Sheila's LiveJournal

The weather has been nice here in the mornings, with a healthy layer of marine fog that keep the temperature down, at least until noon. The greys and I have taken advantage of this for long walks along the bluffs, admiring the ocean views and the passing joggers and people walking dogs. Needless to say, the greys love this part! But while Jack is friendly to all, two-leggeds and four, Annie is afraid of little dogs.

I’m not sure why this is. I’ve seen her go snarly mouth to snarly mouth with a mean-looking Rottweiler, and pitbulls don’t faze her. I had to take her home from the dog-park once because she thought she could answer a pit’s challenge. But little dogs make her hide behind me until the menace has gone away.

Meanwhile, Jack has started to bark when somebody he doesn’t know comes to my door. To understand the magnitude of this, you have to know that greys don’t make great watch-dogs, and they usually don’t bother barking. Too much energy, maybe? They’re both nine now, Jack edging towards nine-and-a-half, so they’re officially seniors – although greys can live to be twelve to fourteen with good care, and I know of at least two that made it to within days of their sixteenth birthdays. They’re basically “little dogs on long legs” according to one vet!

So I’m giving them a break from playing therapy dog at the hospice because I’ve noticed Jack is showing signs of stress lately, for some reason. If I take Annie without him, she’ll sulk and he’ll be heart-broken. He wasn’t too thrilled with the last Meet n’ Greet we did for Greyhound Rescue, either. (Since his devastating illness a couple of years ago, I’ve kept a close watch on where he carries his tail.) I think his energy level is just a lot lower than normal.

Now, if only Nicky the Resident Feline God will quit bossing them about....

I first met Joe, a homeless amputee, when I came to volunteer at Wells House Hospice in Long Beach, four years ago. Joe got around by wheelchair, but what I noticed most about him was that he had a faithful dog, a black Labrador mix named Lucky. I started the practice of bringing my two greyhounds to the hospice every Saturday as therapy dogs, and they and Lucky became good friends. Hospice is full of interesting, needy people, some homeless like Joe, some on compassionate release from prison, some abandoned by their families, but they almost all seem to respond to a dog's unconditional love.

Soon after I met him, Joe had to leave the hospice because he wasn’t immediately terminal (the definition of a hospice), which can be either a good or a bad thing for a patient to hear, depending on circumstances. Joe, I learned, had gone to an assisted living facility. I also later learned that he didn’t stay there, for some reason, although he was plagued by poor health, especially seizures which apparently frequently landed him in St Mary’s hospital ER .

Some weeks later, I saw Joe and Lucky outside the RiteAid near the hospice, obviously homeless again. I gave him a couple of dollars “for Lucky.” Then late one very cold November evening last year, as I was bringing the greys back from their last outing of the day, we ran into Joe and Lucky again, far from what I thought were his old haunts. While Lucky and the greys became reacquainted, I asked if Joe was doing okay, and he told me that a local church was giving him food and a place to sleep. That was a long way from where we were. But he insisted he was okay, just heading to a pizza shop nearby where they sold by the slice. I asked him to wait while I ran indoors and found some dog biscuits and a dollar or two “for Lucky.” After that, I ran into the two of them at intervals, usually outside a RiteAid, but not obviously begging. I would usually find some spare bills “for Lucky.”

But last week, Joe’s own luck ran out. He was hit crossing a downtown street by a driver who never stopped, and thrown from his wheelchair. By the time paramedics arrived, he was already dead. Lucky was nowhere to be seen.

Then something strange happened. Lucky arrived on her own at St. Mary’s ER where she’d been with Joe so many times. The staff recognized her, and also recognized the fact that she needed closure too. So they wisely allowed Lucky to see her beloved friend one last time. They say she jumped on the gurney and licked his dead face, then had to be pulled away and out of the room. The staff at St. Mary’s and the paramedics who responded to the accident are trying find a loving home for Lucky. It wouldn’t be right for such a loyal, faithful friend to end up at the pound.

Those who have no sympathy for the plight of the homeless will probably read this as an exercise in sentimentality. But I know that our creator cares about all of us, indiscriminately. Rest in peace, Joe. And good luck on your own, Lucky.

Each day that I walk through the doors of the hospice where I volunteer and enter the warm, peaceful atmosphere inside, I am angered by the Republican attempt to derail health care reform, preying on the fears of the elderly by lying to them about end-of-life discussions. For one thing, it was never suggested that such discussions be mandatory, only included if a senior wants them. But more aggravating to me is the pernicious idea that such advance discussions are a bad idea, leading to euthanasia of the elderly.

I’ve had an advanced directive on file with my health provider for well over a decade – Kaiser requires you to state what procedures you want or don’t want in order to keep you alive when you go in for surgery. I see nothing wrong with it being MY choice whether I’m hooked up to machines that do my breathing for me, or being endlessly resuscitated only to continue on as a vegetable in a sterile hospital ward, wasting my family’s money and emotionally draining them too.

What I’ve learned in almost five years as a hospice volunteer – where you’re asked to make those decisions upon entry, or have a relative with power-of-attorney make them for you if you’re unable – is that the overwhelming majority of patients are happy the issue is settled. Some come to us from a hospital where “heroic efforts” were made to prolong a life that was obviously terminal. (I don’t blame doctors here; their training and their mission is to save lives.) But at some point, our lives are over and to my mind it’s better to face that fact and make sure the remaining days or months are calm and peaceful – and pain free.

In hospice, a patient gets palliative care; by and large, that means as much or as little painkilling medicine as the patient needs or wants. Some opt for less, dealing with a little pain so they can stay conscious to talk to relatives, achieve reconciliations, settle outstanding matters. It’s their choice! In addition, they and their families get all kinds of support from the staff, nurses, chaplains, social workers, and volunteers who have the time to listen to stories and even take the more ambulatory patients on outings to the park or the mall.

Wells House in Long Beach, where I volunteer, has two resident cats, visiting greyhounds (mine), musicians who play “Oldies” at lunchtime every Thursday, or a DJ who plays Rock and Country outside on the pleasant patio, a Karaoke afternoon, and birthday parties for the residents. And the promise that when the time comes your end will be a peaceful transition – and you won’t be alone.

What’s wrong with that? If the health-care bill will pay for more people to have that discussion ahead of time, then it’s beneficial to my way of thinking.

The three of us spent a couple of hours at the hospice today, the dogs performing their roles as therapy dogs. I really could hardly spare the time as I'm working hard on a story with an August 1st deadline, but the dogs hadn't visited the patients since before July 4th when I was away. And last week I had a nasty bout of sciatica that made me not want to walk dogs anywhere. The residents were beginning to complain that we were abandoning them. (Very often, the first words I'm greeted with when I go in alone the rest of the week are, "Where are Jack and Annie?")

For Jack and Annie it was as if there'd been no break. They waltzed right in like the pros they are and began lavishing affection on people who wanted it -- or in some cases, didn't know they wanted it, but the dogs saw they *needed* it and persuaded them. They have an instinct for that.

The house's two cats came out of hiding and glowered at the greyhounds, but my dogs have been put in their place by our own resident cat, and as a result they wouldn't dream of offending any cats anywhere, any time.

Now we're home, they've had dinner and are snoozing, and as soon as I sign off here I'm going right back to that story.

I've mentioned before that since I retired from full-time college teaching I've been volunteering three mornings a week at a local hospice. Once morning a week, I take the dogs in too. I love doing this work; the house is a warm, friendly place, full of laughter and music and good talk and two resident cats. I learn a lot in the time I spend there. But this morning, I suddenly realized something that I think is important: Hospice is a place where we get to tell all our stories once again for the last time.

Everybody has a story to tell, but over the course of a lifetime we've probably worn out our listeners – family, close friends – from the repetition.Yet the stories remain important and powerful for us, and we yearn to tell them one more time. Or else there are family tensions that prevent the stories from being received – or received without blame and recrimination. Sometimes, a lonely soul will not have any one who ever wanted to hear the stories, or else everyone who matters has passed on already. What a burden it is to the soul to have life stories that have to go untold!

But in hospice there are loving people taking care of us and listening to us. And above all, there are volunteers whose sole job is to do whatever we need, and if that means listen to stories, they'll listen willingly. One of my favorite hospice patients was a ninety year-old gentleman who frequently said, “Oh, you wouldn't want to hear my boring stories!” But when he was assured I did, he gave me hours of wonderful yarns of growing up on a poor Illinois farm, living in a rooming house with other unmarried young men in Chicago and shyly courting the young ladies at social dances in the Roaring Twenties, running errands for the local Mafia, riding the rails like a hobo out to California to work in the (now non-existent) beanfields of Orange County, serving in the Navy during World War II. He seemed to have a need to put his whole life in perspective one last time, and I was happy to give him the permission, as it were, to do that.

I've heard stories about being a female impersonator in night clubs, a gay prostitute in Hollywood, the first Black, female mathematics teacher in her school district, a collector of semi-precious gems. I've seen photos of beloved pets and heard their stories. I've heard family anecdotes and family traditions, funny and sad. I've heard family ghost stories and strange experiences. Every day, it's something different.

And I see a great peace settle over people when they've had the chance to tell these stories they've been keeping inside their hearts, just one more time, or maybe for the first time ever.

If humans are language making animals, as Lewis Thomas calls us, then I would add that we are story-telling animals before anything else. It's a great privilege for me to share some of the vast stream of human experience through these stories.

Every week, the treatment team at the hospice (nurses, social worker, bereavement counselor, dietician, administrator, chaplains and yours truly -- the volunteer rep) go over the files of half the patients. We always begin with a short moment of reflection or inspiration offered by one of the chaplains. This week, a chaplain had just come back from a workshop in which she'd been exposed to a recording of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross speaking these words. I found them very moving, especially hearing Kubler-Ross's voice, but maybe the printed version will appeal to some of you too:

UNCONDITIONAL LOVE

"Look forward to your transition. It’s the first time you will experience unconditional love.

"There will be all peace and love, and all nightmares and the turmoil you went through in your life will be like nothing.

"When you make your transition, you are asked two things basically:
How much love have you been able to give and receive, and how much service have you rendered.

"And you will know every consequence of every deed, every thought, and every word you have ever uttered. And that is symbolically speaking, going through hell when you see the many chances you have missed.

"But you also see how a nice act of kindness has touched hundreds of lives that you’re totally unaware of.

"So concentrate on love while you’re still around, and teach your children early unconditional love. So remember, concentrate on love and look forward to the transition.

"It’s the most beautiful experience you can ever imagine.

"Vaya con Dios!"

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, MD.

I don't know about you, but the years seem to be going by faster than ever. Isn't there a speed limit for that sort of thing? Wonder what Einstein would say about it? I was feeling rather somber about the passage of time and all that it implies when I went down to the hospice where I volunteer. Surprise! The residents were all wearing "Happy New Year!" hats and were surprisingly (to me) upbeat.

I put out an open invitation to anybody in my condo building who wasn't doing anything this evening to stop by my place and have a drink or two. I plan to cut the English Christmas cake I made a few weeks back; the family and I gorged on Christmas pudding and had no room left for cake.

Happy New Year to one and all. Feliz Ano Nuevo. See you next year.

I shed tears of joy when they announced Obama won. And I shed tears of grief when they finally said Proposition 8 had passed. What a day.

I voted at seven am, then went in to the hospice as usual. But yesterday I had to take a young man dying of AIDS to the poll who desperately wanted to vote for Obama and against Proposition 8 -- but he'd failed to re-register when he moved in with us. He's often confused mentally these days, and he started crying when we were trying to sort out what had happened. So I went over to the polling place and talked to the registrar about his predicament, including the real possibility he hadn't been registered at his previous address either. The kind people there said we'd help him fill out a provisional ballot so he could get his wish; if it later turns out that he's wrong about being registered anyway, well, no problem. They'd just throw the vote out. But he'd have the joy of voting one last time.

And that's how it happened. He was so excited he was telling everyone within shouting distance that he'd voted!

Saturday afternoons, I take the greys down to the hospice where I volunteer. The patients seem to like having the dogs visit, and Annie and Jack like to be petted and cooed over too. So it's a good situation all around.

Some folk are ambulatory and will be out and about in the living room, watching a movie on the big screen TV (this afternoon it was “Pearl Harbor” but it's just as likely to be “Harry Potter”). Some are in their rooms, not up to getting around much. The dogs used to be a little nervous going into the rooms, and at first I put it down to the low whine of the oxygen machines when they were in use (which is often). Now I've finally figured out that the greys don't like small, confined spaces – and the rooms are often cluttered with furniture and medical equipment leaving only a narrow space to walk in. I realized they don't like going out onto my balcony either, even if I'm out there already, and much as I can see they'd like to follow me into the bathroom, they stop on the threshold looking pathetic until I come out. I think it must come from being confined to crates for long periods of time at the race track where they started their lives.

So I've been coaxing them but not forcing them. But now they are suddenly Mr and Miss BraveDog, waltzing in ahead of me and sniffing out the personal things stacked on chairs and bookshelves or whatever! I think they've learned to do it at the hospice because they've recognized how much they're needed. They're just the right height that a patient doesn't have to sit up in bed to cuddle them. And they do get a lot of cuddling.

Out in the living room, it's the same thing. Some patients want to hold their leashes, and others just want to run their hands over them or let themselves be licked by a long tongue. Sometimes people will suddenly tell me stories about dogs they used to own. One man never says anything to me. Today he reached out for the dogs and stroked and petted for several minutes with a soft smile on his face. And he still never said a word.

The nursing staff and visiting family members often make a fuss over the dogs too, and the house cats will check them out warily from under the furniture. Somebody will always remind me to get water for the dogs, which I fetch in a paper cup from the dining room – a great treat as far as Annie and Jack are concerned! People like to ask how Jack is doing; he still has scars from his horrendous bouts with tick-borne disease. I think they find they have something in common with this dog who almost died.

I stay about an hour and a half when I have the dogs with me; I figure that's enough loving for them, although they never get restless or whiny. When I brought them home today they both immediately went to their beds and sacked out. I realized how much energy it costs them just to give love and accept it in return. They do it so willingly.

If only more people could wear themselves out loving like the dogs do, the world would be a better place, wouldn't it?

Most of you know I've been volunteering in a hospice since I retired three years ago. I've seen far too many of our young people lose their lives to AIDS. It's not a pretty killer. It takes away your health, your beauty, your dignity. And often it seems to take away friends and family too, leaving only the kind hospice staff and the volunteers to hold your hand and keep you company.

When I was in Rwanda last year, I met women, many with small children, who had been deliberately infected by their HIV positive rapists during Rwanda's horrifying genocide. Now they're overwhelming the few clinics in that poor country because they're dying of AIDS. Often, the children of these mothers are infected too and they will be left as orphans to suffer alone.

Did you know that we have a serious emergency developing in this country among children aged 15 to 24?

We have to find a cure!

To help raise money towards finding that cure, I'm participating in a 5K walk in Long Beach, on June 21st, 2008. I've sent in my $25 registration, and – artificial hips and pins in my foot be darned! – I'll be walking.  I'm asking you to help by donating too. Any amount will be welcome, no matter how little you can afford. Or match my contribution. Or better yet, beat it! Please, open your heart and your checkbook.

Make your tax-deductible checks payable to “AIDS Walk Long Beach.”

I'm collecting them at:
Sheila Finch
Box 167
375 Redondo Ave
Long Beach, CA 90814.

Thank you for anything you can do to help!
Sheila.

A special friend died this week.

Working in a hospice, you tend to become comfortable with death because you see it so frequently.  Somehow, it loses its power to terrify, though you never really get used to the sadness of saying goodbye to men and women you've talked with, maybe shared a joke, taken a walk and admired a flower or a bird. Some have lived long lives and accomplished much; others are far too young to have their futures taken away. Every one you meet in the hospice is unique, and you can't help sorrowing at any passing.

But occasionally you meet someone who under other circumstances could've become your best friend, and then the inevitable wrenches your heart. Susan was like that for me.

She came to the hospice where I volunteer a year ago, not expecting to live more than a few months. She was about my age. I was told that a new resident wanted to go to church, and would I take her? Susan expressed a wish to go to an Episcopal church that, it turned out, was one I'd attended years ago when my children were young (in fact, my youngest daughter was baptized there). We started just after Easter last year, and experienced the whole round of the church year, the festivals and feast days right through Easter again. She always dressed so smartly – often with gloves and always with a hat – that I soon learned to be a little less casual myself on Sundays.

Church wasn't the only place Susan liked to go. Many times I'd arrive at the hospice to be greeted with “Can we go to Barnes & Noble?” or Ross, or Nordstrom's Rack or the post office to send gifts to friends around the country. We enjoyed dining out too, exploring a number of local restaurants. Susan didn't like fish; we both liked the Shepherd's Pie at an English pub. She wasn't strong enough to join our church when many parishioners took part in the Gay Pride Parade, but she bought a t-shirt and went to watch the parade go by in support. At Christmastime, we drove around Long Beach to see the lights. Susan said casually, “This is the last time I'll see Christmas decorations.” It didn't seem to bother her to acknowledge her advancing death as much as it did me. You learn when you work in a hospice not to rush to say what you'd probably like to say, contradicting that calm certainty with a hopeful lie.

She'd already transformed a plain but serviceable room with rugs, pictures (mostly cats), lamps, plants, tables to hold ornaments (again, mostly cats), matching sheets and spreads. Now she added a lighted Christmas tree and festive garlands. The hospice cat loved her room! And it became a destination for new or potential patients to see what could be done with a bit of spirit. Because Susan had spirit abundantly.

We talked endlessly, exchanging family anecdotes and gossip, news items, book reviews and political opinions. We had a hard time finding her polling place in the primary, but she wanted to cast a vote for Hillary, so we persisted.

Two weeks ago, a year after she first entered hospice, she went to church for the last time. Her daughter came out from the East Coast to be with her. She was obviously sinking, but she was awake and still ready to talk much of the time. I had a chance to say goodbye, though it didn't really seem possible that she wasn't going to be there much longer, ready to chat or go to lunch. Wednesday morning, at 5 am, I received a call that Susan had passed over. Today there was a memorial service for family and friends in the church she'd joined. I think she would've approved.

The hospice cat and I miss her very much already.

I was paranoid last night that I'd oversleep this morning so I set an alarm clock to wake me and made sure the automatic coffee maker would be on the job an hour earlier. Normally, I wake between 6.30 and 7 am, when I hear the sounds of two greyhounds politely stretching and yawning because it's time to get up. They never bark or intrude on my sleep, but once a mother always a mother, I'm programmed by nature to hear the tiniest sound of my “child” in distress – sometimes before it actually occurs. They are usually tolerant enough to allow me to fetch the paper and read it as I drink my coffee before I get up and take them out. But on Sundays, I can't sleep in or read the paper. I need to pick up a lady from the hospice by 9.30 to go to church. (People at the end of their lives, I've found, don't sleep late. They don't want to waste time – a lesson to lazy me.)

So I got up before the dogs this time, which both puzzled and pleased them. I like to see what the weather's going to be like before I'm ready to shower and dress, so I often carry my coffee out of the bedroom into the living room where I stare out the big sliding doors leading to the balcony. My fourth floor condo unit faces due east, and often in winter I'm in time to see the sun rise over the shoulder of Saddleback Mountain down in Orange County. This morning I faced a thick wall of grey fog that had slithered inland overnight. There's something quite mystical about fog that hides the mundane world from our eyes and suggests other realities might be possible. Fog (smog, in London when I was growing up, but still magical) is probably one of the factors that sorts children out from those who are going to grow up to be bricklayers to those who want to design the palace of Ozymandias. I wouldn't want to live somewhere if fog, or at least mist, wasn't available occasionally to rescue my imagination from the ordeals of daily living.

I finished my coffee, leashed the dogs and set out. At ground level, I could see several blocks ahead, the fog bank being several feet off the ground. The cool air energizes us, and we walk for about two miles before returning home. I love this time of day, before the residents of the houses we pass are awake. But their dogs are, barking warning to my dogs not to trespass on their lawns, even if I'm ready to scoop up the evidence in my trusty plastic bag. How do they know a dog is passing by when they're inside? Since dogs don't seem to bark at humans, only other dogs, I've come to the conclusion that good advice to burglars – if I'm ever desperate enough to write a burglary manual – would be:  Leave your pooch at home when you set out with nefarious purposes. Greyhounds, of course, never bother to reply to this vocal harassment.

There's a hierarchy among dog owners and their dogs that we meet on these walks. The greys are condescending to other dogs their size, putting up with the inevitable routines of sniffing – unless they're pitbulls, at which time I avoid the issue and cross the road. They don't like little dogs, chihuahuas and mini whatsits, usually turning to me with expressions that seem to say, “The rabbits we used to chase at the track never yapped at us!” But if we chance to meet another of the neighborhood greyhounds – Oh joy! Annie is desperately in love with a grey named Armstrong; she won't pass his house until she's absolutely certain he's not there and won't come out to greet her. Sometimes this'll take a couple of minutes to persuade her to move on. They know their own breed and prefer their company; whether this comes from the days at the track or not, I couldn't say.

By the time we got back home this morning, the fog was lifting and the sun came poking through. The greys decided to skip breakfast – not unusual behavior for them – and go take a nap. Oh – and I was in time to pick up the lady and get to church before the service started.

On Saturday mornings, I take my two greyhounds down to the hospice where I volunteer to play therapy dogs. They're very good at it, in spite of not having gone through all the training that  “official" therapy dog are supposed to go through. (I looked into it, but it was an expensive proposition to follow the guidelines, and my boss, the administrator at the hospice invited me to just bring mine down one day – so I did. All he required was that I file proof of license and all applicable shots.)

The patients love them! Greyhounds are a good breed for this kind of work because they're calm, they don't jump on people, they *love* to be petted, and they don't bark. Plus they don't shed. They will go straight up to someone – who usually turns out to be very needy at the moment – and get in close to be hugged. The only people I've seen them actually kiss – i.e a quick lick on the neck – have been people who really wanted it; somehow the dogs knew.

One day, we were in the long hallway and at the other end was a Mexican gentleman who I knew loves dogs, so we were heading in his direction. He saw them and spoke to them in Spanish, calling them things like “Mi preciosa!” Their ears suddenly stood at attention and they pulled me down the hall to him. He continued to speak in Spanish for several minutes and their attention never wavered. The only explanation I can give is that they were born, raised and raced on a track in Tucson, Arizona, and I have a suspicion the kennel workers were Mexicans. They hadn't heard Spanish in several years! (They're used to it now, so when he speaks to them they aren't as moved as they were the first time.)

Another day, we had just arrived when a nurse wheeled a gentleman out. He was failing fast and not talking much any more. Again, they knew and pulled me over to him so he could hug them. The poor man burst into tears and told the nurse to go to his room to fetch something. It turned out to be a wooden box with a photo of a dog on the lid, his own precious dog's ashes, the only possession he'd brought to the hospice when he was admitted. Several people (including me) were in tears at that! The end of the story is that he never spoke or got out of bed again and died peacefully a couple of days later.

I never know what's going to happen once we walk through that door. It's amazing what animals can sense, isn't it? They really are great therapists.

1. I've spent the last two years volunteering at a local hospice, getting to know people both young and old who've arrived at the final point in their lives, AIDs and cancer victims, and some who have actually managed to live out their “three score and ten – plus.” I've taken them shopping, to Barnes & Noble to buy a special book, to church, around town to see the Christmas lights, to lunch when they can't stand the hospice food any more (it's really not bad, but anything gets boring after a while). I've sung along with the karaoke with them, helped with crafts, run Tai Chi sessions, taken AIDS patients for appointments with their doctors, sat with them when they couldn't get out of bed any more.

This has caused a profound change in the way I view my life. I've learned that none of us know how long we've been given on this Earth, nor can we predict the manner of our going out (other than avoiding risky sexual behavior and needle sharing). But far from making me feel morbid or depressed it has been very freeing. I realized that the only thing that counts is to pay attention to each day – as Ram Dass said, “Be here now.” That has to be my Number One New Year resolution. Live in the Now and stop fretting about the future.

2. I live in Southern California, surrounded by Spanish speakers.  What excuse do I have for not learning Spanish? Oh, I know a few phrases, and I can understand quite a bit (especially written Spanish). I'm not good at teaching myself a language – I prefer immersion, the way I became proficient in French and German. But next year I'm going to take a class and learn more than “Feliz an~o nuevo!” (Maybe another resolution might be to learn how to make the little accent marks appear in the right places -- like *over* the letter instead of after it?)

3. Now that my greyhound, Jack, is well again, I need to get back to the regime we used to have of long walks. I'd like to prepare to walk a 5K in the spring. The dogs will be happy, so I'd better start soon.

4. (This one has nothing to do with New Year resolutions!) I received a brochure advertising a week-long writers' conference from UC Riverside, home of the Eaton Library of Science Fiction – the biggest, most prestigious collection west of the Mississippi – and maybe in the entire country – and host to the Eaton Conference, an annual powerhouse drawing SF scholars from all over, including the Ivy League. And what do you know? No science fiction writers were invited to give talks or run workshops. Sigh. But what they didn't realize is that their keynote speaker, a great literary figure, has also written – gasp! – science fiction: Joyce Carol Oates.

Happy New Year to everyone. May you and the the world have peace.

Murphy has been very active around my place lately. I've run into one problem after another trying to get the first two-thirds of BIRDS up and running on my website. Sigh. Still trying!

Meanwhile, this is Gay Pride weekend in Long Beach, with the parade tomorrow. Members of my Episcopal church will march in the parade and so will I. I've been volunteering at a local hospice which has mostly AIDS patients, so I feel strongly about showing some support. Actually, the church whose parish I live in (just around the corner from my home) left the Episcopal Church over the issue of ordaining a gay bishop, so I've gone back to the one downtown where I used to go when the kids were little. (In fact, my youngest daughter was christened there. And ironically, my oldest granddaughter was christened in the one that left.) 

I considered taking my two greyhounds along because they'd enjoy it; they love people and regularly visit the hospice. But the prospect of having to clean up after their "accidents" -- and hoping marchers don't step in it before I'm done -- seemed like too much to handle, so they're staying home this time.  Just gotta hope my feet don't give out before the parade ends!