Send In The Clowns

I heard her the minute I walked into the store. That laugh--it came from all the way back in the offices--an infectious, rolling harbinger of joy. It percolated…bubbled…resounded throughout the building, bouncing off the marble tiles. Acoustically engineered ceiling panels did little to muffle its approach.


The manager who had unlocked the door to admit me grinned. “Dorrie’s back!” we said in unison.

Doris, or “Dorrie” as she’s affectionately called, is a bit of an institution at the store. She had been gone for over six months on medical leave, nursing a knee injury she’d acquired on the job. It’s hard to measure what her absence meant to store morale, but I’m sure we all felt the void. Like a balloon that had deflated long after the party was over, we’d become so accustomed to its limp existence, no one thought to reinflate or discard it. And now with, Dorrie’s return, that balloon was floating, waving, bouncing again.

“Welcome back!” I cried as she rounded the aisle.

“Did you miss me?!” she cackled, wrapping me in a bear hug.

“You’ll never know how much.”

I retreated to my department, leaving the rest of the staff to the morning associates’ meeting. But I could hear the hoots, hollers, and hilarity that accompany Dorrie wherever she goes.

My day brought its share of heat-related crabbies and crackpots—when it gets to be 110 degrees everyone resents having to leave the comfort of air-conditioning. Tempers become shorter as the mercury rises higher. But somehow, none of it affected my mood. I smiled a bit more. My step was a bit lighter. Laughter came easily. Dorrie was back, and all the world loves a clown.

And Now for Something Totally Different: Beyond the Gate

Beyond the gate, a feather drifts,
     and caught, by breeze, joins leaves and dust.
A whirlwind dance of earth and sky
     swirls just beyond the gate.

Beyond the gate, the children ride
     on skateboards, scooters, bicycles.
A caravan of wheels and youth
     glides just beyond the gate

A ground squirrel darts across the yard.
He stops to listen, cocks his head,
Then waves a bushy tail at me
     as if to say, “Come play!”

But I can only contemplate
the joys and wonders that await.
For now, I only speculate,
     "What lies beyond the gate?"

And Now for Something Totally Different: The Canine United Nations

I just came back from an hour at the local dog park with my BFF, CoCo Chanel. It occurred to me during our romp at “The Bark” that we humans could learn a few things from our canine counterparts about how to get along. As I watched the pack of Chinese Cresteds, Irish Setters, and French Poodles, I began to understand what a Canine UN might look like. Images of dogs playing poker morphed in my mind into visions of terriers and labs and boxers politely seated around the UN president, a Mastiff—(no offense to President Ali Abdussalam Treki, but you have to admit, the resemblance is there. Just saying…)

Here is what I observed at the Canine United Nations:

Just because you’re the biggest dog in the park, doesn’t mean that you have to be the “Big Dog.” Canines give just as much respect to a Pomeranian with pluck as they do a Bull Mastiff who’s a bully. In fact, dogs seem to regard each other as equals no matter the breed, size, or upbringing. CoCo shows the same interest in an Afghan Hound as she does a Mexican Chihuahua. She sniffs everyone’s butt. It’s the accepted howdy-do of the dog park social mixer, and every dog knows that secret handshake.

At the Canine United Nations there is no conflict that cannot be overcome by a communal roll in the grass. There is always room at the water dish for one more tongue, and water shared in the common water dish always tastes better than the foo-foo bottled stuff carried by the two-leggers.

At the Canine UN there are never any disputes about water rights—the puppy pool is big enough for everyone to take his/her turn. If the wait gets too long, you can count on the fire plug to go off eventually for a quick soak. And there’s always some gracious Lab or Retriever willing to shake out her coat to share the cool-down.

There may only be one ball to chase at the Canine UN, but no matter. Taking part in the race is just as fulfilling as scoring the prize. And anyone can get in the game. No waiting for an invitation. No choosing sides. No winners. No losers.

And at the Canine UN everyone knows his/her place. If it needs herding, that’s the Border Collie’s job. If you need a spokesperson, go ask the Beagle. And if you need crowd control, the German Shepherd can be counted on to patrol the perimeter. Now that’s what I call a Security Council.

But the most important lesson to be learned at the Canine UN is that everyone gets to be the alpha dog at some time. If the big, dopey Weimaraner thinks he has a lock on "leader of the pack," just wait until that little Napoleon Min Pin gets there to show him who's boss. And that Weimaraner will relinquish his position graciously, without so much as a fleeting thought to holding a grudge. If only we two-leggers could be so civil.

The Kitchen Garden Novice Looks At Her Roots

Ella had never been so cold.  her feet crunched through knee high drifts, iced over by the bitter wind.  The shawl Mama had wrapped around her head did little to stop the biting, stinging ice that pelted her face. She could see no more than two feet in front of her.  It would have been easy to lie down and sleep, bet every time she stopped even for a moment, she was tugged forward by the rope around her waist. Just when she was sure she couldn't make it one step further, strong arms lifted her off her feet and carried her into light and warmth.

As she huddled with her sisters around the wood stove she heard her grandmother's scolding voice from the next room.  "Albert! What were you thinking, taking those children out in such weather?!"

Her father's baritone voice laughed in response. "We couldn't miss choir practice, now could we?"

"But you could have all frozen to death!" Grandma Dieckmann insisted.

"Ah Mama, don't be silly.  God has plans for many grandchildren for you, and all will sing to His glory."

This bit of family folklore was handed down from Great Grandmother Ella Dieckmann Zeller.  Albert Dieckmann, her father, loved to sing. He thought nothing of packing up his four daughters and trudging through a blizzard to get to choir practice.

Anna Dieckmann, Ella's mother, was born Anna Riedesel in 1867, in Galion, Ohio.  Her father, George Riedesel and her uncle, Henry Riedesel walked 1000 miles from Ohio to the present day town of Wheatland, Iowa. These were hardy German immigrants from Westphalia, Germany.  In 1850, George and Henry paid $5 an acre to buy the land where the Ott family farm stands today in Wheatland. They had money left from their land purchase, so after their "walk-about," they returned to Galion by boat and train to fetch their families.

Grandma Anna emigrated west with her father, George, in 1852 by covered wagon. The wagons were ferried across the Mississippi. The first winter in Wheatland the weather was mild, but the second winter the settlers nearly starved to death.  Grandma spoke of Indians coming to the door of their log-and-sod cabins, begging for food.

Albert Dieckmann was one of five children of the Reverend Frederick and Fredericka Leyer Dieckmann. The Dieckmanns emigrated from Hanover, Germany to Galion, Ohio and later to Omaha, Nebraska.  When the settlers in Wheatland decided to establish a German Reformed church in Wheatland, (St. Paul's,) they called Reverend Dieckmann as their fourth pastor.  He and Fredericka brought along their five grown children.  All five of the Dieckmann children married and raised their families in Clinton County, Iowa.

Albert and Anna Riedesel married and had four daughters: Ruby, born June 12, 1887, Ella born June 10, 1889, Mabel, born Dec. 8, 1891, and Clara, born Feb. 5, 1894.  Ella Dieckmann was my great grandmother.