Gun Control--Or Lack Thereof by Jayne Magee

     We had a homicide in my neighborhood yesterday.   A man three streets away from our house stabbed his girlfriend and slit her throat.  Then he was on the run, and the manhunt took all day.  It was well into the evening before they caught him.  My girlfriend called to tell me, so I immediately got up and locked all of my doors.  To be quite truthful, I was immersed in one of many many hobbies, and didn't think anything more about it until late afternoon when Gary called to ask me how I was.  As per usual, Gary is always out of town and out of state when these major events occur.

       For those of you who haven't been to my home, I live in a house filled with guns.  I can't even tell you how many guns Gary has.  There is always a pistol in the night stand (unloaded of course, with the clip not in the gun).  I grew up in a family of non gun owners and non hunters. I doubt very much if my Dad or my brother ever shot a gun in their lifetimes.  So guns are not something that I am comfortable using.  Gary has tried to teach me how to shoot a gun on two separate occasions.  The first time I was about 8 months pregnant with Meghan, our oldest.  He took me out in the back yard in Clear Run and handed me a rifle to shoot.  The kick from the rifle literally knocked me on my ass.

        So for our second shooting lesson many years later, he had me use a pistol at the local indoor shooting range.  Still in PTSD from the other gun lesson, I jerked the revolver and somehow managed to shoot the electric line to the entire indoor shooting range.  The whole place went dark.  I was politely asked never to return.  So that is the extent of my experiences with guns.

         Therefore when this this deranged murderer was on the loose yesterday, I did not rush up to either the bedroom to get the pistol or the basement gun safe to grab a rifle.  I just kept making jewelry.  I wasn't anxious or afraid--I figured that he was long gone, and he was.  They found him somewhere up in the woods near Penfield.  Thank goodness.  

          Am I against women owning guns?  No.  However, I can never see me using a gun to defend myself given my history.  Having said that, if someone broke into my house and started attacking one of my kids, I probably would lunge for a gun or a knife or maybe a knitting needle and take my chances.  My oldest texted this to me this morning, "You are never too old to learn how to shoot a gun. I'm sure Dad could find one that is right for you. But then you have to be willing to use it and not let it get turned on you in an emergency. Who are we kidding. Mom--you would pray with a criminal. Make them soup and tell them that they are better than this life."  To which I say, "Amen!"

Talking About My Generation - Or Not

by Cindy

Have you read In the Unlikely Event, by Judy Blume? I just finished it, and I'm sort of relieved that I didn't enjoy the retro ambiance of it more. Nostalgia is a habit I'm trying to kick.

Although I was only two years old in 1951 when the plane crashes she writes about took place,  I do remember the Fifties pretty well: buttoned-down, uptight conventions like wearing a dress and white gloves to go shopping with my mother, and the the startling fear of crouching under my desk as a grade schooler, waiting for the Russians to bomb us to smithereens.

Of course I remember the Sixties with much more enthusiasm and clarity, and that's where I get into trouble. 

My teenaged daughter once said to me in exasperation, "Mom, I am so tired of hearing about 'your generation!'" 

Huh? I had no idea I was talking about it that much. But it's true I've always thought of our Boomer generation as incredibly cool, even magical. Who else in the history of the world ever wore such outrageous clothes, protested as loudly against the atrocities of life, partied harder, danced and sang with unquestionably the most monumentally awesome rockers of all time and just generally lived on the edge?

The answer, of course, is everybody. Everyone's youth is the most magical era of all time, whatever the cultural ingredients were. Sometimes I think about my grandmothers, who were young adults during the Roaring Twenties. I bet if you stacked the Sixties up against that era, they'd come out even on the blow-your-socks-off scale. 

Look at our parents, The Greatest Generation. They left college or interrupted careers and family lives to go to war. They did things that truly were monumental and earthshaking, and they never bragged about it or portrayed themselves as something special.

Or think of our own teenagers in the Eighties. What I know about the Eighties is that I wore suits with big shoulder pads to work.  (I was busy, with five children and a full time job.) But for my kids, the Eighties are a touchstone the way the Sixties are for me. The difference is, they don't think they rocked the world. They have perspective.

The more I think about all this the less fun it is to pretend that I am any cooler than anyone else simply because I walked the Earth during the time of Woodstock and know the words to all the best Motown songs ("Standing in the shadows of love, I'm getting ready for the heartaches to coooommme...")

Some things will always be fun to remember, of course, and that's the way it should be. But memories can't really compare to "the good old days" we're living through right now, every one of us, every day. That's cool.

Dogs: Furry Children or Mobile Carpet-Staining Devices?

By Cindy and Jayne

CINDY:
Dogs are a part of family life for many of us, woven into our family histories and punctuating our shared anecdotes. "Remember the time..." a story might start out, starring Frisky or Fluffy or Fang, and soon everyone's laughing at the time Dad scoured the neighborhood for a lost pet, aiming a flashlight under cars in the middle of the night, wearing only a bathrobe, and eventually attracting the attention of the police (which actually happened to my father when I was little).

As an adult, later as a parent and now an empty-nester, I've had a series of dogs. All have been rescues, all but one have been small, and every one of them has played a major role in our family life.

When I was expecting my first child, our next door neighbor came to the back fence once morning, weeping and holding a red, miniature dachshund that was the bane of our existence because it NEVER stopped running up and down the fence, barking. They were moving to a retirement community and her husband said they couldn't take the dog. She (the dog) would have to go to a shelter. My pregnancy hormones kicked in and I started weeping. "Of course we'll take her," I sobbed.

Her name was Sabra but we renamed her Muffin, because I liked saying it. We also called her land shark because of her habit of launching herself between guests and the coffee table to snatch whatever finger food we were serving. Once she drew blood from a friend who was wearing white slacks, requiring a bandage and dry cleaning. Muffin had another habit, friendlier but no less upsetting: When anyone entered our house, she would run in excited circles over their feet and pee. My husband cleaned lots of shoes during the Muffin era.

By the time Muffin died we had three small children and were expecting twins. I wanted another miniature dachshund (what was it with my hormones and dachshunds?) and found one at the local shelter. When I called they said she had been mistreated in a home with children, and they couldn't allow her to go with a family with kids. Did we have any? (Haha! Just a few.) We could leave my three little ones with a babysitter, but trying to hide my Shamu-sized bump was futile, so we brought the kids and I stuffed my pockets with dog treats. Before the shelter people could protest, I was frantically feeding the little dog treats and she was wagging her tail. They let us take her. 

Jackie was feisty and got feistier when we acquired two kittens. We taught the kittens to defend themselves by holding their little front paws and batting Jackie's long nose. We were less successful at defending the hamsters whose population was lessened by Jackie's bloody raid. Jackie was only with us for a couple of years before she succumbed to the same sad fate as Muffin: Dachshunds like to sprint out any open door or crack in a fence, and she ran into the road.

Our next dog was an attempt to soothe us after Jackie's demise, and to distract my five young children from the fact that their father had left home and we were getting divorced. Little did we know that the tiny white chihuahua we named Peanut would become one of the most important members of our family, one I miss to this day.

We got Peanut from a couple who had a thundering herd of chihuahuas in a small trailer. They were selling him so it wasn't technically a rescue but he seemed unhappy and scared so I think it was.  For the ten years we had him, Peanut did everything with us. He loved going through the McDonald's drive-in, where we would order him a vanilla soft serve cone or a plain hamburger. The kids liked to suggest Peanut's thoughts, in squeaky little voices, and someone would always say "I'd like a bag of burgers please - hold the ketchup and mustard and lettuce - just a big sack of meat."

He moved from Florida to Arizona with us, and went on our Southwestern adventure vacations. One that stands out is our trek to White Sands National Park, where Peanut scampered up a very high hill of sand, along with the children. He cut a small but compelling profile against the brilliant white landscape (his one brown spot helped him stand out).

Peanut made our next move with us as well, to rural Western Maryland where he enjoyed romping in the grass, sniffing things and barking at bunnies. When he died of a stroke, we buried him in our backyard and I cried so hard that I got floaters in my eyes and went on anti-depressants so I could sleep. That was more than ten years ago and we all still miss him.

Since then we've had three more rescue dogs - a hairy little chihuahua named Cookie, a one-eyed, elderly chihuahua named Sammy, and a big blind muppet dog named Bert, who is still with me. Bert, who is 13, moved to Florida with me and remains a sweet, although amazingly bad-smelling, friend (he's sitting under my desk as I type this).

Each one of them has played a big role in our family and has a spot in our collective and individual memories. They say pets are like children but they're more than that. They are like the best parts of raising children: they stay cute and little, they love to be cuddled and they appreciate the heck out of anything we do for them. They think we're gods and they will never leave us, not until they have to. You certainly can't ask for more than that out of a family member.

JAYNE:
My favorite dog story happened when Gary was out West hunting, and the kids and I were at home left to our own devices. We were driving somewhere in our old blue station wagon when the local newscaster announced that a dog had been found and was now tied to a pole outside the police station. If someone didn’t come to claim it—they would kill it in the next hour. A loud weeping and wailing commenced from the back seat. So of course I turned the car around immediately and headed off to the police station. 

Within an hour, we were back in our old barn (literally our house was once a barn for the Riss “mansion” next door!) with the dog in tow. He was a black lab mix with a white patch on his nose—so the kids named him Domino. Someone had abused this dog and then thrown him out on the side of the road. He was as meek and timid as a lamb, but I can still see Mandy perched in the middle of the trestle table in the dining room screaming because of her fear of dogs.  Who knew? 

When Gary arrived home from his elk hunting trip, at first he pretended to ignore the new dog. Finally, he asked me about it, so I explained the story. He never said a negative word about it but made clear his displeasure that we had rescued a dog that was NOT a hunting dog. However, he stoically accepted his “punishment” for going on a vacation without his family. 

From that moment on, Gary was in charge of all dog purchases. He got his prize English Springer Spaniel from Ken Roebuck, a famous breeder of field trial dogs. Gary bred Brownie many times and we raised the puppies to sell. Dan Kohlhepp’s English Spring Spaniel was often the father of the puppies, so we would share them. I guess Gary figured that if he could deliver both of his own sons at home, delivering a batch of puppies would be a piece of cake. As usual, he was correct!! 

The kids loved having the puppies as playmates and always gave each of them names. When the time came to sell them, there were four very unhappy Magee children. Several times there were tiny puppies who just wouldn’t make it—something was no doubt wrong with them from birth. Mandy especially would grow attached to them. The first time one of the puppies died, Mandy cried for days. She took her small wood burning kit and made a tombstone for “Baby Kohlhepp Magee” and nailed it to a tree up at Camp Know Buck, under which the puppy remains had been buried in a shoe box.

Mandy now has two Springer Spaniels and they are the joy of her life. We now have only one old, deaf Springer Spaniel named Rebel. He is as cute as can be, but will we get another dog when he dies? Only time will tell.