What's in a Name ?

The other day I googled some names of family and friends just to see if they showed up on the inter net. It's amazing how many of us have the same name. I tried both my married and maiden name - there were several listings for Kathleen Dobbs and Kathleen Cooney; the same with the derivative, Kathy and most of them weren't me. The truth is my name almost wasn't Kathleen at all, but Christine. That was my mother's first choice to name me,but when she told her grandfather the name she had picked for his great grand-daughter he frowned and said it wouldn't do as it was too Swedish sounding for our strong Irish/Norwegian roots.

Chris Cooney is nice, but I'm glad my parents settled on Kathleen Rosalie. The Rosalie is after my mother whose middle name is also Rosalie and for St. Rose of Lima,a saint she had a particular devotion to. From the time I was very young mom would tell me I had a faithful friend in St. Rose, and it's true.

By the time I was school age we had moved from Iowa to California; Unbeknown to my mother, the parish church and school I would attend was named St. Rose of Lima. Some might consider that a co-incidence, but not me. I've always thought it was a spiritual hug from St.Rose to my mother.

At home I was mostly called Kathy; Although sometimes my dad shortened it to Kay, and on occasion my mother would lovingly refer to me as Katrinka, or Kate Kadiddlehopper - like on a Saturday morning when we took time out from doing house chores to dance a polka together around the front room, or while sitting on the floor and mom would help me cut out paper dolls. At school, however, the nuns always stuck with the more formal Kathleen. I think it was part of their effort to help me become a more serious student. Unfortunately it didn't work.

When I started playing on the basketball and volleyball team in 7th grade our coach, Liz Miller nicknamed me 'Little One'. I'm sure the first time she pointed to me and said, "Little One, practice that pivot again", was because she couldn't remember my given name. That, and the fact I was smaller than most of my teammates. Anyway, the name stuck and for the next two years that's what Liz always called me.... as did the other girls on the team. I wanted to be taller then so I could be a better spiker at the net, and wasn't too happy I was identified as 'Little One', but eventually I found the name to be endearing and kind of special. Liz was a great influence on my life during that period, I even wanted to follow in her footsteps and become a coach at a Catholic school.

When I started high school it was completely different. It was like i didn't even have a first name, I was simply called 'Cooney'. I don't recall how or why that came about, but think it was due to my dear, darling friend Susan yelling on campus one afternoon, "Hey, Cooney, come over here by us". From then on, it was always, Cooney. Sometimes it used to bother me; I'm not exactly sure why, I guess I just wanted my friends to call me by my first name once in awhile. Ultimately, like the nickname, "Little One" I came to find being called Cooney pretty special.

Phyllis and I met while working together at a community newspaper in the early 1970's. We clicked and somehow knew we'd be forever friends. Her name for me was 'Kid Cooney' and I called her "Ma Smarsh". Names that made us sound more like members of a 1930's gangster ring rather than the Display Advertising sales persons we were. While those tags might seem funny, they're not as silly as the ones we have today for each other: Heckle and Jeckle. Phyllis is Heckle and I'm Jeckle - two clever and compatible Magpie pals. Once when I confronted my son, Gavin about something he was doing I thought immature, he turned to me and in a deadpan voice said, "Mother, you think what I'm doing is immature ? You and Phyllis are middle aged women pretending to be cartoon characters." I realized he made a good point and couldn't help but laugh right out loud.

Once married, my long time high school pals started calling me Kathy or Kath; Just like someone waved a magic wand, no more Cooney. I was, and am Mrs. Gary Dobbs, a name I cherish most dearly.

My husband has always preferred Kathleen. I like that , too. After all these years of marriage we still laugh and giggle when we sing song rhyming our names, "Kathleen and Gary Gene".

To Gavin and Garrett, I'm mother; and grandma Kathy to Zak, Rachel and Emily.

Every name - every part of our name including first,middle, last; Maiden, married or nickname helps tell the story of our life and those who share in it.

50% OFF

I always look forward to the 50% Off sale every Wednesday at St. Vincent de Paul's thrift shop in Coeur d Alene. The sale price isn't just for a few selected items, but for every piece of merchandise in the store. There are some great bargains to be found. I'm never sure what's going to turn up as I browse through clothing racks,housewares,furniture,record albums and books; but I know I'll always find something interesting. Like being on a treasure hunt, this exercise requires focus and perseverance until locating some hidden cache. After mapping out sections of the store to search thru mounds of stuff, I experience the thrill of exhilaration and excitement when my eyes finally light upon that one special thing, whatever it might be.

Yesterday it was a 1930's bedroom chair with a classic print upholstery from that era. When I asked the sales clerk the cost and she responded $20., I knew I found my treasure. But that wasn't all ! A few minutes later I spotted a professionally framed Bunny Hop print by artist Jane Mason Burke for four dollars. The rectangular size and periwinkle blue backdrop would be perfect with the 1930's bedroom chair. Scurrying down one aisle and across another I quickly made my way to the other side of the room, claimed the print and dropped it in my cart.

Two other fun finds were a new Voit made in the USA softball and a turquoise rosary marked Rome 1950. Now I'm all set to pray and play while the Bunny Hop print and chair make a charming addition to our main floor guest room.

Potted Flowers

Over the Memorial Day Weekend I planted and filled four supersized flower pots in the front of our house with zinnia, dahlia, marigold and mums. The vivid red, yellow and orange remind me of colors in an old crayola box. The green leafy stems give a full, lush look to the pretty flowers. Grouped together as ones gather for a picture at a family reunion , some of the flowers are taller, shorter, rounder, thinner than others; some are ready to bud, others in full bloom. Each contributes and adds to the beauty of the other. An artist would take delight in painting these favorite 'annuals' of spring and summer; brush and palette in hand she could give them a ' perennial' life on what once was a blank canvas.

Two bee's buzz from flower to flower , a tiny Chickadee makes a landing on the rim of one of the pots while a butterfly near by flutters its wings and moves quickly about. The sun is shining, there's a slight breeze; it's a lovely morning. I'd like to linger longer observing nature's beauty, but can hear that strong inner voice calling, "there's chores to be done".

Honoring Andrew and Joe

The last Monday of May is the day we set aside to honor the war dead. Memorial - to keep in memory, to remember those who have fought and fallen in both popular and unpopular battles for the purpose of defending Democracy and the freedoms we cherish. I think of President Franklin Roosevelt's 1941 Four Freedoms speech to Congress - the one so famously illustrated by the great Norman Rockwell highlighting Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Religion, Freedom from Want, Freedom from Fear, and am grateful to our veterans for answering the call to serve and protect our freedoms from those who would do harm by denying us those very freedoms.

No one likes war, and most of us can't even imagine the horror of what being on a battlefield is like; or the grief of a mother, a father, brother, sister, wife, son, daughter or friend when learning their loved one has been killed in war. My great great Grandmother, Mary Norton experienced that kind of sorrow when she received word from the War Department stating:

"Army of the United States of America
to all who shall see the present greeting
This is to certify, that

ANDREW G. NORTON
Private, Company 6, Camp Gordon Infantry September Replacement Draft,
died with honor in the service of his country
on the ninth day of October, 1918

On a separate letterhead is a listing of his effects :
1 Black Leather Diary with photos
1 Pkg. Letters and Postals
1 Elgin Wrist Watch # 20969206
15 jewels
1 Gold ring
1 Brown Leather Wallet
1 Rosary
1 Scapular

Grandma Norton's eldest son was laid to rest in a U.S. cemetry in Brest, France.

Turning another page in the family scrapbook I come across a newspaper article about Joseph Barrett , 18, killed in action in Germany on March 6, 1945. I've heard stories all my life about Joe Barrett. He was kind of a hero in Council Bluffs; a star basketball player at Holy Family school and all around good guy. My mother's family and Joe's family were close friends; his sister Rosemary and my mom were best childhood pals. Mother sang the solo at Joe's funeral Mass and said it was one of the hardest things she ever had to do.

This Memorial Day I remember and honor all our Veterans, but I think especially of Andrew Norton and Joseph Barrett, men - boys really, I've only known thru newspaper clippings and family stories, and know both rest in eternity with all the great ones.

That Woodsy Feeling

What a glorious day. It is 6 a.m. The air is crisp, but not cold. I breathe in the strong scent of pine and red fir; their old growth needles making new ground cover underneath the trees. There's something about the feel of the air and smell of the earth that reminds me of summer camp when I was 12 years old. I liked it then and like it now. Camp Teresita Pines was nestled in the mountains near Wrightwood, California. In 1963 Wrightwood was still rural and remote, seemingly a long way from Bell, a tiny L.A. suburb. Girls shared bungalows and slept in bunk beds. Since we were members of Junior Catholic Daughters (akin to Girls Scouts) we started each day by attending an outdoor Mass ; we then went on nature hikes, swam, played Volleyball, learned to make leather crafts, and cook hamburgers wrapped in tin foil buried in coals. We sang 'Kumbayha' and other songs by the campfire every night. It was a wonderful woodsy experience for most of us young city gals.

A lifetime later, here in my own little rural corner of the woods the sweet sound of a Black Headed Grosbeak seranades me as I water flowers and fill the bird feeders with seed. My husband Gary greets me with a freshly poured cup of decaf coffee and a Cowboy cookie. We sit down at the table and chairs on our deck and take in the beauty of Lake Coeur d' Alene as it glimmers and shimmers in the early light of day.

I suggest to Gary it might be fun to build a campfire tonight and join voices in song; "Someone's singing Lord, Kumbayha, someone's singing Lord, Kumbayha"

Doe and Daisies

Yesterday evening I was still outside pulling weeds and planting Gerbera Daisies in clay pots when I felt the presence of someone , or something starring at me. Startled, I turned around to see it was only one of the many doe that frequent Dobbs' Retreat. We made eye contact and for several minutes she stood perfectly still looking at me while I stood looking at her. I never tire of seeing these lovely creatures and the way they move with grace and speed. Having already shed her wintry brownish grey coat she was wearing a reddish brown color for spring and summer; there was a marking in the shape of a teardrop diamond in the center of her forehead. The peaceful moment was soon broken by a gust of wind breezing thru the trees, the doe moved her ears like an antennae changing direction to find the right signal, and quickly lifted her white bushy tail, turned to the right then dashed like a sprint runner into the woods.

Returning to my pots and flowers I recalled a special time when my son Gavin was in the second grade and won first place in the Write On Idaho! essay contest; it was on display for a week at the Idaho state capitol. We lived in Bonners Ferry at the time - about a 10 hour drive to Boise - so didn't get a chance to see it first hand, but state officials were kind enough to take pictures of his essay hanging in the great Capitol hall and send to us.

It was my evening encounter with the doe, our eye to eye contact that brought Gavin's writing to mind:

"WHITE TAIL DEER"
by Gavin Dobbs
(written in 1993, Evergreen School - 2nd grade)

Ah, the white tail deer, one of the bobcats most favorite prey!
The collar on its tail is like a black line running through
the snow.
Even at zoo's they are adored by so many people.
But if these deer are so beautiful,
why are hunters so determined to kill this kind of deer ?
Only our God knows.

This evening I'll be back outside filling pots with more daisies, and who knows? Maybe the doe will stop by too

Birds

A variety of birds -
the Spotted Towee, Dark eyed Junco, and Stellar Jay
take turns nibbling seed
at one of the many feeders
hanging from the mighty red fir
looming tall at the side of our house
They come and go
in rapid succession (a few linger longer)
while i continue to
pull weeds
paint the trellis
plant, transplant
flowers and trees.

Pauline and Bill

Along with flowers and rain showers the merry month of May brings the first of many out of town family and friends to Dobbs' Retreat. It's always fun to have folks we like and love stay with us for a few days - since most are city dwellers they enjoy seeing the lake view, tall pines and wildlife that surround our rural home. Pauline and Bill arrived on the 13th . A sweet reunion for Pauline and me as we've been friends since high school- over 40 years ago - where we were both members of Valkyries, Bell High's famed soroity.

We talked and talked and laughed alot; and stayed up past midnight each night looking thru old high school year books and drinking microbrew beer. Uninterested in beer, or our youthful past, Gary and Bill found common ground in political debate - each representing a radically different point of view. Realizing neither could change the others mind, they finally agreed to happily disagree and switched their conversation to birds.

Bill has a super duper Nikon camera - the kind paparazzi use to capture unsolicited photo's of the rich and famous. He took tons of pictures of Pauline and me and many of the wild turkeys scratching for food outside our kitchen window. Some are very good ! If only Pauline and I were rich and famous (even just rich, or famous) I know Bill could sell them to People Magazine, Star or the National Enquirer. Oh well, for us - in our little corner of the world, there's always Facebook !

Yesterday morning, just before Pauline and Bill left, we hugged and renewed vows of friendship. Soon it was time for Pauline to climb into the drivers seat of the big V8 Toyota Tundra named 'George' - after George Burns and start pulling 'Gracie', their pop up tent trailer named for Gracie Allen, and head for Tacoma - another stop on their northwest travels. As Pauline drove her rig down our long rock road and waved her arm backwards out the window , I could hear her yelling, "Good-bye, Kathy". I was waving and hollered back, "Good-bye! Good-bye, Pauline Marie".

My Mother's Voice

My mother left for her home in Clarkston today. She was here to celebrate Mother's Day with us. Although it's only a two hour drive from my house to hers, I always hate saying goodbye. I like it best when the people I love are close at hand. Once in 1958 when I was eight, my mother flew from Los Angeles to Omaha at a time when many folks were still travelling via the railroad - something I was familiar and comfortable with. When my dad, little brother and I walked her to the gate to say good bye, I became a watershed of tears begging her not to go ... I had looked at the airplane sitting on the run way and was plagued with an unrealistic fear I would never see my mom again. Like a new puppy I experienced separation anxiety - the main difference I didn't shred the draperies or chew the furniture.

From the time I was very small - still a toddler, a favorite rememberance is my mother reading poetry to me. Then as now I find the sound of her voice to be calm and loving, filling me with a confident assurance that " all is well". Mom would read her favorite poets over and over and they became my favorites, too. I think of " The Duel" by Eugene Field, " The Barefoot Boy" by John Greenleaf Whittier and Sam Walter Foss's "The House By the Side of the Road" :

"Let me live in my house by the side of the road-
It's here the race of men go by.
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are stong,
Wise, foolish - so am I;
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man"

I recognize this is my mother's creed - understanding we are all good and bad, weak and strong, wise and foolish. She has chosen not to be cynical or sit in the scorner's seat, but to be loving, joyful and kind. My mother's voice - not just the sound, but in the way she lives her life.

Flowers or Showers

Is it "April Showers bring May flowers" - or more showers? Since the first of May we've seen little of the flowers and more of the showers here at Dobbs' Retreat. Waking to early morning sprinkles and grey covered skies, a little bit of sun finally streams its way thru broken clouds around mid day - but not for long. An hour or so later a mighty wind and heavy rain drops hit the hard ground sounding like nervous fingers rhythmically tapping a desktop.

It's not enough though, to scare my mountain man husband and me from staying outside to dig holes, mulch, plant, and transplant; Lilac bushes,Rose bushes, Smoke trees,Geraniums.

There's something uplifting and healing working the earth with our hands while nature and weather weilds its way around us. I'm wet and chilled from the rain, yet I feel joyful; I glance over at my garden bicycle leaning against the house and think of the happy scene with Paul Newman (Butch) riding his bike in the movie 'Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid' and start singing to myself,

"Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me"

After a few minutes I grab the shovel, take a deep breath and somehow know showers today, flowers tomorrow.

MAY 2

Gary and I stood before the altar at a small neighborhood Catholic church, St. Mark's in Venice, California; facing one another we held hands as bands of gold were blessed by the priest before we slipped them onto each others left ring finger. While doing so we vowed our love and fidelity to each other in good times and bad, rich or poor, health and sickness. The happiness I felt knew no bounds as Father Denis Garvey pronounced us husband and wife. Family and friends smiled; A tear of joy fell from my mother's eye. Gary kissed me and I knew my heart was forever his. Our wedding day, thirty years ago today - May 2, 1979.