The Visible Woman...January 14, 2001

The eXtreme dog walking team took on a neighborhood known as Delwood and included a walk along the (busy despite its unimportant name) 38 1/2 Street and a dip into a neighborhood called French Place. FFP went along.

We do have rules for eXtreme. One is that there are extra points for 'new ground.' The most points accrue if we've never been on the street but there are also points for going the opposite direction on a street we've only used one way. This is based on the idea that new territory is harder to navigate with two dogs on fifteen foot leads exploring everything, twisting and turning and tangling and requiring feats of extraction from human/dog/line puzzles. I suppose we should award extra for after dark, too, but we only do that in our own neighborhood. It's fun to invent a sport and make up the rules. I had thought of bringing a map of this new neighborhood. SuRu said we would lose points if we referred to a map.

FFP commented at one point. "We are lost. Well, you are just going to have to carry me back. That's what my mother said once in San Antonio. She thought we were lost; we were only three blocks from the motel."

"What were you doing in San Antonio?" I asked. Our family traveled at the least provocation. Although we rarely had money for motels. But FFP's parents took him almost nowhere and have been almost nowhere themselves. (Never out of the state, never on a plane, never to Dallas.)

We commented on the racial diversity in the neighborhood. A black man wiped the condensation from his windows. He appeared to be ready to go to church in his suit and tie. A black couple pulled in their driveway, also dressed up. A Caucasian man with long hair swept his carpot, barefoot. Caucasian Gen X'ers tried to train a dog. An Hispanic woman and two small kids were getting into their car and smiled at the dogs. Thirtiesh Caucasian men walked dogs. "No Asians?" we pleaded. A few minutes later two college age girls jogged by, one Asian, one Caucasian.

The neighborhood is a nice mix of nice houses (but without ostentation) and modest ones. Nothings as run down as scary house. Most cars appear to be running. Now that the airplanes go to Bergstrom, not Mueller, it is peaceful, too. A few things were For Sale. If the bust we predict arrives, I wondered about this neighborhood. It is very close to downtown and UT.

Home from our walk, we had fish and tomato, onion, Stilton salad for lunch.

I worked on various little projects. Tried to clear my desks. But it's hard because each piece of paper may engender a lot of work. Check the return address on an envelope in the data base. File something. Write a letter about getting credit for miles. Try some links and maybe put them on the links page. So it goes slowly. And it's interrupted by various little fun things. Reading this or that. Working on the journal. Reading other people's journals. Going for another cup of coffee. Getting a snack.

FFP's mom calls in the afternoon. To tell him about a present the neighbors got her for her birthday. Oops, we forgot. I remembered last week and then forgot to remind him again. I quickly make a card. I have bought a gift that I think she will like and I saved it out of the Christmas stuff. I even already have it in a non-Christmas sack. We probably should have gotten something more.

Off we go to their house. She likes the gift (they always profess to do so). It is a wire thing to display photos or greeting cards or memos with wires with round things on the end to slip papers in. I arrange her birtday cards, including mine.

We watch some TV with them. "King of the Hill." The paint ball rerun. FFP says he is hungry and his mom fixes us something to eat. We start watching HBO's "Great Gatsby" and then leave.

Sundays used to depress me. The weekend drawing to a close. Things left undone that I'd hoped to accomplish. Sunday papers not all read. My office a mess.

Now I live in the moment much more. I enjoy the waning hours of the weekend. I watch a bad TV show with an implausible plot and too much violence. Did you ever see anyone shot? How many dead people have you seen? Most people, even world weary vets, can see more in one night of TV of bodies and shooting. I've never seen a gun fired in anger. In fact, in real life I probably haven't witnessed the discharge of a weapon in decades.

My dad kept a loaded shot gun and 22 on a rack near the back door on the farm. We had sheep. Sheep means lambs. Lambs mean even a loose dog can become a predator. An economic predator. We were poor keepers of sheep. So, when we would be old enough to physically disobey him and touch them, he took us out to shoot a can. You are six. A 22 rocks you. You never touch it without dad.

Shooting at cans, shooting my own BB gun. (Following the Daisy Gun Safety rules, of course.) Maybe that is the last time I saw a gun discharge in real life. I certainly can't remember another.