4. Golden Rule #4: Don’t expect your reality to mirror anyone else’s.

We live in an unprecedented era of access. Thanks to reality TV (which is, ironically, anything but reality), tell-all books, Pinterest, Periscope, Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, 24 hour news and talk radio, webinars, podcasts, blog posts, vlogging, YouTube…we are immersed in whatever reality we choose to fashion. We truly can build our own reality out of a holographic shell of information that supports whatever we can dream up.

At least we think that’s what we’re doing. But is reality the shell? Or is reality the stuff we try to force into the shell? And if that’s what we’re doing, what happens to the stuff that just doesn’t fit?

If reality is based on things we know for sure, then it’s probably a lot less complicated than we’re making it out to be. Reality isn’t what might happen, or what we hope will happen, or what we’re afraid will happen. Reality is what IS happening while all those elusive maybe’s, hopes, and fears are swirling around refusing to be captured and pinned down. Reality isn’t something to just wait out or push aside. Reality is usually the last thing in the world we feel like celebrating or even acknowledging. We’re too busy focusing on the what if’s and maybe’s and I’m afraid that’s.

*****

Copper lives for his twice-daily walks. Once in the morning, in the pre-dawn darkness, we zing around the block to settle his mind before I head out to work that day. And once in the evening, we choose a little longer route because the morning schedule doesn’t have us under its thumb. One of our favorite routes takes us through a neighborhood with only a few houses on the street. It’s normal to scare up a rabbit or two as we walk by, and there are lots of good smells for Copper to explore there.

I see there are some new houses being built, massive things with lovely Craftsman-like details inside and out. I must confess sometimes I think how much nicer life would be with gorgeous oiled soapstone counters and state-of-the-art appliances and wide plank wood floors and a bathroom about the size of my living room. Imagine the life I could live in a house like that!

And then I think, well, the people living there have bills and coffee slops and hangnails and laundry and mystery leftovers and relatives and vehicle issues and decisions hanging over their heads too. Maybe not the same ones I do, but still. I don’t know that casting my reality aside in exchange for theirs would be all that wonderful. In fact, thinking about it, I probably wouldn’t like their reality much at all. I may not always love my reality, but it’s the reality I know.

It’s hard to step back and deliberately choose to accept life just the way it is. We’re wired to forge ahead, change things, make things better or at least different. That is the message we’re being fed from every source imaginable, and it feels like trying to drink out of a fire hydrant. We’ll get really, really wet, but chances are on the other side, we’re still going to be thirsty.

Copper’s reality…right now

I don’t see Copper wringing his paws trying to figure out how to make his reality mirror anyone else’s. This dog…he has mastered the art of living immersively in the here and now. That is one of his greatest gifts, I think. Right now he’s curled up on the sofa, mind at ease, thirst quenched from a long drink in the bathtub, without a single thought of what’s next or what if. I do not see a to-do list anywhere near him. He’s a giant blob of Golden bliss. If my reality should mirror anyone’s, perhaps it should most mirror his.

3. Golden Rule #3: A Few of Life’s Greatest Truths

Copper in school, age 11 weeks

From the very first puppy obedience class, we began learning some of life’s greatest truths.

The first one: stuff travels up and down the leash.

How very true that is! Our dogs take their cues from us. If we’re stressed, they know it. If they’re stressed, we know it. And their behavior shows it.

The second one: learning should be fun.

If you go to puppy obedience classes thinking you’ll just hand over the leash to your trainer and come out an hour later with a magically trained dog, you are in for a surprise. There is homework, every day, 20 minutes a day, in 5 minute increments. If you do your homework, your trainer will know. If you don’t do your homework, your trainer will know that too. So don’t even bother telling your trainer that yes, you’re doing your homework and you’re mystified by your dog’s continued out-of-control behavior. Your dog is your tell.

The third one: more than any other command, the most important thing your dog needs to learn from you? To listen.

It was pretty funny seeing Copper, at just 11 weeks old, concentrating intently as we gave him commands like Come! Sit! Down! Stay! We learned hand commands, too, so that even if he couldn’t hear us say the word, he could “read” our hands. He learned so quickly, and the class sessions flew by. In no time we’d bonded with fellow students and their dogs, and puppy training classes became the highlight of our week.

As much as our dogs were learning, we owners were learning so much more. If our dogs were learning to listen to us, we were also learning to listen to them. I became a devoted student of animal body language — dogs around the world communicate with each other using exactly the same “language” or behavior. For instance, a dog’s yawn is a calming mechanism. He’s not tired. He’s trying to calm himself, or maybe another agitated dog.

I love this thought from Chief Dan George:

If you talk to the animals,

They will talk to you,

And you will know each other.

If you do not talk to them,

You will not know them,

And what you do not know,

You will fear.

What one fears,

One destroys.

My deepest thanks to our trainer Charlie P. for introducing us to the amazing world of animal communication! Little did I know the weekly training classes and the daily homework would establish and reinforce some of life’s most important lessons.

This is Copper. He’s my dog. Actually he’s my granddog. He belongs to my oldest daughter, who lives out of state in a place that doesn’t allow dogs. So Copper is staying with me until sometime next year, when he can join my daughter’s daily life.

Copper is two years old. He’ll be three in January. He’s lived with me since he was about nine weeks old. He’s purebred, Mississippi born and Florida raised. He’s smart. Real smart. Well educated, with lots of classes and diplomas under his belt — er, collar. He’s chipped, snipped, groomed, and click trained. He has a crate and knows how to “tuck in.” He loves agility courses, homework, peanut butter, and old females. Two-legged and four-legged varieties.

I’ve had pets before, pets I’ve really loved their whole lives, from hello to goodbye. Copper takes “life with a pet” to a whole new level. In short, pretty much everything I need to know, he has managed to teach me.

This 31-day series started out as 31 things I thought of to share from my own life experience. Write what you know, right? Or at least what you’d like to know. But in the end, as I related yet another Copper story to my daughter, she shrugged and said, “There’s your blog.” And she pointed to the giant golden puddle of dog sprawled on her feet.

So forget about any pearls of wisdom I may or may not have gleaned from a non-traditional life. With Copper, it’s all about The Golden Rules.

So a meeting today got unexpectedly rescheduled and the nice presentable business coastal (my own invention, hope you like it) outfit is just not necessary. I could’ve worn my first choice of yoga capris and a Life is Good t shirt that I fell in love with a couple of weeks ago, and saved this outfit for when it actually matters what I look like because I am the walking talking life size Barbie (well no not actually Barbie) of this business. In reality, I am the partnership ambassador no matter what I’m wearing, even when I roll out of bed and into whatever clothes I shed the night before while walking Copper because it was dark then, and it’s dark now, and who cares what I’m wearing while I’m hoofing and poofing (yep giant morning hair barely corralled in a ponytail that resembles a bath pouf – now that’s a visual, Deb in last night’s walking clothes being chased by a hairy bath pouf) around the block.

I’d go more than a block but my carefully-synchronized morning schedule will not allow that. I can do the block in ten minutes, unless Copper encounters a really fantastic-smelling mailbox. In that case all bets are off. And heaven help us if one of my two or three favorite neighborhood friends comes out to pick up the paper. Those few minutes spent conversing really throw me off schedule.

After a brief but necessary morning shower (I do live in Florida, where the summer humidity is as thick as apple butter but far less appealing), I go to the kitchen sporting the cutest monogrammed waffle weave robe, a gift from my youngest daughter Marley that makes me feel like I’m spending a day at a spa. The Keurig obediently spits out a cup of whatever coffee I happen to not dislike too much (the favorite ones go early and I’m left with ones that are just sort of tolerable) and whatever I can rustle up for breakfast. Which is often eaten, and I’m embarrassed to report this, but it’s true: in the bathroom. (Cue Frasier and Niles: “Food! In the bathroom!”) But that is how I multi-task. Mascara and muffin girl, that’s me.

Depending on how large my hair is that day, I either clip some of it back with a (hopefully invisible) little butterfly clip that is supposed to be the same color as my hair (tortoiseshell, anyone?) or wrestle the whole mess into submission with nifty little metal spinny clips or a hair bungee. Why Target doesn’t carry hair bungees is a mystery to me. Amazon does. They are real deal miniature bungees with a little metal hook at each end, and you wrap them around your ponytail and voila! you have whatever suits you – a high and tight perky-tail, or a low rider that nestles into your neck like a hamster settling in for a nap. I like the spinny clips, but they have an alarming habit of spinning themselves free at the most inopportune times, and then I have to retrieve them while fumbling desperately with hair that has escaped the freeform sculpture attained only with the help of said spinny clip. Not my best look and very hard to recover from. (“Yes I’m Deb and you can trust me with your important project and please pay no attention to the hair explosion I’m currently experiencing. Oh there’s my spinny clip, by your shoe. Would you mind…?”)

So whoever said the best part of waking up is Folger’s in your cup hasn’t spent any time between 5 and 6:30 a.m. with me, obviously. Enjoy your day, everyone!

Long before the football players ever take the field under the stadium lights, the team takes the town. Early in the morning, at gas stations and coffee shops and grocery stores, people are sporting “Pace High School Football” tee shirts. There is an unspoken understanding that the game is a common destination later that evening.

The stands are always packed for the annual Pace-Milton crosstown rivalry in late October.

The summer sun is still high and the concrete bleachers are still hot as we pass through the gates and hand our tickets to the cheerful, efficient booster club members. Lines are already long at the concession stands as fans load up on icy beverages and nachos dripping orange cheese sauce. The big grills are fired up and the scent of hamburgers drifts through the stadium.

The bleachers fill quickly with enthusiastic fans. It’s a reunion of sorts, with people of all ages finding their place among friends and family. Many moms sport large pins bearing the grinning face of their son and favorite player. The backs of their tee shirts typically read “Dylan’s Mom” or “#42 rules!”

The sound system belts out favorite country tunes from a local radio station until game time gets closer. As the time clock counts down, the high school’s junior reserve officers, crisp in their uniforms and motions, march to the sidelines carrying the flags. Marching bands for both sides arrive, and we measure the caliber of our opponents by the number of tubas in their band. May sound funny, but one year we were seriously challenged by a team whose band sported 13 tubas!

We stand as the colors are presented mid-field, and then the national anthem echoes from one side of the stadium to the other. The other team is introduced and the home fans are conspicuously silent. Many make their way onto the field to form a “spirit line” welcoming the home team.

“And heeeeeeere coooooooome the Paaaaaaatriots!” As the players charge through the spirit line and colorful paper banners, exploding onto the field, fireworks soar behind the scoreboard and the crowd leaps to its feet, erupting in cheers for their hometown sons and brothers. On Friday nights in Pace, Florida, everybody’s a Patriot!

A beautifully executed play at Pace High.

An unassuming metal building just east of Milton houses one of the area’s best-kept secrets – The Copper Possum antique shop. More than two dozen dealers gather under a single roof to showcase their treasures.

A stand of old live oak trees graces the grounds at Copper Possum.

What sets this apart from other “antique malls” is the vision of the shop’s owner, Kim McCarthy. She selects her dealers carefully and keeps a close eye on not only what they’re selling, but how things are displayed. Each booth showcases its eclectic offerings in a pleasing, stylish vignette.

An inviting array of vintage textiles begs exploration.

What buyer can resist stepping into a tiny room furnished entirely in shades of Rachel Ashwell’s “shabby chic” whites and pastels? One spot, charmingly fitted with log siding, showcases vintage tools, buckets and primitive wood furniture. Lamps, books, artwork, linens, and toys tempt buyers’ memories and wallets.

Look at that gorgeous white lawn dress. Right out of Downton Abbey!

In a shop filled floor to ceiling with ever-changing items, one of the most reliable things about Copper Possum is the rate at which items turn over – while the quality is consistent and the selection generous, things don’t tend to stay around long, so if you find the perfect porch quilt or a vintage twig rocker, you’d better pay for it today, because it’ll probably be gone tomorrow.

Treasures as far as the eye can see…

I don’t typically go in there looking for anything in particular. Instead, I prefer to go in and let something find me. For instance, just this week I determined to pass through Copper Possum in search of two vintage-looking counter stools for my kitchen. (I sold the ones I had in the garage sale fever that gripped me recently. Turns out I probably should have held on to those until I had replacements ready.) I came out with a vintage European grain sack that will be so perfect stuffed with a down-filled pillow and perched on the weathered old bent cypress chair on my front porch…also a Copper Possum find. Was I looking for the feed sack? Well, no. Does it bring me joy? Why yes it does! And so this is how I go to Copper Possum looking for one thing and end up being found by something completely different.

P.S. I’ll post a porch picture once it’s all together, I promise.

I found a store yesterday worthy of being featured in a story somewhere, sometime. It’s called the Apple Market and it’s on Scenic Highway in Pensacola. It’s tiny, independently and locally owned, and it carries a lot of things either made locally or associated with this immediate area. Instead of SUV-sized shopping carts, they have little contraptions that look like one hand-carried basket on a shelf above another one underneath. The aisles are narrow, the architecture and lighting is a throwback to the 1970s, and the shelves are crammed with things that at first glance almost feel visually overwhelming. And then you start reading labels and looking at packages and thinking…”hmmm, this pasta looks delicious, and it’s in the refrigerator with a hand-written date on the label.” Right next to it on a shelf is a row of mouth-watering herb-seasoned marinara sauces with an ingredient list like something out of a Moosewood Restaurant cookbook. Fully cooked ribs from a legendary local restaurant are vacuum-sealed and resting in the freezer. Pickles that rival anything a beloved relative could concoct in her summer kitchen…whole bean coffee from New Orleans, the kind with chicory in it…ciabatta olive bread from a downtown French bakery…salad dressings and flavored syrups and mopping sauces and lovely crackers and hummus dip and salads and sandwiches at a little take-it-and-run deli…this is the kind of place where you walk in and ask the owner, “What’s good today?” and he calls you by name and recommends the scallops and fresh-baked crusty bread and perhaps a nice bottle of Chardonnay and you buy the whole meal just based on his recommendation, because you trust him and you know if you stop by tomorrow he’ll be interested in how you cooked the scallops and how good they were served on your deck while watching the sun set over the bay…this is the shopping experience I want to associate with living on the Gulf Coast. It is, if I moved away and came back for a visit, the first place I would go, and I’d let them pack me up a week’s worth of food just based on what I told them my plans were while I was in the area. Imagine being able to tell someone, “I don’t know, some seafood maybe, but mostly just comfort food” and having them get your order exactly right, supplying you with all the ingredients to make all your favorite recipes and meals, even if the meal is just bread dipped in flavored olive oil and a big leafy salad.

This photo by local photographer Brian Butler captures the Apple Market experience beautifully.

You would love this place. I don’t dare share these impressions to this extent with my family; they would look at me and say, “It was a grocery store, mother, pricey and overcrowded. Twenty dollars for ribs! Even if they were from Dreamland. That’s too much.” But how do you put a price tag on the experience of eating Dreamland ribs, elbow to elbow with people you enjoy being with, sopping up their incredible sauce with thick slices of white Bunny Bread, indulging in their better-than-anything banana puddin’ while marinating yourself in the whisper of woodsmoke and perfectly cooked ribs that wafts around the restaurant and drags you nose-first over to the giant open smoke pit? When I buy their ribs at Apple Market, that’s what I’m buying. I’m just sayin’, okay?

I received an ad from a local take-out eatery recently. And if the menu alone wasn’t enough to send you scooting to their parking lot, the photo of the family picnic should have been.

It’s a shot of a family gathered around a picnic table under a big, old tree. Everyone is smiling. No one is slinging food out of butter tubs and whipped topping containers. In fact, there is no plastic silverware in sight. Did I mention everyone is smiling, and the focus is on the youngest kid at the table, who looks to be about 10, and he’s talking with a big smile spread across his face, and everyone is blissfully listening to him. Even the older sister across from him.

I have slightly different memories of family picnics.

For instance, I vividly remember my cousin Ryan’s eighth birthday party. We lived just up the hill from him in a little cabin in the woods built by his parents, my aunt and uncle, when they were first married. We’d recently acquired a very large brown chocolate lab/hound dog mix, and at the appointed party time, we leashed Yugger (that was the name the dog came with) and walked down the driveway to my aunt and uncle’s home to join the celebration.

It was late June. An outdoor picnic was in full swing. Meat on the grill, a table spread with yummy side dishes, and a beautiful cake ready for slicing and serving. Everyone was scattered in lawn chairs and on blankets around the yard, chatting and eating. Someone handed me a slice of birthday cake and a fork on a paper plate. The dog lay quietly at my feet while I visited with relatives and nibbled the cake.

A couple of uncles were filling small water balloons and the younger cousins were having a fine time running around, playing and shrieking and getting wet. One of the water balloons broke as it was being filled, and it sounded almost like a shot echoing through the woods.

Now, you would think that a dog that’s at least part hound would be accustomed to hunting, and to the sounds that go along with hunting. You know, like gunshots. But this dog? Well, he had other ideas.

At the sound of the balloon exploding, in one fluid motion he was on his feet and moving forward. Quickly. I did some very fast calculating. If a dog scared by what he thinks is a gunshot is moving at x mph and his six-foot leash is wrapped around my 22-year-old wrist three times, y equals the amount of time it takes for him to reach the end of the leash which, I might add, did not even remotely approach slowing him down. I looked at my dad, abruptly dropped the cake, fork, and plate, and said, “Bye!” And immediately I was launched wrist-first at an impossibly high rate of speed through the woods.

I am not anybody’s idea of an athlete. I don’t run. I don’t really even walk fast. However, In this instance, I was motivated by several factors: the leash around my wrist, the dog who had morphed into a chocolate bullet ricocheting through the woods, and the obstacles like stumps, bushes, holes, and low hanging branches that appeared in front of me without any warning whatsoever. I suppose for a brief time we were our own version of a video game, Yugger bolting through the woods and Deb leaping like a possessed gazelle just a few less than six feet behind him. I was told later that my strides were unbelievably long. Again…I was motivated.

Yugger finally had to stop and relieve himself about a quarter mile away from the party site. At that moment, we heard a sound from behind us unlike any we had ever heard before. It was a solid roar of laughter, seemingly endless, coming from the partygoers. Apparently we’d been the impromptu entertainment for the birthday party. Yugger hung his head in shame when he heard that, and he walked slowly up the driveway, and I trailed behind.

To this day, my Aunt Jean swears she has never laughed as hard as she did that day. I’m sure had I been in her shoes, I would have done the same. It was one of those moments that doesn’t make the cut for the photo shoot, but gets indelibly imprinted on the fabric of family memories just the same.

A hilltop picnic with Grandma! Looks a little chilly, but it’s never too cool for a picnic.