Richard Wolkomir & Joyce Rogers Wolkomir

 

 

 

My grandfather, Anson Rogers, bought the seven horses by mail. Their train, from the west, arrived at the Rochester, New York, freight station in the dark, as he'd arranged.

  

At that hour, Anson knew, the constabulary slept.

  

He was a huckster. He bought low and sold high.

  

Problem: how to transport the horses twenty miles to the family's rundown Bristol Hills farmhouse. Solution: free labor.

 

Grandpa loaded his pickup truck with his seven sons.

 

My father, Art, was oldest, at fifteen. Next came Andy (14), Herbie (13), Stanley (12), Billie (11), Jimmy (10), and Bobby (9).

 

 Anson had moved the family from Rochester to that weathered country house—no running water, no electricity—to avoid regulatory eyes. He knew the child-abuse laws. Only when no one watched did he enforce discipline with a bullwhip. Once, he and my grandmother drove to Florida for the winter, leaving their seven sons and seven daughters to shift for themselves, which got him arrested.

 

He figured endangering kids to move horses would be okay, if he did it in darkness.

 

With Anson hissing orders, the riders mounted, the bigger boys boosting their littler brothers aboard.

  

I assume the horses had been working steeds, accustomed to riders, because my father—who told me about this adventure—said no kid got bucked off.

 

They rode bareback, clinging to the horses' manes.

 

Anson drove ahead, the horse riders following his red taillights, hanging on, mile after mile.

 

At some point on that twenty mile journey, one rider, Herbie, fell in love with his horse.

 

I'm guessing that in a household crammed with fourteen children and a work-weary mother, Herbie got little love. His horse loved him.

 

As the weeks passed, Herbie fed his horse special. He taught the horse many tricks, like picking up a dropped handkerchief in his teeth and handing it to Herbie.

 

Every day Herbie hurried home from school to be with his horse.

 

Anson watched the horse's growing portfolio of tricks with a calculating squint.

 

One day Herbie hurried home from school and his horse was gone.

 

Sold.

 

My father said his little brother spent the rest of the week sobbing.

 

I guess my grandfather decided a trick horse could sell for a few pennies more.

 

I do know one thing for sure.

 

Anson Rogers was a bastard.

 

--Joyce

 

 

 

We stood, Joyce and I, at a desert's edge, facing 3,000 miles of sand.

 

Behind us, in an outdoor market, villagers sold dates and figs and leather belts and wind-up alarm clocks. We didn't know the language, but we bought a few figs, by pointing, then extending a handful of coins, for the seller to choose among.  

 

 So, munching our figs, we stood where the oasis ended and the desert began. If we walked out there, we knew, under that lethal sun, we'd soon die. We guessed nothing lived on that sand.   

 

Then, out of the village, three white-robed men rode camels, each beast laden with wicker baskets and burlap sacks. Trading goods, we guessed. Each camel wore a strap of bells around its neck.    

 

We watched the camels stride out onto the sand, their riders relaxed in their saddles, chatting convivially, as if they followed a familiar road. Maybe they exchanged village gossip, or discussed today's price of myrrh.  

 

Camels and riders dwindled, finally too distant to see. Yet, we still heard their bells ringing.   

 

At odd moments, I remember that sound, long ago, bells out on the desert.    

 

--Richard  

 

 

 

Our new book, The Corgi With Starlight In His Eyes, just published, is unusual for us, because we're in it, Joyce and Richard.

 

It's about when a handsome corgi appears on our deck. Nosmo makes it clear—our home will be his new home, and we will be his new people. 

 

"It's fated," Joyce exclaims. "He's come to us for a reason."

 

So it is, because just as Nosmo arrives, we face a crisis, life or death. This memoir is the story—as Nosmo sees it—of how we face that crisis together, now a team of three: a woman, a man, and a dog.

 

But what a dog! Preternaturally aware. So charismatic he seems to glow.

 

It's a joyful story.

 

It's a love story.

 

We hope some of you read this story. We hope it gives you pleasure.

 

You can find this book on Amazon.com.

A dog just taught me the sound of one hand clapping.

 

I had errands to finish before lunchtime. So I barreled along the highway, until—abruptly—I braked to a crawl.

 

A small SUV blocked me.

 

In this stretch of highway, speed limit 50 mph, the car ahead poked along at 30 mph.

 

Frustrating!

 

Rushing is what I do. I'm given to impatient finger tapping. My head's full of worries.

 

After a few annoyed minutes, staring at the slow car ahead, I noticed a dog in the back seat, calmly regarding me through the rear window. An old dog, muzzle gray, but with amiable brown eyes.

 

Those benign eyes seemed to say: "Friend, why hurry?"

 

Actually, I didn't know—why do I hurry?

 

I finished my chores. I drove home.

 

All the way I remembered that old dog's kind gaze, and I relaxed.

 

--Richard

 

 

We heard about a cool incident on an airliner, posted on Facebook by Wendy Battino.
 
You can check out Ms. Battino's first-person account here—  https://www.facebook.com/wendy.battino/posts/pfbid02XBBD8AkYBDrAsPtb7ETN6QgrWSsL82yxC37uToAuQrBt1V7gMoZBVW6eJfoKKd9yl.

We found this story so amusing and touching, we wanted to pass it along, for those who missed the original account. So here's an abbreviated version—

 

After a sojourn in California, Ms. Battino says, she boarded an Alaska Airlines flight back home, with her two Siberian huskies, Artie and Moon, kenneled in the airliner's cargo hold. As she walked back to her seat, from the hold below, she heard a tremendous howling.

 

It meant: "Where are you, Wendy Battino?" Knowing the howling would continue unless she howled back, Ms. Battino knelt in the aisle and prepared to howl.

 

First, though, a flight attendant asked her to hold off, while the attendant used the PA system to alert the other passengers.

 

After that, Ms. Battino howled.

 

Down in the hold, Artie and Moon went silent.

 

Everyone on the plane laughed.

 

Then the flight attendant made a further announcement: "Would anyone else like to join in one more howl to let these dogs in the hold know that we care?"

 

Just about every passenger on that plane howled. 

 

After that, says Ms. Battino, it was an upbeat flight home.

 

--Joyce and Richard

 

 

 

 

When the national and international news becomes too scary and mean, we look out our window.

 

We see a little park, with a pond and pathways, and a meadow, and a mountain range beyond. Down in the park we see people, but not just people.

 

Yesterday, we saw one of our favorites, Ella Bella Socks, on one of her walks. She is a medium-sized dog of indeterminate ancestry, black, with white feet and stockings, a pretty sight.

 

Also, farther down the path, we saw our friend Ryan, on his ride-on lawnmower. He is a member of the maintenance team here, and another of our favorites…but not just ours.  

 

Socks saw Ryan, and instantly leaped forward—her human companion dropped Socks' leash, and Socks ran, as fast as a dog can run, full tilt toward Ryan and his tractor.

 

He turned off the machine, waited a second, and then Socks—with a tremendous leap—landed atop the lawnmower and in his lap, clearly ecstatic.

 

Later, we asked Ryan about his relationship with Socks.

 

"She loves me," he said. "Whenever she sees me, her owners just drop her leash and here she comes, fast as she can go."

 

Troubling news, yesterday, on the tv and internet and newspapers. It's always troubling. Out our window, however, the headlines were uplifting—

 

"Dog Loves Man!" "Man Loves Dog!"

 

Go ahead, Socks. Do it again. Make our day!

 

--Joyce and Richard

 

 

In case you missed it, we just saw a CNN story that hit a chord, and we want to share it.

 

Cinnamon, a goat, and Felix, a 1-year-old bulldog mix, are totally buddies.

 

They hang out full-time, eating, playing, and sleeping.

 

They came to the Wake County Animal Center, in Raleigh, North Carolina, on March 13, 2023, because they each needed a home, and they found one—together.

 

Now they're BFFs, because a local family, with a history of fostering homeless animals, has taken them in. They now have a small herd of goats, for consorting, pastures for romping, and—of course—each other.

 

Animals, we believe, are sentient, like us, with awareness and emotions, a belief based on really smart and caring dogs we've had in our lives.

 

Plus, a bit of back story—when one of us (Richard) was a child, his dog was an exceptionally bright border collie (mix), who took it upon herself to watch over a boy she considered incapable of looking after himself.

 

Richard had a friend up the street who also had a devoted animal in his life, Clover, a goat. Goat and dog became good friends, and when the two boys played together, so did the animals, fun for all.

 

Only sour note: Richard's mother looked askance at a goat in her house, prancing about on sharp little hooves.

 

--Joyce and Richard 

 

 

Now it is March, which is northern New England's season of impatience.

 

Four months now we've had snow and ice, and slippery roads, and frigid Canadian winds. We're ready for crocuses and incoming robins singing cheerio. But that's not yet.

 

South of here, March is when spring finally opens its eyes. Here in the north, it's when spring gives us an occasional sexy wink, to soften us up, then blows more snow in our face.

 

So, here we are, looking out our west-facing windows at the horizon's mountain range, white all the way up the flanks to the peaks. There's a meadow below our windows, rising to a knoll, all buried under a foot of snow.

 

Gray sky, looming clouds. More snow forecast.

 

We stare out the window glumly. After all these months, winter lies heavy on the mind.

 

But what's that, coming up the meadow knoll? It's a woman, bundled in a parka and heavy mittens, and at her feet prances a small mahogany-furred presence, performing ballet moves in the snow.

 

It's Walter!

 

He's a Pembroke Welsh corgi, with a huge personality, but short legs. Walter can't walk through the snow, with those short legs, so he prances through it, jumping, pirouetting, burrowing, leaping up in a geyser of white—having a blast.

 

Walter's endured the same four frozen months as we have, and now he's out in it with no parka, no mittens, no boots…but he's not glum.

 

Walter is joyfully alive, relishing the white stuff in which he prances, gleefully using his snout as a shovel, to throw up powdery white clouds.  

 

Presumably, we should learn from Walter—take what life gives you, cold or warm, find joy, prance.

 

Yes, it would be nice. However, that's not how it is. Our sky's still gray, our meadow's still  mineral white, it's still gusting cold.

 

We watch Walter prance back down the knoll and out of sight, leaving just a memory of exuberance.

 

We're still staring out the window, looking at another month of winter.

Yet, not quite so glumly as fifteen minutes ago.

 

Thanks, Walter.

 

--Joyce & Richard 

 

 

 

I once worked at a zoo, as keeper of the bear-cub pit, overseeing twenty-eight orphaned baby bears, all roughhousing in their enclosure. I've been a bear fan ever since.

 

So the other day, on national public radio, I tuned into a Fresh Air interview with science-writer Mary Roach, author of a new book, Fuzz: When Nature Breaks the Law. She got my attention right off, because she said "bears."

 

She talked about bear home invasions.

 

She said bears have learned how to use door handles to open doors. Sometimes they do break the door down, but they can be thoughtful about it. For instance, one bear knocked down a house's front door, then carefully picked up the fallen door and neatly leaned it against the adjacent wall.

 

My favorite bear crime was ice-cream theft. Mr. or Ms. Bear breaks into your house, bee-lines for your refrigerator, opens the freezer, and takes out the ice cream containers. However, says Mary Roach, the bears have become particular about ice cream.

 

They ignore supermarket-brand ice creams. If it's not Ben & Jerry's or Haagen-Dazs, or some other gourmet ice cream, they just leave it in disgust.  

 

Often, though, before lumbering out with their haul, they politely shut the freezer door.

 

Thanks for the bear uplift, Mary Roach. I'll be reading your book!

 

--Richard

 

 

South Hero Island, in Vermont, offers stunning views of Lake Champlain. It also offers "Birdhouse Forest."

 

Driving north, toward Canada, you pass a sign: "White's Beach." Look to your right.

 

Most travelers stop here, where a swamp borders the road, unsure what they're seeing.

 

Every tree sports a birdhouse, each in bright flower colors—rose, lilac, daisy, buttercup….

 

This might be a fairy city.

 

Even a few dinosaurs roam among the trees.

 

All this began when two neighbors learned tree swallows eat huge numbers of mosquitoes. Living beside a swamp, they had mosquitoes. So they decided to craft twenty swallow houses and put them up.

 

Swallows came, and flew through the swamp on mosquito hunts. So the neighbors put up more birdhouses, and more, and more….

 

Twenty years later, Birdhouse Forest is a swallow city, with 800 brightly colored birdhouses. For an added frisson, they installed carved wooden dinosaurs. Probably the reptiles wouldn't scare away mosquitoes, but still, worth a try.

 

Keep a lookout, driving America's back roads—you never know what you might see.

 

--Joyce