A couple days ago, my daughter had an appointment in Arvada, an older suburb of Denver. The “Old Town” is charming with renovations morphing into coffee houses, boutiques, and restaurants. I rode along with her since she’d suggested there was a fun coffee house located there. “You can write while you wait,” she said. “Then, we have to go into the shop next door. Their Christmas items are so pretty.” She knows I’m a sucker for Christmas decorations. She also knows I can’t turn down a visit to a great coffee shop. Combine a latte with a new Christmas item and I’m in, all the way.

            She left for her hour appointment a block away and I ordered my almond milk, sugar-free flavored latte and settled at a small round wooden table by a large window framing the street outside lined with lamps. Christmas lights were wrapped around fresh greenery and finished off with red plaid bows, the perfect touch. I set my computer on the table, drank my latte, and wrote. I can’t begin to tell you who walked through the door or what they wore or even said. A coffee shop is my “happy place” for writing. All else fades.  

            I’ve always been intrigued as to where writers prefer to write, where they do their best creating. There are so many places I’ve heard or read about. A bedroom turned into one’s private writing nest, an office with computer and printer sitting on a desk, a conference table in a worker’s lounge used during breaks, a cozy chair facing a window with nature just outside or even a patio table on a deck. That’s just a few. The important thing is that wherever one writes, there’s a good chance that just like my coffee house, the rest of the world is shut out and the words become the only noticeable activity. 

A friend and I had searched for a dog rescue where we’d like to volunteer. Heaven knows, there’s plenty of them encircling just our area. Through a small community paper article, we discovered one that rescues mainly puppies and their mothers—strays, mostly emaciated, feeding five or six young puppies. The owners work with a woman on one of the New Mexico reservations to help rescue as many dogs as possible. The rescue also pairs up with the humane society to adopt them. The puppies are adopted quickly, the mothers not so much. It’s heartbreaking and one just hopes they also are taken into a loving, caring home. 

We currently volunteer one day a week and it’s such delight to socialize the little ones with cuddling and belly rubs. Today, two fuzzy polar bear-looking puppies played tug of war with my shoestrings. Their little growls are delightful. The others come over, scrambling over each other in their clumsiness to reach us. How can you not laugh?

Currently, there are two mothers and three sets of puppies (the youngest set are still bottle fed since their mother was never found). We walked the mothers down a country road where the rescue is located. At times, they were skittish and stopped to stare at the prairie fields beside us. We never figured out what they were looking at, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t see or smell something far off. One can almost intuit their former life and the vigilance necessary to survive. Once we turned around to head home, the two dogs nearly pulled us over, tugging at their leashes, in a rush to check on their babies. Animals are teachers. We just need to notice.

During this season of giving, please consider donating to any rescue of your choice—cats, dogs, mustangs, or anything else. It would be a wonderful Christmas gift. Maybe give some shoestrings?

“Twas four weeks before Christmas, when all through the house, flour was sitting…” and so on. I love Christmas and all the festivities accompanying it. However, I diligently wait until December 1^st to begin with music, decorating and cards (yes, I still write them). So, two nights ago I cheated. I decided to make chicken rice soup while listening to Christmas music. I was tra-la-la singing along with Hallelujah by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. The soup called for flour to thicken the broth. Still singing loudly (I was alone in the house), I opened the pantry door and grabbed the flour stored in a large, square plastic Oxo container secured with its awesome push-down lock lid. Before you could wink an eye, as I turned around to leave, the lid gave way in my hands. At least half of the full container of unbleached flour soared into the air like confetti tossed on the bride and groom as they exit the church. 

After considerable cussing, I surveyed the area. Our wooden floor, the stove-top and oven door, the entire bottom half of the cupboards, the counters, the garbage can, the Keurig coffee machine on the counter, the pottery Keurig cup container and my sweatshirt, sweatpants and wool socks were covered in a flour mist. A rather thick one. 

I took off my sweatshirt, pants and socks, leaving footprints across the laundry room. Tossing them in the washer, I grabbed a broom. Bad idea. It doesn’t work. Just then, our dog Rusty came trotting around the kitchen counter to check out the situation. After walking through the floured floor to check on me, he happily pranced down the hallway to go to sit in his favorite chair, leaving white dog prints the entire length. Taking a very deep breath, I set the broom outside on the deck rather forcefully and watched as the bristles made a cloud of flour softly sift into the air like angel dust.

I didn’t want to use our vacuum, so filled the kitchen sink with warm water and a little dish soap. Using two sponges, a rag, and my hands and knees, I wiped it all. Over and over. I locked Rusty in my room and wiped up his canine trail. The entire chore lasted nearly an hour. I no longer wanted to hear Christmas music. Instead, I fixed the lid on the Oxo container and still maintained enough composure to thicken the soup. When my husband came home, I casually remarked, “Guess what happened?” I knew he wouldn’t be surprised. He knows me. And by the way, today I found traces of flour under the dining room table and oven.