Code Girls: the Book and the Mom

My brother highly recommended that I read Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers of World War II, by Liza Mundy. He suggested this as a must-read shortly after it was published in 2017. I'm finally listening to it now, in 2021. It's a good thing that books wait for me.

This historical account is at times enthralling and at times tedious. We're talking about codes, and the details are difficult to absorb on the fly. But the real point of the book for my brother and now for me is that our mother volunteered for service during WWII, and she revealed many years later that she was part of a group that cracked the Japanese weather code. Whaaa? She suddenly announced this sometime in the 1960s, a good twenty years after the fact. We knew she had joined the WAVES during the early part of the war, and gone to basic training in Cedar Falls, Iowa, before taking a post in Norfolk, Virginia.

My memories of my mom are clouded by time and by the disability brought on by her stroke. She loved to bake bread and wild blackberry pies, lived each week by a strict schedule (Monday washing, Tuesday ironing, etc.), enjoyed writing letters, and had a positive outlook on life. Not very exciting, right? Except she was also a college graduate who decided to take the opportunity to get away from home by joining the Navy. Wild!

I wish that I had asked her to tell me all about her wartime experiences. Our dad didn't want to talk about his time in the Army, and maybe this made me assume that Mom didn't want to talk about her history. But, wow, if we could have read this book together, and looked at her old photos... or pondered which club she visited on this public transit route:

Mom's notes, written on envelope from a Tacoma photo shop

Well, the opportunity to talk with her is long past, but this book (and others) is right here. As always, Polo is listening with me. He didn't care much about sniffing these photos, but it always warms my heart to see Mom when she was young and happy.

Polo's review: Many people moved away from homes. Very crowded dormitories. They could have used the love of a few good dogs back there.

[The Beginning of] the Beginning of the Story

The whole "baby in the manger" thing has me thinking. What in the world are we supposed to do with an infant whose birth was heralded by angels, visited by sheep herders, lauded by wise travelers? It makes for a great story, except there's no closure at the end of our Christmas holiday. That Baby, no matter how special and holy, can't do anything. It's great that He came, but...

My dad used to travel for business, and he'd sometimes bring special gifts home. When he went to Alaska, he returned with photos and explanations of a large retaining wall for which his company had supplied the interlocking pieces. Oh, and jade necklaces for my mom and me. One of his early trips to the east side of the state, he witnessed tumbleweeds blowing across the highway. I was thrilled to take a real tumbleweed to school for show-and-tell! (Side note: I had to wrap it in newspaper so my classmates wouldn't guess what it was. Ha!) Looking back, I enjoyed the stories as much as the presents.

my completed moccasins were something like this

And then, on a jaunt to Arizona, he picked up a moccasin kit so I could stitch up my own slippers. No story, but something representative of the place. I loved the idea of having my own moccasins. But the kit, by itself, was only a beginning. It was what came after, the process of putting them together, that would make them useful. Only after that would I be able to wear them.

The baby in the manger is kind of like the moccasin kit. In order to really get something out of it -- Jesus, that is -- you have to involve yourself in a process. There's the first part of His story, understanding that His birth and His very existence is amazing. As an adult, He did things and told stories and taught lessons that should have our attention. But then... then there was the whole "end of story" part when He was killed -- but He could have gotten out of it. What? Yes, Jesus could have opted out, but He let them put Him to death as a religious criminal. And then, after He was proven to be dead, He was resurrected and reunited with His followers before returning to the right hand of God the Father. The point of all of this was to pay the penalties for all of our misdeeds, so that we could also be with Him forever.

So, celebrating the miraculous birth of the Baby is like opening that moccasin kit. It's exciting just to see this beginning, but there's much more to come if you carry it out to the end. Read and follow the instructions, as it were, to receive the real joy and fulfillment.

But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, even to those who believe in His name, who were born not of blood, nor of the will of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but of God.

Graduation and Photos and Pride!

My son earned his high school diploma last night. It's been quite a process for him, and we are all very proud of him for putting in the time and effort to see this through. Although he earned his GED some time ago, he wanted to prove that he could do more than pass a test. It was fun to celebrate his accomplishment, and heartening to hear stories of other grads who have persevered to pursue their goals. I was inspired by the diversity of ages and life situations of these community college students. Here are a few highlights of the evening:

You can't go wrong, being led by a pipe band!

outstanding in his, er, crowd of grads

the 2013 graduates

my son is the handsome one in center of photo   :-]

a moment of action in a long night of sitting

didn't I tell you he's handsome?

on the big screen!

the moving of the tassels -- we're done!

Yucky Trip, Great Scenery

I recently had to travel to my eldest brother's home to help take care of his estate. I've heard that losing a sibling is more emotionally stressful than losing a parent, and perhaps that's true. In this case, though, my other brother (Jim) and I have long anticipated a random phone call about our elder sib. We knew it would happen, just didn't know when.

It was a difficult week, indeed, but there were bright spots. There was great support among family members and new friends. The weather was good for most of the week, and I got to take a few photos of things that Tom had seen almost every day for the past 30 years. Northern California and Nevada are beautiful, if stark, and you just can't beat that backdrop of bright blue December sky.

I hope you find these pics restful, as I do.

One Less Dog, But So Many Stories

We finally took Blackie to her final veterinary appointment yesterday. Well, not "we", because I did not go on this trip. That was something I couldn't do. Mark and Jon took her, and she was as cheerful as ever. We will all miss her so very much; she was a wonderful, wonderful dog.

But she had her days...

Her favorite activity used to be to sneak through a barely-open door and go streaking out of the yard to the neighbor's horse pasture. Guess what was in that horse pasture? Blackie's favorite scent -- eu de peeeeeeew! She would roll and roll in fresh horse poo, check out the neighborhood a bit, and come trotting home in all her glory. She hated baths.

One time when the boys were much younger, they left a lovely pizza cooling on the kitchen table while they ran outside to check out a friend's new bike. When they came in ten minutes later, the pizza was gone. The whole thing. Gone. She didn't mind a little indigestion.

When I had mono a few years ago, Blackie loved having me at home, taking a couple of naps a day with her on my bed. She was always patient and gentle, and was old enough to enjoy all the naps we could get. Finally, my schedule matched hers! She hoped I was turning into a dog.

We are going to miss her terribly, but Rufus is here to help take the edge off our grief. In fact, when Andy saw Ruf at the pet store four and a half years ago, it struck me that it might help us to have another dog in the house because Blackie was getting old. Not that Rufus would ever replace her, but he could help our hearts. After all, that's what Blackie did for us many years ago. Our first dog, Pepper, was struck by a car and taken from us too quickly. Although Mark and I thought we should take time to heal, a friend encouraged us to go ahead and get a dog immediately. We knew we were a "dog family" now, so why wait?

Blackie was something over two years old, and had been at the pound for almost a week. The staff recognized her sweet temperament, and tied a bandanna around her neck as well as posting a hand-written note on her cage. They kept hoping someone would adopt her, so they delayed her timetable well beyond the normal stay.

When we first brought her home, she wouldn't eat. I think she went at least two full days without taking a kibble. But she was gentle, she seemed to like us, and she was fully housebroken. We stuck with her, she stuck with us, and we all got to like each other.

On one of Blackie's neighborhood excursions, she met someone who didn't think she was "all that." Although we didn't notice anything at first, after a few days there was an awful smell and a bad abscess on the back of her neck. The vet said she had been bitten, and they had to do extensive work to get rid of the infection. We brought her back home with a tube in her neck and instructions to irrigate the wound twice a day. Blackie disliked the antibiotic pills, but she really hated those irrigation sessions. But, being Blackie, she came into the bathroom with me every morning and evening and let me take care of things. That experience was the seal on our relationship. Although we were already quite fond of each other, those days of careful nursing care allowed our mutual trust to deepen.

In the early days of my novel, Blackie would climb up on the bed with me while I wrote on my laptop. Her quiet spirit encouraged me to sit there for at least an hour and write. After all, it would have been rude to get up when she was settled so comfortably! It was easy to imagine her being a wise muse, and that's how this blog got its name. If she could talk, if I knew what was happening in her dog-versations with Rufus, surely there would be glimmers of insight into the human perspective.

I wrote to some friends yesterday that I can't believe that dogs have eternal souls, so I don't expect to see Blackie in heaven. However, the God who created such diverse, affectionate creatures wouldn't just abandon His wonderful work. Somehow, I think He's got a place in His plan for dogs -- and horses and aardvarks and skunks and all the rest. And someday, I'll get to enjoy these creatures in a new way.


Sorry if I made you cry. It was nice to remember dear Blackie, and Pepper, and Frisca. Good doggas all. And now there's Rufus. Oh, my. Oh, my.

Memorial Day Photos

Okay, here goes... Let's see how this turns out:

Yeah! It works! I probably haven't used the best methods to get here, but it's a start.

All right, so on Memorial Day I found myself with some time to spare. Wanting to try out the new camera phone, I headed for a little old cemetery in a nearby town. There are huge trees surrounding this cemetery, giving it just a little buffer from the traffic. There's also a beautiful fence around it, but I'm sure the fence isn't nearly as old as either the trees or the headstones.

When I pulled into the gravel parking lot, there were two ladies putting flowers on the headstones. One of them was dwarfed by her aluminum walker. The other, younger, might have been her daughter. They made their way slowly to each of the graves, marking them with single flowers and respectful moments.

I didn't want to intrude, so I began by walking around the perimeter of the yard, taking photos of the trees. Within a couple of minutes, however, my attention was on the mossy granite stones. When I moved around to the front of a row, I was surprised to see the inscriptions.

A Japanese cemetery! There were a few whites buried there, too, but most of the headstones were either Japanese calligraphy or American spellings of Japanese names. The iris left by the ladies was that much more stately and perfect, then.

I love old things. Maybe they give me a sense of security, of endurance. Maybe the classic styling and craftsmanship are what captivate me. In any case, it's the aged stuff that gives comfort to my heart. Architecture, furniture, and the oldest of all, God's creation, are feasts to my eyes and soul.