(Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for the Young at Heart - 2011)
An unemployed friend recently said, “Looking for a job sucks the life out of you.” Agreed, but when you come to realize that you’re too old and that your experience and abilities are no longer of any consequence, you are robbed of something every bit as precious – a sense of purpose, self respect, a reason to care about getting up in the morning. The scene plays over and over in my mind: the elevator ride with our director of human resources, our silent walk down a deserted hallway, entering the basement conference room, three senior staff people seated at one end of the long table, all forcing their best “down-to-business” expressions. Barren cream-colored walls, the smell of hours-old coffee, the only sound a feint buzz from the fluorescent lighting.
They each study a spot on the table, the carpet, the back of a hand. I sit down, the awful truth drifting into my thoughts like dark smoke. My unit director finally makes eye contact. His delivery is flat and rushed, as if he fears that his resolve might fail before he gets the words out. “Your department is shutting down and your position is being eliminated, effective July First.” And with that succinct and cold-blooded declaration, I am jobless. My 60th birthday just months away and, after nearly 20 years of developing and honing very specific job skills for a very specialized position, my value has suddenly expired. (To add irony to insult, my former work place repeatedly tops the AARP’s annual “Best Employers for Workers Over 50” list.)
So, what’s an unemployed almost-sexagenarian with a mortgage, car payments, zero prospects, and a three-figure savings account to do? The answer, for me, came from one of the unlikeliest of sources: Rock and Roll.
It’s not easy, rehearsing the same songs over and over until your calloused fingertips throb and your throat feels like it’s coated with loose sand, dealing with thoughtless club owners who refuse to return phone calls and who don’t always honor commitments, lugging bulky speakers and amplifiers to the car at 2 a.m. after a four-hour performance, and putting personal or family plans on hold in case we’re able to schedule a gig for a Friday or a Saturday night. But when I step onto a stage or in front of an audience, a transformation takes place. I’m no longer used up, tossed aside, past my prime. And when our first chord rings out, I’m swept up in a wave of energy and passion that carries me through the night. I’m seventeen again. As I watch other people dance or tap their feet or move their mouths along with the music we’re making, I'm soaring on the highest of highs, and I don’t begin my descent until I’m home in my bed, hours after the final note of the night has been struck and sung.
Our band is called Reprise ‘60s. As the name implies, we concentrate on music from the decade of the British Invasion, acts including The Beatles, The Stones, Searchers, Gerry and the Pacemakers, Herman’s Hermits, to name a few. I last played in a band when their hits were hot off the record presses. They recorded the songs I grew up with, the same ones I listen to today.
Building a consistent following for our group has been difficult. Younger performers can count on friends and peers to come out for the late-night shows. Our contemporaries tend to go to bed much earlier and are less likely to frequent bars and clubs on weekends. Some nights, a place will be packed when we start, with lots of spirit and enthusiasm for the first couple of hours, and then nearly empty by the time we’re into our final set.
During one recent job at a local bar/restaurant, we set up our equipment and ran through a brief sound check while the dinner crowd was still bustling. After we did a couple of verses of a warm-up song and set our instruments down, a man approached the stage. In his arms he held a girl of maybe three or four. “My daughter was very disappointed that you didn’t play a whole song. Would you be willing to play something for her?” he said.
We played “Thank You Girl” by the Beatles while she bounced and swayed on the dance floor with her dad. As we came to the last few notes of the song, I realized that the entire restaurant had gone still and all heads had turned to face the stage. When the song ended the room erupted in applause and cheers.
It was a great and memorable moment for us. Unfortunately, we were competing on that date with our area’s biggest, most popular annual summer event, taking place just a couple of miles away. Once the dinner patrons had gone, the bar and tables never completely filled up again, so our pre-performance number ended up being the highlight of our night.
On another job, we played for four hours to a packed house. Though patrons hung around till the wee hours, drinking and talking, they all seemed to be ignoring the band while we worked harder and harder trying to entertain them. When we took our break, a couple of them approached the jukebox, dropped in some coins, made their selections. A few others joined them on the dance floor. As soon as we strapped on our guitars again, they all cleared the space directly in front of the stage area and returned to their seats at the bar. Throughout the night I thought, we’re bombing here. The word disaster kept running through my mind.
At the end of the night, the room was still jammed with twenty- and thirty-somethings. As we gathered our gear and started working our way through the crowd to load our cars, people were grabbing my arm, patting my shoulder and shaking my hand. “Great job!” “You guys rock!” “Fantastic!” The effusive praise kept coming at us until we were packed and ready to leave.
Part of the appeal of performing is that we never know what to expect. But then, it doesn’t really matter. For us, it’s all about making music. And if sometimes people get to enjoy what we’re doing, if we can put a smile on someone’s face or a song on someone’s lips, if we can make a little girl happy for a few minutes, that’s just a bonus.
This new venture will not resolve all of my financial issues, but I do feel a sense of accomplishment for the first time in months. When I tell friends that I’m playing in a band, that I still get a kick out of pretending for a few hours that I’m a Beatle or a Rolling Stone, I’ll occasionally get that narrow-eyed look that says, he’s probably gone senile. Why, they might wonder, would somebody’s grandpa want to spend weekend nights chasing the rock star dream in clubs and taverns filled (or not filled) mostly with strangers and the occasional drunken heckler?
Maybe those friends are right. Maybe I have lost it.
But if this is senility, I say, bring it on.
Written by Gary Ingraham
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Capturing The Moment: The Cornell Media Production Group at Work
(Originally published in CUFA News, a Cornell University newsletter)
They stood waiting patiently as we set the camera, checked the sound, and discussed the shot. A light rain had begun to fall, so the man opened an umbrella and held it up over his companion to keep her dry. On the roof of the barn behind them, painted in large white letters, were the words “Billy Loves Vicky.” It was a brazen display that might have earned some love struck teenager a trip to the woodshed. But Bill and Vicky are no teenagers.
I had come here with a film crew to interview Bill about his struggle with depression that set in following his decision to retire and shut down the family dairy farm. Bill had been working with a consultant from New York FarmNet, an organization started in the mid-1980’s at Cornell University to assist farm families who were facing financial difficulties or personal crises. The consultant had encouraged Bill to seek help from the proper medical professionals, and he was now fully recovered. New York FarmNet had asked my group — the Cornell Media Production Group — to document Bill’s story.
The tape began to roll, and I cued Bill and Vicky to start walking. I had considered asking them to hold hands as we filmed them sharing a casual stroll around the farm, but I feared that the gesture would appear artificial, an action made up just for the camera. So I did not mention the idea. But as they took their first step, she reached out and slid her curled fingers into his open palm, a move so fluent and casual that I could not imagine the two of them unconnected for long. Her left hip was severely swollen, her gait uneven, her footsteps labored, so they leaned into each other as they walked, his body acting as a living crutch.
These simple expressions of intimacy, captured on videotape, defined this couple’s relationship, and how important that relationship was to Bill’s healing process. Due to nothing more than the fortunate happenstance of having our camera pointed in the right direction at this touching and spontaneous moment, we were able to tell a complex and critical part of our story with just a few hundred frames and a few seconds of screen time.
In another FarmNet case, Rita, a goat farm owner, had contacted the organization to help her cope with financial woes that were threatening her business and her emotional well-being. During a recorded interview, I asked Rita about the obvious bond that had formed between her and Anita, the financial consultant who had helped her bring the farm ledgers back into the black. A few seconds into her response, Rita hesitated. “Oh, dear,” she said as she wiped away a tear. Although Rita went on to describe her appreciation for Anita and the warm friendship they had developed, her words, no matter how eloquent, could never have the same impact as an unrehearsed display of emotion that had taken even Rita herself by surprise. Our lens had captured a moment that could not be duplicated with a still camera or with words on a page.
Yet, using the same video camera, we can sometimes manipulate events to suit our needs.
That was the case on the day that I sent our photographer, Joy, on a two-hour flight with the USDA Wildlife Services. The plane was loaded with several large buckets of bite-sized baits, each one carrying a dose of oral rabies vaccine. As they flew over a predetermined wooded area, the flight crew would drop the baits, via a conveyor belt that led to an opening in the rear of the plane, thereby providing inoculation for a portion of the wild animal population. Later, in an effort to determine the project’s effectiveness, animals would be trapped, tested, and released. We had been warned that first-time fliers were normally overcome by the rough ride in a windowless aircraft combined with the unpleasant odor of the fish-meal baits. Because space was limited, there was room for just one extra passenger with video gear, so, fortunately, I was forced to stay behind.
Late that afternoon, I was waiting on the tarmac as the plane touched down. When the door opened and Joy emerged with the crew, I was relieved to see that she was smiling.
She had felt no ill effects from the flight. However, she was concerned about the quality of her footage due to constant and erratic motion combined with her inability to maneuver around the crowded aircraft cabin. So, rather than send her back up for another two hours and risk achieving similar results, we came up with an alternate plan.
As the plane sat waiting to go out on another mission, our sound engineer, Bert, and I recruited a couple of the USDA crew members. The four of us stood outside the plane and rocked it back and forth to simulate a bumpy flight while Joy was onboard shooting additional footage of baits moving along the conveyor. Later, in post production, I was unable to distinguish the “fake” scenes from those shot while the plane was in the air.
Occasionally, we have to settle for much less than we set out to achieve. We once spent over six hours on the Texas plains just north of the Rio Grande in an area that was heavily populated by coyotes. The field crew and I stood waiting, camera ready, for one or more of the animals to show. Unfortunately, this day was especially windy, causing them to keep an exceptionally low profile. We never saw a coyote through the lens that day, and our trip across country turned out to be a partial failure.
Each time the crew and I are on a field production, a part of us is always watching, waiting, anticipating that defining moment, the “money shot,” the image that will bring viewers a little closer to the story we came to tell. Sometimes it just happens, sometimes we get to help it along, and sometimes we just pack our gear at the end of the day knowing that tomorrow will provide countless new opportunities.
They stood waiting patiently as we set the camera, checked the sound, and discussed the shot. A light rain had begun to fall, so the man opened an umbrella and held it up over his companion to keep her dry. On the roof of the barn behind them, painted in large white letters, were the words “Billy Loves Vicky.” It was a brazen display that might have earned some love struck teenager a trip to the woodshed. But Bill and Vicky are no teenagers.
I had come here with a film crew to interview Bill about his struggle with depression that set in following his decision to retire and shut down the family dairy farm. Bill had been working with a consultant from New York FarmNet, an organization started in the mid-1980’s at Cornell University to assist farm families who were facing financial difficulties or personal crises. The consultant had encouraged Bill to seek help from the proper medical professionals, and he was now fully recovered. New York FarmNet had asked my group — the Cornell Media Production Group — to document Bill’s story.
The tape began to roll, and I cued Bill and Vicky to start walking. I had considered asking them to hold hands as we filmed them sharing a casual stroll around the farm, but I feared that the gesture would appear artificial, an action made up just for the camera. So I did not mention the idea. But as they took their first step, she reached out and slid her curled fingers into his open palm, a move so fluent and casual that I could not imagine the two of them unconnected for long. Her left hip was severely swollen, her gait uneven, her footsteps labored, so they leaned into each other as they walked, his body acting as a living crutch.
These simple expressions of intimacy, captured on videotape, defined this couple’s relationship, and how important that relationship was to Bill’s healing process. Due to nothing more than the fortunate happenstance of having our camera pointed in the right direction at this touching and spontaneous moment, we were able to tell a complex and critical part of our story with just a few hundred frames and a few seconds of screen time.
In another FarmNet case, Rita, a goat farm owner, had contacted the organization to help her cope with financial woes that were threatening her business and her emotional well-being. During a recorded interview, I asked Rita about the obvious bond that had formed between her and Anita, the financial consultant who had helped her bring the farm ledgers back into the black. A few seconds into her response, Rita hesitated. “Oh, dear,” she said as she wiped away a tear. Although Rita went on to describe her appreciation for Anita and the warm friendship they had developed, her words, no matter how eloquent, could never have the same impact as an unrehearsed display of emotion that had taken even Rita herself by surprise. Our lens had captured a moment that could not be duplicated with a still camera or with words on a page.
Yet, using the same video camera, we can sometimes manipulate events to suit our needs.
That was the case on the day that I sent our photographer, Joy, on a two-hour flight with the USDA Wildlife Services. The plane was loaded with several large buckets of bite-sized baits, each one carrying a dose of oral rabies vaccine. As they flew over a predetermined wooded area, the flight crew would drop the baits, via a conveyor belt that led to an opening in the rear of the plane, thereby providing inoculation for a portion of the wild animal population. Later, in an effort to determine the project’s effectiveness, animals would be trapped, tested, and released. We had been warned that first-time fliers were normally overcome by the rough ride in a windowless aircraft combined with the unpleasant odor of the fish-meal baits. Because space was limited, there was room for just one extra passenger with video gear, so, fortunately, I was forced to stay behind.
Late that afternoon, I was waiting on the tarmac as the plane touched down. When the door opened and Joy emerged with the crew, I was relieved to see that she was smiling.
She had felt no ill effects from the flight. However, she was concerned about the quality of her footage due to constant and erratic motion combined with her inability to maneuver around the crowded aircraft cabin. So, rather than send her back up for another two hours and risk achieving similar results, we came up with an alternate plan.
As the plane sat waiting to go out on another mission, our sound engineer, Bert, and I recruited a couple of the USDA crew members. The four of us stood outside the plane and rocked it back and forth to simulate a bumpy flight while Joy was onboard shooting additional footage of baits moving along the conveyor. Later, in post production, I was unable to distinguish the “fake” scenes from those shot while the plane was in the air.
Occasionally, we have to settle for much less than we set out to achieve. We once spent over six hours on the Texas plains just north of the Rio Grande in an area that was heavily populated by coyotes. The field crew and I stood waiting, camera ready, for one or more of the animals to show. Unfortunately, this day was especially windy, causing them to keep an exceptionally low profile. We never saw a coyote through the lens that day, and our trip across country turned out to be a partial failure.
Each time the crew and I are on a field production, a part of us is always watching, waiting, anticipating that defining moment, the “money shot,” the image that will bring viewers a little closer to the story we came to tell. Sometimes it just happens, sometimes we get to help it along, and sometimes we just pack our gear at the end of the day knowing that tomorrow will provide countless new opportunities.
Missing Pickles
“Look at the Labs,” 15-year-old Molly Vavrina said from the passenger’s seat.
She and her mother, Kathy, were driving home from dinner at a friend’s house on December 3, 2003, when they came across a pair of Labrador retrievers ambling along the side of the road. When Kathy, a professional breeder, spotted them, the realization struck her like a blow to the mid-section. “Those are our dogs,” she said.
They stopped the car and got out. Camine, Dallas, they called out. Both dogs came running when they heard their names. But that was only two. There were two others, Kathy Vavrina knew, who had most likely escaped from the same fenced-in yard.
When the Vavrinas reached their front door, about a quarter-mile from where they had just collected their dogs, Conner, the only male of the canine foursome, was waiting patiently on the porch for his masters to return. One-year-old Pickles, the last of the group, was still missing.
Kathy Vavrina owns and operates the Franklin Hills Labrador Retriever Kennels in Harpursville, New York. Before she ran off, Pickles was a critical member of the Franklin Hills family—she was the kennel’s breeder bitch. Devastated over their loss, the Vavrinas enlisted neighbors and friends in a search that lasted weeks, with no sign of Pickles. By the thaw that came the next spring, Kathy had lost hope of ever seeing her dog again.
A family pet is lost every two seconds. So reads the brochure published by Avid Identification Systems, Inc., a manufacturer of animal ID microchips. That statistic is based on estimates from the Humane Society of the Untied States, according to Dan Knox, a veterinarian who works for Avid. “In the U.S., we get almost 1,000 calls a day (regarding lost pets),” Knox says.
Kim Macklin, Marketing Administrator for the American Kennel Club’s Companion Animal Recovery (CAR), offers similar statistics. “We have a recovery every seven minutes,” she says. Three million animals are registered with the CAR database.
The chances of reuniting lost pets with their owners are much higher when chips are involved. “Most shelters scan incoming stray animals (for microchips),” Macklin says.
The Front Street Dog Shelter in Binghamton, New York—just a few miles from Franklin Hills—has been tagging dogs with the microchips since 1997, according to manager Vicki Bugonian. She adds that responsible kennel operators and pet owners, such as the Vavrinas, have been doing the same.
When a dog is processed into the shelter, the microchip is injected under its skin using a hypodermic needle. Each tiny chip contains a unique identification number. When a handheld scanner is passed over the animal’s body, the number is revealed on the machine’s LED readout. Anyone who adopts or purchases a pet from a participating shelter or breeder can register that companion animal with a national database (there are currently three). Then, if that pet is lost, its owner can be more easily identified and contacted. Most veterinarians can also perform the procedure for a fee—usually between $30 and $50—on dogs, cats, horses, birds, and reptiles.
The skittish little mass of matted hair that lived beneath a pile of discarded railroad ties had neighbors stumped. “She was queer looking,” says Fred (last name withheld by request). “With her long hair, she didn’t look like a dog.”
Residents of the Johnson City neighborhood—also located within a few of miles of the Front Street Dog Shelter—noticed the furry creature sometime during the winter of 2003. “She wouldn’t come near anyone,” Fred says. So he began leaving food and water near the animal’s makeshift home. Before long, he noticed that other local residents were feeding it, too.
“I left a note that said, ‘If leaving food, please call me.’ Someone did.”
Fred discovered a network of concerned people who were caring for the animal. “One lady would sit and read the newspaper to it,” he says. “She called it Tony.”
Fred reported Tony to the town dog catcher, who failed in an initial capture attempt. But a policeman’s ticket—issued to one of the caretakers who had parked illegally near the railroad tracks—prompted officials to try again. This time, Tony was caught and delivered to Bugonian at the shelter. Fred and his wife arrived soon after that.
“I never saw anyone get here so fast,” Bugonian says. “They were very concerned about that little dog.”
A scan revealed that the dog had no identity number.
Fred kept a close watch on Tony. “When I sat with her at the shelter, she’d hide under a desk,” he says. But eventually, she began to show signs of trusting. After being screened by Bugonian, Fred was determined a suitable owner for the nervous little dog.
Along with a new home, Tony now has a new haircut—a 12-pound toy poodle was discovered under all that hair. She also has a new name. Fred says, “She used to run on the (train) rails to keep from being buried in the snow. A friend said that she looked like tumbleweed running down the tracks. So I named her Tumbleweed.”
She also has also been injected with a microchip, so she’ll hopefully never have to experience life on her own again, even if she does get lost, though that isn’t likely as long as Fred is there to care for her.
“How she survived, I don’t know,” Fred says. “I sit in my chair, hugging her, and I say ‘Why did you stay there? Why didn’t you just come to my door?’”
One late-November day in 2004, a Binghamton area family noticed a strange sound from beneath their house. Searching under the porch, they were shocked to discover a dog nursing three newborn pups.
They notified Bugonian at the shelter.
The next day, Kathy Vavrina received a phone call from Bugonian. A Labrador retriever had been brought to the shelter and scanned. The identification number matched up to a dog that was registered to Vavrina. On December 1, 2004—two days shy of one year from Pickles’ disappearance—Vavrina was reunited with an old friend.
“We cried,” she says. “All my friends were crying. She was just one of the dogs previously. Now she has a special story to tell.”
Pickles’ homecoming came with a bonus: the three mixed-breed pups she gave birth to under a stranger’s porch within just three miles of the Franklin Hills Kennels.
“Many people would have left those mutts behind because it’s an embarrassment (to a breeder) to have one of your bitches have a litter like that,” she says. “I’m just so happy to have Pickles back and to me it’s not an embarrassment that this happened. Actually, these are very cute puppies.”
“I told my other dogs, ‘These are Franklin Hills puppies. Don’t you be laughing at them.’”
Vavrina has since found permanent homes for all three pups. She encouraged the buyers to microchip their new pets.
“I always recommend it to everyone,” she says.
If dogs could speak, Pickles would surely do the same.
- Gary Ingraham
She and her mother, Kathy, were driving home from dinner at a friend’s house on December 3, 2003, when they came across a pair of Labrador retrievers ambling along the side of the road. When Kathy, a professional breeder, spotted them, the realization struck her like a blow to the mid-section. “Those are our dogs,” she said.
They stopped the car and got out. Camine, Dallas, they called out. Both dogs came running when they heard their names. But that was only two. There were two others, Kathy Vavrina knew, who had most likely escaped from the same fenced-in yard.
When the Vavrinas reached their front door, about a quarter-mile from where they had just collected their dogs, Conner, the only male of the canine foursome, was waiting patiently on the porch for his masters to return. One-year-old Pickles, the last of the group, was still missing.
Kathy Vavrina owns and operates the Franklin Hills Labrador Retriever Kennels in Harpursville, New York. Before she ran off, Pickles was a critical member of the Franklin Hills family—she was the kennel’s breeder bitch. Devastated over their loss, the Vavrinas enlisted neighbors and friends in a search that lasted weeks, with no sign of Pickles. By the thaw that came the next spring, Kathy had lost hope of ever seeing her dog again.
A family pet is lost every two seconds. So reads the brochure published by Avid Identification Systems, Inc., a manufacturer of animal ID microchips. That statistic is based on estimates from the Humane Society of the Untied States, according to Dan Knox, a veterinarian who works for Avid. “In the U.S., we get almost 1,000 calls a day (regarding lost pets),” Knox says.
Kim Macklin, Marketing Administrator for the American Kennel Club’s Companion Animal Recovery (CAR), offers similar statistics. “We have a recovery every seven minutes,” she says. Three million animals are registered with the CAR database.
The chances of reuniting lost pets with their owners are much higher when chips are involved. “Most shelters scan incoming stray animals (for microchips),” Macklin says.
The Front Street Dog Shelter in Binghamton, New York—just a few miles from Franklin Hills—has been tagging dogs with the microchips since 1997, according to manager Vicki Bugonian. She adds that responsible kennel operators and pet owners, such as the Vavrinas, have been doing the same.
When a dog is processed into the shelter, the microchip is injected under its skin using a hypodermic needle. Each tiny chip contains a unique identification number. When a handheld scanner is passed over the animal’s body, the number is revealed on the machine’s LED readout. Anyone who adopts or purchases a pet from a participating shelter or breeder can register that companion animal with a national database (there are currently three). Then, if that pet is lost, its owner can be more easily identified and contacted. Most veterinarians can also perform the procedure for a fee—usually between $30 and $50—on dogs, cats, horses, birds, and reptiles.
The skittish little mass of matted hair that lived beneath a pile of discarded railroad ties had neighbors stumped. “She was queer looking,” says Fred (last name withheld by request). “With her long hair, she didn’t look like a dog.”
Residents of the Johnson City neighborhood—also located within a few of miles of the Front Street Dog Shelter—noticed the furry creature sometime during the winter of 2003. “She wouldn’t come near anyone,” Fred says. So he began leaving food and water near the animal’s makeshift home. Before long, he noticed that other local residents were feeding it, too.
“I left a note that said, ‘If leaving food, please call me.’ Someone did.”
Fred discovered a network of concerned people who were caring for the animal. “One lady would sit and read the newspaper to it,” he says. “She called it Tony.”
Fred reported Tony to the town dog catcher, who failed in an initial capture attempt. But a policeman’s ticket—issued to one of the caretakers who had parked illegally near the railroad tracks—prompted officials to try again. This time, Tony was caught and delivered to Bugonian at the shelter. Fred and his wife arrived soon after that.
“I never saw anyone get here so fast,” Bugonian says. “They were very concerned about that little dog.”
A scan revealed that the dog had no identity number.
Fred kept a close watch on Tony. “When I sat with her at the shelter, she’d hide under a desk,” he says. But eventually, she began to show signs of trusting. After being screened by Bugonian, Fred was determined a suitable owner for the nervous little dog.
Along with a new home, Tony now has a new haircut—a 12-pound toy poodle was discovered under all that hair. She also has a new name. Fred says, “She used to run on the (train) rails to keep from being buried in the snow. A friend said that she looked like tumbleweed running down the tracks. So I named her Tumbleweed.”
She also has also been injected with a microchip, so she’ll hopefully never have to experience life on her own again, even if she does get lost, though that isn’t likely as long as Fred is there to care for her.
“How she survived, I don’t know,” Fred says. “I sit in my chair, hugging her, and I say ‘Why did you stay there? Why didn’t you just come to my door?’”
One late-November day in 2004, a Binghamton area family noticed a strange sound from beneath their house. Searching under the porch, they were shocked to discover a dog nursing three newborn pups.
They notified Bugonian at the shelter.
The next day, Kathy Vavrina received a phone call from Bugonian. A Labrador retriever had been brought to the shelter and scanned. The identification number matched up to a dog that was registered to Vavrina. On December 1, 2004—two days shy of one year from Pickles’ disappearance—Vavrina was reunited with an old friend.
“We cried,” she says. “All my friends were crying. She was just one of the dogs previously. Now she has a special story to tell.”
Pickles’ homecoming came with a bonus: the three mixed-breed pups she gave birth to under a stranger’s porch within just three miles of the Franklin Hills Kennels.
“Many people would have left those mutts behind because it’s an embarrassment (to a breeder) to have one of your bitches have a litter like that,” she says. “I’m just so happy to have Pickles back and to me it’s not an embarrassment that this happened. Actually, these are very cute puppies.”
“I told my other dogs, ‘These are Franklin Hills puppies. Don’t you be laughing at them.’”
Vavrina has since found permanent homes for all three pups. She encouraged the buyers to microchip their new pets.
“I always recommend it to everyone,” she says.
If dogs could speak, Pickles would surely do the same.
- Gary Ingraham
Angel of the Ave
(Originally published in the Press & Sun-Bulletin, Binghamton, NY - Aug. 18, 2007)
Saturdays were always the same. We would sleep in until 11, shower, squeeze into our tightest pegged jeans, and meet up at George’s house (because his mother and father were the most lenient of all our parents). From there, we’d make the three or four mile hike to Washington Avenue in Endicott. We were Endwell kids, students at Endwell Junior High School. Downtown Endicott, adjacent to U-E High School, was like a foreign country to a group of 13 and 14-year-olds who were still at least a couple of birthdays removed from owning a driver’s license. Here, walking among strangers, we could leave our past humiliations behind us. No one remembered the pop flies we’d dropped, the challenges we’d run away from, the girls who’d laughed at our awkward advances. We acted and dressed tough in a vain attempt to conceal our ever-present fears—of rejection, of defeat, of further humiliations.
Our first stop was always Woody’s Record Shop, where row after row of 45 RPM records hung from the front wall on long, narrow pegs. We’d check out the newest singles or thumb through the stacks of LPs, always under the wary eye of a tall, balding man in a gray suit, white shirt, and narrow dark tie. If this was the “Woody” whose name appeared in block letters on the sign that hung above the front door, he never said so. He never said much of anything. When we would sense that his patience was about to expire, we’d each grab a copy of the WENE Radio Top 40 Hit List (because it was free) and move on to a place that was more suited to our plans for the day—just hanging out and waiting for something special to happen.
The Avenue Restaurant—or The Ave, as we had affectionately nicknamed our favorite hangout—was the place where the coolest kids could be found every weekend, slumped in the rigid bench seats and sipping on cherry Cokes. The owner, Helen, was always there behind the counter, a grease-stained apron wrapped around her waist, her sand-colored hair wound into a tightly fastened bun. She had little tolerance for wise guys or freeloaders, so we always behaved ourselves in her place, and we always carried enough cash for a drink and a plate of her incredibly crispy, incredibly tasty French fries. We’d come in the door, put in our order, and head to the back room. Hot oil sizzled and spat at us as we passed. The jukebox would be telling the story of our young lives to music with songs by the Shirelles, Dion and the Belmonts, and the Four Seasons.
One Saturday at The Ave, I saw her for the first time and my life changed forever. She was sitting at the large table in back with a group of friends. Someone dropped a dime in the slot and Wayne Newton began singing, “Heart (I Hear You Beating).” A smile rose from her lips and struck a spark in her eyes. Something inside of me turned soft and began to melt. I remained frozen in place, stunned as the realization finally hit me:
She was looking directly at me.
Hi, Gary.
I knew that the name she had spoken was mine, but I still could not comprehend that this Angel of the Avenue was talking to me. Despite all of the evidence to the contrary, I was certain that she must have been speaking to someone else that I had not seen. Perhaps I was actually at home in my bed, still in the role of the confident chick-magnet I often played in my dreams. But I was not asleep and she was not looking away. Though I stood there with all of the wit and grace of a tree stump, I rapidly came to one critical conclusion: Soon I would have to respond or lose all credibility with my two best friends, Dave and George, who were standing at my side.
That’s all I remember from the day that I met the most beautiful girl I have ever known. I must have found my tongue eventually. I can’t imagine what I could have said to win her over, but we did begin meeting at every opportunity over the next few months to cuddle, to hold hands, and occasionally, if we found a moment of privacy, to kiss. Ours was not a relationship of convenience. She was from Vestal, a long walk from my house. We’d meet on Saturdays at The Ave, the midway point between our homes. Sometimes we’d go to the movie theater across the street for a matinee. George and Dave would often tag along. This amazing girl and I would sit in the balcony, my arm around her and pulling her in close to me. My pals would be a few rows behind us, throwing popcorn at the back of our heads. Eventually, in an act of self-defense, she was able to hook Dave up with one of her friends. George, no doubt, was a tougher sell.
I bought her a mohair sweater. Though it was out of my price range, it turned out to be a very good investment because I loved the way it felt against my arm as we sat huddled under the flicker on the movie screen.
Geography eventually took its toll on our romance. I would have gone on walking to meet her on Saturdays of seeing her whenever we could get together, but she lost interest. There were other boys, probably much more popular and self-assured than I, who she passed every day in the halls of her own school. And they certainly would have noticed her. As I had suspected since our first meeting, she was too valuable a prize for a guy like me to hold onto.
I never did forget the feel of that mohair sweater, or the intoxicating scent of her hair, or the sweet taste of her gloss-covered lips. I never forgot that final telephone conversation, her words ripping everything away except the devastation. I can’t see you anymore, she says, or something like that, as I lay curled up on my bed with my ear pressed so hard to the receiver that it’s about to crack. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
The years passed and I eventually moved on to other triumphs and heartbreaks. I was married, had two children and got divorced, all within just a few years. Restless and unfulfilled, I wandered aimlessly through the next decade. I was working as a bartender, moving from tavern to tavern, town to town, state to state. I’d winter in Florida, then head north for the summer, lighting in places such as Martha’s Vineyard or small, tourist friendly towns in New York state.
In my mid-thirties, I moved back to my hometown in Upstate New York. One night, after finishing my shift at the newest hotspot (a restaurant built in a former railroad caboose), I stood at the bar with a drink in my hand. I was going to do my best to make it through another night of emptiness, my senses dulled by 80 proof anesthetic. From behind me I heard a familiar voice.
Hi, Gary.
I turned and slipped through a crack in time, landing with a thud in 1963. There she was again, the Angel of The Ave. Her blond hair was shorter, but otherwise very little about her had changed. To me, she was still the teenaged cheerleader who had knocked me out once before and was about to do it again. This time, I was not about to let her get away.
Last March we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. Many of the places and things we loved in our youth—Woody’s Record Shop, The Lyric Theater, The Avenue Restaurant, that mohair sweater—are long gone. But when I look into my wife’s lovely face, every time she rewards me with that amazing smile, I’m back there, reliving those magical days of hanging out at The Ave.
- Gary Ingraham
Saturdays were always the same. We would sleep in until 11, shower, squeeze into our tightest pegged jeans, and meet up at George’s house (because his mother and father were the most lenient of all our parents). From there, we’d make the three or four mile hike to Washington Avenue in Endicott. We were Endwell kids, students at Endwell Junior High School. Downtown Endicott, adjacent to U-E High School, was like a foreign country to a group of 13 and 14-year-olds who were still at least a couple of birthdays removed from owning a driver’s license. Here, walking among strangers, we could leave our past humiliations behind us. No one remembered the pop flies we’d dropped, the challenges we’d run away from, the girls who’d laughed at our awkward advances. We acted and dressed tough in a vain attempt to conceal our ever-present fears—of rejection, of defeat, of further humiliations.
Our first stop was always Woody’s Record Shop, where row after row of 45 RPM records hung from the front wall on long, narrow pegs. We’d check out the newest singles or thumb through the stacks of LPs, always under the wary eye of a tall, balding man in a gray suit, white shirt, and narrow dark tie. If this was the “Woody” whose name appeared in block letters on the sign that hung above the front door, he never said so. He never said much of anything. When we would sense that his patience was about to expire, we’d each grab a copy of the WENE Radio Top 40 Hit List (because it was free) and move on to a place that was more suited to our plans for the day—just hanging out and waiting for something special to happen.
The Avenue Restaurant—or The Ave, as we had affectionately nicknamed our favorite hangout—was the place where the coolest kids could be found every weekend, slumped in the rigid bench seats and sipping on cherry Cokes. The owner, Helen, was always there behind the counter, a grease-stained apron wrapped around her waist, her sand-colored hair wound into a tightly fastened bun. She had little tolerance for wise guys or freeloaders, so we always behaved ourselves in her place, and we always carried enough cash for a drink and a plate of her incredibly crispy, incredibly tasty French fries. We’d come in the door, put in our order, and head to the back room. Hot oil sizzled and spat at us as we passed. The jukebox would be telling the story of our young lives to music with songs by the Shirelles, Dion and the Belmonts, and the Four Seasons.
One Saturday at The Ave, I saw her for the first time and my life changed forever. She was sitting at the large table in back with a group of friends. Someone dropped a dime in the slot and Wayne Newton began singing, “Heart (I Hear You Beating).” A smile rose from her lips and struck a spark in her eyes. Something inside of me turned soft and began to melt. I remained frozen in place, stunned as the realization finally hit me:
She was looking directly at me.
Hi, Gary.
I knew that the name she had spoken was mine, but I still could not comprehend that this Angel of the Avenue was talking to me. Despite all of the evidence to the contrary, I was certain that she must have been speaking to someone else that I had not seen. Perhaps I was actually at home in my bed, still in the role of the confident chick-magnet I often played in my dreams. But I was not asleep and she was not looking away. Though I stood there with all of the wit and grace of a tree stump, I rapidly came to one critical conclusion: Soon I would have to respond or lose all credibility with my two best friends, Dave and George, who were standing at my side.
That’s all I remember from the day that I met the most beautiful girl I have ever known. I must have found my tongue eventually. I can’t imagine what I could have said to win her over, but we did begin meeting at every opportunity over the next few months to cuddle, to hold hands, and occasionally, if we found a moment of privacy, to kiss. Ours was not a relationship of convenience. She was from Vestal, a long walk from my house. We’d meet on Saturdays at The Ave, the midway point between our homes. Sometimes we’d go to the movie theater across the street for a matinee. George and Dave would often tag along. This amazing girl and I would sit in the balcony, my arm around her and pulling her in close to me. My pals would be a few rows behind us, throwing popcorn at the back of our heads. Eventually, in an act of self-defense, she was able to hook Dave up with one of her friends. George, no doubt, was a tougher sell.
I bought her a mohair sweater. Though it was out of my price range, it turned out to be a very good investment because I loved the way it felt against my arm as we sat huddled under the flicker on the movie screen.
Geography eventually took its toll on our romance. I would have gone on walking to meet her on Saturdays of seeing her whenever we could get together, but she lost interest. There were other boys, probably much more popular and self-assured than I, who she passed every day in the halls of her own school. And they certainly would have noticed her. As I had suspected since our first meeting, she was too valuable a prize for a guy like me to hold onto.
I never did forget the feel of that mohair sweater, or the intoxicating scent of her hair, or the sweet taste of her gloss-covered lips. I never forgot that final telephone conversation, her words ripping everything away except the devastation. I can’t see you anymore, she says, or something like that, as I lay curled up on my bed with my ear pressed so hard to the receiver that it’s about to crack. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
The years passed and I eventually moved on to other triumphs and heartbreaks. I was married, had two children and got divorced, all within just a few years. Restless and unfulfilled, I wandered aimlessly through the next decade. I was working as a bartender, moving from tavern to tavern, town to town, state to state. I’d winter in Florida, then head north for the summer, lighting in places such as Martha’s Vineyard or small, tourist friendly towns in New York state.
In my mid-thirties, I moved back to my hometown in Upstate New York. One night, after finishing my shift at the newest hotspot (a restaurant built in a former railroad caboose), I stood at the bar with a drink in my hand. I was going to do my best to make it through another night of emptiness, my senses dulled by 80 proof anesthetic. From behind me I heard a familiar voice.
Hi, Gary.
I turned and slipped through a crack in time, landing with a thud in 1963. There she was again, the Angel of The Ave. Her blond hair was shorter, but otherwise very little about her had changed. To me, she was still the teenaged cheerleader who had knocked me out once before and was about to do it again. This time, I was not about to let her get away.
Last March we celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. Many of the places and things we loved in our youth—Woody’s Record Shop, The Lyric Theater, The Avenue Restaurant, that mohair sweater—are long gone. But when I look into my wife’s lovely face, every time she rewards me with that amazing smile, I’m back there, reliving those magical days of hanging out at The Ave.
- Gary Ingraham
After Dooley
(Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul)
On my wife’s 50th birthday, we were awakened in the middle of the night by violent shaking coming from our bed. Dooley, our 18-year-old miniature Dachshund, lay between us, jerking in convulsions. He was so fevered that I could feel the heat without actually touching him. We rushed him to an all-night animal hospital and waited for the inevitable heartbreak. He did not die that night, but his old and tired body had taken more than it was meant to tolerate. A few days later, with a powerful tranquilizer running through his veins, our dog fell asleep for the last time as I held him in my arms.
Dooley was a puppy when my wife, Patricia, and her two sons received him as a gift. Five years would pass before I came into their lives. Growing up I always had pets, but Patricia didn’t consider herself a “dog person.” In fact, Dooley had been her first. Other dogs made her very nervous. So when I suggested that we consider bringing another canine into our home, she said she would go along with the idea only if I accepted certain conditions.
First, we wouldn’t rush into anything. Our loss was still very fresh in our minds, even after several weeks of mourning, and we were both concerned that replacing Dooley too soon might somehow disrespect his memory. Second, only a puppy would be considered since an older dog might be more aggressive and, therefore, more difficult for my wife to handle. Finally, our new dog could not weigh more than 10 to 15 pounds when fully grown.
We decided to start our search in late March, around the time of our wedding anniversary. That way, if we found a dog we liked, we could purchase him or her as a mutual gift. Still, I knew that Patricia was doing this more for me than for herself.
On our first visit to the local animal shelter, I saw him immediately. As soon as the door to the back room opened, we were greeted by a chorus of 30 to 40 barkers as they wildly competed for our attention. The cages were side by side and facing each other, forming a U-shaped aisle around the cool, semi-dark room. He was there in the first cage to the right, a full-grown Lab-mix calmly taking in the cacophony around him. Black as a shadow, he nearly blended into the dimly lit recess beyond narrow steel bars. I caught his eye and quickly looked away without a word to my wife. Too old and too big, he did not match our predetermined profile.
After a short tour and a cursory examination of the younger residents, my wife and I left the shelter empty-handed but promising to come back soon.
More than a week had passed when we arrived home from work to find a vaguely familiar voice recorded on our answering machine. “Where have you been?” were the first few words we heard. The message was from Vicky, the animal shelter manager, and she was urging us to come and check out some recent arrivals.
The next evening we went back for another visit, but again, our search for the perfect puppy came up empty. As we were about to leave I noticed the dog I had admired the previous week, still watching us hopefully and with quiet dignity from that first cage on the right.
I stopped and turned to my wife. I was certain of the reaction I was about to receive, but like a child who cannot help asking for the one thing he knows he can never have, I took my shot: “How about this guy?” I said.
A few minutes later, Patricia and I were alone in a quiet room across the hall. I could hardly believe it when she had agreed to take a closer look at a dog that was four times the size of Dooley. Now I could sense her apprehension as we sat there on a pair of folding chairs waiting to meet the orphaned animal I was certain would never be coming home with us.
The door opened and in popped a black, furry head. He hesitated there, clearly assessing the situation. He looked at me, then at my wife. As if he knew which of us he had to win over, he walked straight up to Patricia and gently placed that beautiful head in her lap. Amazed, I watched my wife instantly fall in love. I will never forget the look of compassion on her face or the conviction in her voice when she turned to me and said, “I want this dog.”
Exley has now been a part of our family for just over four years. I’m still dumbfounded at the thought that this gentle, loyal and loving animal was once abandoned to the streets. Likewise, I’m surprised that someone else didn’t come along to adopt him in the days between our first and second trips to the shelter. Maybe we just got lucky. Or maybe there was something else behind our good fortune.
My wife is certain that we had some help. She believes Dooley’s spirit was with us that night, nudging the bigger dog in her direction and somehow finding a way to let us know that he was the ideal new companion for us.
“Yeah, right,” I tell her, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “Believe whatever you like if it makes you feel better.”
But sometimes, when I find myself on the couch enjoying a few peaceful moments with Exley—listening to his soft breathing and feeling his warm body pressed as close as he can get against my leg—I remember our visits to the shelter and how I nearly passed by this wonderful dog without speaking out. In those moments of contented companionship, so like the times I spent with Dooley, it doesn’t seem at all far-fetched that the spirit of an old friend might find a way to help his surviving family pick out the perfect new friend.
- Gary Ingraham
On my wife’s 50th birthday, we were awakened in the middle of the night by violent shaking coming from our bed. Dooley, our 18-year-old miniature Dachshund, lay between us, jerking in convulsions. He was so fevered that I could feel the heat without actually touching him. We rushed him to an all-night animal hospital and waited for the inevitable heartbreak. He did not die that night, but his old and tired body had taken more than it was meant to tolerate. A few days later, with a powerful tranquilizer running through his veins, our dog fell asleep for the last time as I held him in my arms.
Dooley was a puppy when my wife, Patricia, and her two sons received him as a gift. Five years would pass before I came into their lives. Growing up I always had pets, but Patricia didn’t consider herself a “dog person.” In fact, Dooley had been her first. Other dogs made her very nervous. So when I suggested that we consider bringing another canine into our home, she said she would go along with the idea only if I accepted certain conditions.
First, we wouldn’t rush into anything. Our loss was still very fresh in our minds, even after several weeks of mourning, and we were both concerned that replacing Dooley too soon might somehow disrespect his memory. Second, only a puppy would be considered since an older dog might be more aggressive and, therefore, more difficult for my wife to handle. Finally, our new dog could not weigh more than 10 to 15 pounds when fully grown.
We decided to start our search in late March, around the time of our wedding anniversary. That way, if we found a dog we liked, we could purchase him or her as a mutual gift. Still, I knew that Patricia was doing this more for me than for herself.
On our first visit to the local animal shelter, I saw him immediately. As soon as the door to the back room opened, we were greeted by a chorus of 30 to 40 barkers as they wildly competed for our attention. The cages were side by side and facing each other, forming a U-shaped aisle around the cool, semi-dark room. He was there in the first cage to the right, a full-grown Lab-mix calmly taking in the cacophony around him. Black as a shadow, he nearly blended into the dimly lit recess beyond narrow steel bars. I caught his eye and quickly looked away without a word to my wife. Too old and too big, he did not match our predetermined profile.
After a short tour and a cursory examination of the younger residents, my wife and I left the shelter empty-handed but promising to come back soon.
More than a week had passed when we arrived home from work to find a vaguely familiar voice recorded on our answering machine. “Where have you been?” were the first few words we heard. The message was from Vicky, the animal shelter manager, and she was urging us to come and check out some recent arrivals.
The next evening we went back for another visit, but again, our search for the perfect puppy came up empty. As we were about to leave I noticed the dog I had admired the previous week, still watching us hopefully and with quiet dignity from that first cage on the right.
I stopped and turned to my wife. I was certain of the reaction I was about to receive, but like a child who cannot help asking for the one thing he knows he can never have, I took my shot: “How about this guy?” I said.
A few minutes later, Patricia and I were alone in a quiet room across the hall. I could hardly believe it when she had agreed to take a closer look at a dog that was four times the size of Dooley. Now I could sense her apprehension as we sat there on a pair of folding chairs waiting to meet the orphaned animal I was certain would never be coming home with us.
The door opened and in popped a black, furry head. He hesitated there, clearly assessing the situation. He looked at me, then at my wife. As if he knew which of us he had to win over, he walked straight up to Patricia and gently placed that beautiful head in her lap. Amazed, I watched my wife instantly fall in love. I will never forget the look of compassion on her face or the conviction in her voice when she turned to me and said, “I want this dog.”
Exley has now been a part of our family for just over four years. I’m still dumbfounded at the thought that this gentle, loyal and loving animal was once abandoned to the streets. Likewise, I’m surprised that someone else didn’t come along to adopt him in the days between our first and second trips to the shelter. Maybe we just got lucky. Or maybe there was something else behind our good fortune.
My wife is certain that we had some help. She believes Dooley’s spirit was with us that night, nudging the bigger dog in her direction and somehow finding a way to let us know that he was the ideal new companion for us.
“Yeah, right,” I tell her, not bothering to hide my skepticism. “Believe whatever you like if it makes you feel better.”
But sometimes, when I find myself on the couch enjoying a few peaceful moments with Exley—listening to his soft breathing and feeling his warm body pressed as close as he can get against my leg—I remember our visits to the shelter and how I nearly passed by this wonderful dog without speaking out. In those moments of contented companionship, so like the times I spent with Dooley, it doesn’t seem at all far-fetched that the spirit of an old friend might find a way to help his surviving family pick out the perfect new friend.
- Gary Ingraham
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