Bon mot for the day: We tend to live in the past when we can't see much of a future.

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us!"

It has occurred to me of late that I've spent most of my life knocking around like the proverbial bull in a china shop, leaving hurt feelings and destruction behind me as I go. If I go back and analyze conversations and situations I've been in, I can see how some people I've been around could easily believe I'm a jerk. I cannot make any excuses for my behavior. To say that I didn't mean to be rude or hateful isn't sufficient. To claim cluelessness is to deny that my behavior was my fault. I have no way to make any of it right, nor is there any reason for anyone to believe that my future behavior wouldn't be just as offensive to some. I'm trying to make amends. I just don't know what else to say or do.

Like a bad penny....

We used to scuba dive as our hobby, a hobby which eventually led to the procurement/construction of a small dive trailer to haul four sets of gear and four cylinders. It was a simple but elegant design - a box on a single axle frame, with the beginnings of a mural painted on both sides, and dive flags at either end. The kids had helped paint it, with Stephen taking special pains with the sharks.

When we moved to Nashville, we sold it. We didn't dive as often, and we had no place to store it. Nearly ten years have passed since that October in '99 when we came up here, and I hadn't thought much about the trailer. I thought I had seen it the last time we went to Greenfield, but I wasn't sure. Then Saturday my mother-in-law called to say the neighbor across the street had our trailer for sale. The neighbor was asking a certain price, and we offered a little less. She called back later to say it was ours for the picking up.

Sunday we made the trip to fetch it. Oddly enough, except for the interior racks/shelving being cut out, it looked exactly the same. The paint had faded, but our names were still painted on the back. The tires hadn't been replaced, so that was the first order of business, but it bounced all the way to Nashville, and we have a piece of our family history back.

Cancer sucks. I'm not whining, I'm just stating facts. It sucks. It doesn't play by the rules, and it certainly doesn't fight fair. When they said Momma's cancer was back, Iwas frustrated. She already fought this thing. It should have been the end of it, not just the beginning. When they said it was just in her lungs, I was slightly encouraged. There's no cure, but there can be control - it's possible to keep it beaten into submission. But they didn't tell us the whole truth, and they may not have known the whole truth, so I'll try not to lash out at the people I believe are trying to help her, not hurt her. The MRI painted a much darker picture. Three spots on the brain. And oh-by-the-way, what are you doing about the tumors on the spine? WHAT tumors on the spine? Who knew? When did they know? Why didn't they communicate this? But again, it does no good to bash the people who are trying to help. So a new battle plan has to be executed in this fight for her life. Fifteen days of potentially brain scrambling radiation. Three treatments down, twelve to go. Add in who knows how many radiation treatments on the tumors on the spine. Then we do six weeks/months/who the hell knows how many rounds of chemo to handle the cancer in her lungs. I'll say it again. Cancer, my friends, sucks.

I have a picture on my desk of my dog. I don't keep photos of the kids. I should, but it's something I didn't do before, and while I have them at home, I just don't do it here at work. But I have a photo of Bear, stuck in a gaudy green magnetic "My Dog Is Incredible" frame I got for signing up for a newsletter. The photo was taken back in Greenfield, probably in '97 or '98. She was maybe three years old, tops. I used to joke with people that she liked that picture best, because it was taken when she still had her girlish figure and she didn't weigh the 120 she did five years later. She's all smiles, contented lounging on the floor, ears perked up. It's the way I want to remember her, full of life, contentment, and just happy to be a part of the family.

Today was a rough day. I didn't want to do it. But I knew it was really past time, and that nothing the vet could do could undo aging. She was 13, her hips and muscle mass was fading fast, and she hurt all the time. We finally made the call yesterday to schedule the final appointment. She didn't sleep last night - she kept banging her head against the bed and the floor, twitching as if she were having seizures. When we came home at lunch she was alseep in the kitchen, and I realized just how gaunt she had gotten. It took nearly ten minutes to walk her off the deck and get her into the car. No hopping up - those days were long past. The vet and her assistant were kind, and took care of her as if she were their own dog. It wasn't easy for me, or for Michael, but we're glad the suffering is over.

If there is a dog heaven, then there's a beautiful white shepherd there today, chasing squirrels and running through the sprinkler system, all smiles, and happy.

A random glance through the local free paper recently led to the realization that Chris Botti was coming to play the Ryman. Over my protests, my daughter purchased tickets, and so it was that Wednesday evening was spent in awe, and my iTunes are still stuck on my Botti playlist. Music may be my second language, but I still don't know the words to describe jazz. My initial fear was that he would be some blow-hard (pardon the pun), stuck on himself pretty boy who only wanted the spotlight on him. How wrong I was. He celebrated everyone's contribution onstage, was self-deprecating, and was genuinely fun to watch. It's almost as if he had come to play in my living room, entertaining a few hundred of my friends. We were thoroughly entertained by a master showman and trumpet player, and his supporting band members. And I will never look at Google's "did you mean" the same way again.

So I had my summer all planned. Heather graduates: Check. Heather gets wisdom teeth removed: Check. Heather schedules knee surgery to clean up a torn meniscus, and I schedule to take a week off for her recovery, with plans to work on a wedding dress for her older sister: Check. Right before my birthday, all my planning took a detour. I know people think I'm being flip when I say that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, but it's just a variation of the old Irish saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." Well, I guess He's laughing up a storm. Momma's cancer is back, with a vengeance, and has moved into her lungs. I convinced her to seek treatment here, and I'm in the process of moving her in with me. And that week off? I bought the material. I'll get started on the dress later. I will get it done. But I have other things to take care of as well, and I'm determined not to let things get me down. So what if none of this is what we planned. We'll get through it, and we'll make the best of it, some way, somehow.