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Chapter 5. "Turbulent 60's" and a Miracle
The 1960s has been described by most historians as the decade of "turbulence."
"Turbulent" doesn't begin to describe it.
A former coworker and close friend of mine was killed in Viet Nam. I received the news one day from a mutual acquaintance I met on the street and was stunned beyond belief. Joey was a skinny, sweet, dark-haired 19-year-old kid who had barely lived. He had taken me to the movies once. We had often talked and joked about the job and the small inconsequencials of life.
It was impossible to think of him as dead now.
I put the anger I felt about the Viet Nam war and the needless death of a kind, giving friend somewhere deep inside and vowed not to think about it. While thousands of my generation protested the war and wore "hippie" clothes, I was (at least on the surface), a model of convention. I wore fashionable clothes. My hair was short and always perfectly styled. I looked like I stepped out of Vogue magazine. Coworkers sometimes jokingly called me "Twiggie."
I worked two jobs, seven days a week, in order not to think about anything important.
I didn't want to think too much about matters of life and death, because my mother had been diagnosed with cancer and had recently undergone major surgery to remove it. Her recovery from the disease was long, painful and emotionally turbulent.
My grandmother died unexpectantly in March of 1969. She went into the hospital for a minor surgery, developed Peritonitis and died within two weeks. As with Joey and my mom, my mind couldn't seem to grasp what happened. I was unable to cry at Nannie's funeral or show any emotion at all. I went through various motions, but couldn't feel anything beyond an all-enveloping, consuming and crushing numbness.
My mom on the other hand, was an emotional mess. Angry at the doctors, angry at her brother for poor medical decisions and plagued by unadmitted guilt for the combative relationship she had with her mother and the too often unkind words shouted without thought. Most of that was blotted out of her mind as all she could think of or say was how much she loved, cherished and would miss her mother. My mom would continue to hold that view for many years, never once admitting in that time to the mistakes made in her close personal relationships nor how she hurt other people.
It was only in her final days, 25 years later, when physical illness racked and weakened my mom's body that she found the inner strength to finally utter the words, "I'm sorry."
And those words were spoken to me.
I feel bad that my loving grandmother never heard them.
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Throughout the 60's I was too busy pushing painful things away and working my butt off in some vain, insane search for "perfection" and financial security to think much about animals and their sufferings.
Still, there were those rare and carefree times when I took Sheppie to Central Park, watched her run through the grass or through the snow and for those brief few moments, I would be totally "normal."
So it was that on one Easter Sunday (and a rare day off) that I took Sheppie to the park on a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The park was teaming with thousands of people, so many that is was sometimes difficult to walk briskly, the narrow footpaths and the bustling crowds upon them.
Sheppie and I walked for at least a couple of miles on this beautiful, perfect spring day. We were near the boat basin in Central Park when the crowds were particularly thick and the going particularly slow. I thought to myself how well Sheppie was walking through it all! Not pulling on the leash at all!
I then looked down to notice I was walking an empty leash.
Sheppie was gone!!
Panic and memories of Snuffy raced through me. It was impossible to see through the thick, slow-moving crowds and yet I found myself running, pushing people this way and that way. WHERE WAS MY DOG? I HAD to find Sheppie!!
Once again, I was calling and calling a name with no sight or sound of what I was calling for.
I retraced all our steps and seemingly covered every inch of the park for hours. But to no avail. I felt shattered.
Dark began to fall, people started filing out of the park and I could only see shadows and the dim lights of the park lamps. But still, no sign of Sheppie anywhere.
It was well into the evening when fatigue and defeat began to get me and I was forced to give up and go home. Tears freely streamed down my face. I couldn't believe this had happened again! Once again, there were the questions and recriminations in my mind. Why didn't I have Sheppie's collar tighter? Why didn't I look down sooner when I didn't feel her tugging at the leash? How could I not KNOW? On and on.
I reached my apartment building at about 9PM and dejectedly turned the key into the lock.
Suddenly, I heard from behind the door, the excited patter of dog's feet and Sheppie's happy, greeting bark! Oh, my God!! Could it BE? Was I imagining things?
I frantically opened the door and there she was! "Oh my God! You're here, Sheppie!" Oh, THANK GOD. Thank God!!"
I shouted in complete and total joy! In no time, Sheppie was in my arms.
Followed quickly by my mother's urgent queries: "WHERE WERE YOU?" "I was just about to call the police!"
Mom told me that Sheppie had returned hours earlier! A neighbor saw her in front of the building and let her in. The dog then scratched at the door. I was so overjoyed and relieved I could barely hear my mother's words. "Thank God, " is all I could say over and over.
It was truly quite amazing that Sheppie found her way home from almost two miles away, from an area I had never brought her before.
Who says miracles don't happen?
And who says I could no longer "feel?"
The tears flowed freely now. And they were tears of joy.