearted Connie and Ritchie, they stayed until they died of old age. Blondie was a white retriever puppy that someone had dropped off in the dead of winter. Georgia and Virginia were strays that showed up at a job site where Ritchie was working. He felt sorry for them, put the two black puppies in the back of this truck, and took them home. Rocky is a dog that resembles my Murphy Brown. He was abused by a terrible man who’d married Ritchie’s first wife. Connie heard about the dog, offered to take him home for a while, and then refused to return him to the abuser. Rocky is her watchdog, and she loves him completely; he is one of Murphy Brown’s best friends. Every one of her dogs has a story, and all stories lead to Connie and Ritchie’s house at the foot of that hill.
After the strokes, her doctors put Connie on so much medicine she didn’t know which way was up or down. She filed for Social Security Disability, and since her doctors felt she had precious time left, she was quickly approved. Then she took charge, quit taking the drugs that made her unable to think clearly, and began to amble around the neighborhood to regain her health and strength. Her strength returned to some degree in time, but she still had many limitations. The strokes left Connie's arm and hand impaired, as well as her left leg, but she learned to compensate and get her many jobs done despite those disabilities. She can’t use a shovel, she can’t lift most heavy items without her wheelbarrow, she can’t drive a stick-shift car with a clutch, and she cannot even peel an egg. Connie is genuinely disabled but uses workarounds to accomplish tasks others with disabilities like hers would avoid out of necessity. I admire her grit and determination. She fought back and won, but her relative good fortune didn’t last very long.
*
I met an older woman from the neighborhood the day we were waiting outside for our moving van to arrive from Springfield with all our belongings. She pulled into the driveway of our new log home, introduced herself, and said to call her if I had any questions about the community or needed help. A retired nurse she gave me her phone number and left. About four months later, I received a call from that same woman. Our sprawling neighborhood had approximately fifteen full-time families. From late spring through the fall, it expanded by six or seven more, folks from Florida, mostly, escaping the hot weather there.
For heaven's sake, the woman who used to be a nurse was calling about what she claimed was a serious matter. Certain people had observed me talking to Connie on the road several times and had become concerned. The woman said she hated to be the one to tell me but felt it was vital that I know why Connie wasn’t someone I should waste my time getting to know.
Immediately my bull-pucky detector went off. I’d been in this position before and did not like it then or now. But I waited without responding until she finished telling me her tale.
She claimed that Connie had been seen with a shovel digging up large blueberry bushes on vacant properties and lots. The woman assumed that Connie had taken them home and planted them in her yard because she had spotted blueberry bushes at the top of Connie’s property. So it was stealing, a crime, and wrong, and she wanted me to know the kind of person I was associating with was not worthy of my friendship.
I was getting hotter and madder by the second. My voice could’ve spoiled a fresh egg when I finally replied, “I do not believe that is true. I know Connie well; she’s a good person, and I am positive she didn’t dig up the stupid bushes. But even if she did, who the heck are you to be the morality police, and worse, a nasty gossip trying to ruin someone’s reputation?”
“I don’t think you understand. Connie is a low-life, a mountain woman without morals, and a thief.”
I replied, now with venom in my voice, “You have no right to condemn someone based on hearsay. You also have no proof. I do not need you to tell me who I should spend time with or offer your biased opinion of someone you do not know. Do you want to know why? Because I make my own judgments about people, good and bad. Whoever claims that Connie is digging up blueberry bushes is mistaken and cruel. So, if you haven’t anything more to say to me, I need to end this conversation… now.”
She stammered, “But, but……”
I pushed the end button and went to tell Al what I’d just heard, but steam was rising off my hide, as they like to say in the horse business.
Al had met Connie, but his overall impression of her came from my observations. Unfortunately, he had also met the nasty woman who’d just called and immediately couldn’t stand her better-than-thou attitude. As far as he was concerned, he wanted nothing to do with her. I agreed and hoped that would end this woman’s attempt at destroying my friend’s good name. From then on, though, we both called her the… wicked witch. Later on down the road, Al would have a run-in with that wretched woman, which wasn’t pretty.
I hoped her gossip would not get back to Connie, but I was mistaken. The wicked witch told a similar story to Ruth, an older lady who lived up the hill from Connie. Ruth and Connie were friends, so she felt Connie should know what someone was saying about her.
A few days later, Connie called, asking if she could talk to me in person. I knew then that she’d heard the gossip and encouraged her to come down.
After she told me what she’d heard from Ruth, I could tell it bothered her. I admitted the wicked witch had also called me with the same story but that I did not believe it. Even so, it had to hurt that someone was telling neighbors and friends a story about Connie that was not true. At one point, Connie looked tearful but shut that down. Nevertheless, the emotion that best described her true feelings at that time was not pity but… anger. That’s what I saw on her face.
From that day on, Connie and I made fun of the wretched woman to defeat that anger. It was easy to do since the former nurse seemed to always have a pinched expression, like the Wicked Witch of yesteryear. I later learned that our wicked witch loved taking people to court. Coincidentally, I met a man who’d lived on the mountain above her. She sued him for knocking boulders over the side, which had then fallen onto her property. The court did not award any money, but the lawsuit appeared in the local paper, which made him mad. He and his wife eventually moved to another neighborhood because of the hostile environment. When he heard that Al and I called her the wicked witch, he laughed and said he couldn’t wait to tell his wife.
My attempt to turn the blueberry story into a joke seemed to help. Connie got over her anger (pretty much) and didn’t seem to worry that the witch had tried to ruin her reputation. But, for goodness sake, Connie could never dig up large blueberry bushes and then haul them home over the mountain on foot. She can’t even dig up plants in her yard. I later learned that her husband Ritchie had planted the berry bushes at the front of her property almost twenty years earlier. Perhaps the wicked witch had no idea what Connie had been through with her strokes, but I think she’s just a nasty piece of work. I stayed away from her after that. There is one thing I know about Connie to be spot on: she never forgives someone who does her wrong. She is like me in that respect. I’d hold it against them forever if someone had done that to me.
Check back in about two weeks for the next installment of my memoir
Guardians of the Road Blog Post #20
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