Family Dogs - Jersey

I decided to use my blog to pay homage to some of the pet dogs in our family. As a child, I can never recall a time I did not have a dog. What’s not to like about a pet dog? They are loyal, color-blind and have an uncanny ability to read the intonation of our voice, decipher our emotional state, and provide comfort at just the right time.

Our eldest daughter’s first dog in North Carolina is named Jersey which is a tribute to our previous home state of New Jersey. At 10+ years old. this dog is the senior matriarch of the Parlante dog clan. Jersey is regal, stoic and has a mind of her own and yes … she is dog aggressive. Of all the dogs in the Parlante clan she’s the only one with an “arrest” record resulting from a sheriff’s visit after she confronted another dog while asserting her territory. Whenever she spends time in the kennel, she was earmarked as dog-aggressive. She was always kept separate in a specially appointed room with a regular child-sized bed, television and use of the run with no other dogs accompanying her.

When I first met Jersey I thought she should be a movie star. She looked and behaved like a junk-yard dog. Her black and white fur grew in every direction imaginable, requiring frequent buzz-cuts. She preferred to sleep under tables (likely a reminder of sleeping under cars in a junk yard). She understood English and the family had to resort to spelling out words when you did not want her to react. Eventually, she even learned how to spell. When she heard the letters, R – U – N, she knew it was time to jog.

While Jersey was dog aggressive, she never exhibited that behavior toward people and certainly not toward her family. She typically ignored a house full of guests and preferred to sleep in her designated spot. She is extremely devoted and protective toward her family. She seldom ate her meal without some added embellishment like a dollop of gravy or chicken stock. When we dog-sat she would miss the family and not eat at all.

Only one time, we dog-sat Jersey at our home. It was a long night as she wandered through every room looking for her family and trying to adjust to her surroundings. I finally fell asleep to be awaken silently in the dead of night with her inches away and breathing on my face. Even in the darkness I saw her wide open eyes appealing me to do something! I knew one possible solution.

We spent a few minutes bonding together under the dining room table. I gave her a plush towel, and tried to convince her we were sleeping under a junk car.

It worked!

Robert Parlante

January 2017

(The next dog on the list is Remy)

Let's Put on a Show!

In the 1939 movie “Babes in Arms”, Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland immortalized the words, “Let’s put on a show!” The entertainment duo and their host of talented friends do just that, put on a show of song and dance in an old barn. I did see the movie for the first time several years ago on Turner Classic Movies. The film was dated, fun, and corny.

As a young teen, I mobilized a group of friends to do essentially the same thing __ put on a show to raise money for the Community Chest, a fund-raising effort to help support community activities. The Community Chest was the precursor to the United Way

I did not possess an innate talent for producing any kind of show. I am nothing like Mickey Rooney, except we are in the same ballpark with regard to height. I am 5 inches taller than his 5’2”. Can’t sing, dance or act. But I had a dynamo cousin, about twelve years old at the time, and she could really belt out a song. She was already doing live local television at the time.

She was the 2^nd act star attraction after the opening magician act (yours truly). After my cousin, was an original, but terrible, slap-stick comedy about witches. In hindsight, I should have closed the show on an upbeat with our star belting out her songs.

We constructed an outdoor theater, sold tickets, offered popcorn, wired a record player, and opened to a capacity crowd in my backyard adjacent to the chicken coop. In all, we raised $14 and some odd change.

After the lights dimmed and the outdoor theater was dismantled, a moral dilemma began simmering. I concluded our meager donation would certainly not have a significant impact on the business of the Community Chest. My friends and I had worked so hard, maybe I should just keep the money. I fought that mental battle for several nights as I tried to sleep, tossing and turning and sweating. I had countless reasons why I was justified in keeping the money. Most obvious, I “earned” the money and should be the sole decision-maker regarding its fate. Anyway, who would know if I did not donate the money.

Back then, after much angst, I came to the right decision and donated the money. I had originally “sold” the entire event as a fund-raiser. It would be deceptive not to turn the money over to the Community Chest. At the time, the Times Leader newspaper did a nice editorial-page piece about the donation. I still think about that article whenever I approach walking over the line.

But it was years later I understood the deeper meaning. As a spouse, parent, or friend, always be a person of your word.

2 Corinthians 8:21 (paraphrased) says: “take pains to do what is right, not only in the eyes of the Lord but also in the eyes of everyone else.”

Robert Parlante

January 2017

A Winter's Read (Part 2)

The following is the second half of an article published by The Lookout magazine on a snowy day in January. The original title was “One for the Books.” As I blog , I am looking out my window, and  I don’t see much snow. Some parts of Charlotte got up to 10 inches on Friday evening. We had less than one inch, the first measurable amount in 2017. No matter the amount it still brings back great memories of a record-breaking ride!
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“I did it!” This was one for the record books.

I stood up, my gloved hands still clutching the sled rails. I was a herald athlete waiting for his crown of honor.

But my euphoria quickly dissipated when I realized no one had seen my run.

My friends would never believe it. There was no way to prove it. No audience. No photos. No newspaper reporters.

Then Dead Man’s Curve suddenly felt ominous. I hated the desolate spot with no lights and no houses around. The specter of auto accidents and deaths at the sharp S-curve overwhelmed my mind.

“Where’s my victory? I thought. Why is fear overtaking me?

I could smell perspiration and my wet wool hat. I felt a gust of wind. The night cold began to numb me.

The stars still shone brightly. That was comforting.

I began the long trek home, trying not to lose courage as I thought of the tales of smashed-up cars.

I took in a deep breath and gazed into the heavens. They looked clear and bright, like a freshly washed window. And in that moment I realized that just as God sees my defeats, he sees my victories. Was that enough? For the first time in my life, I realized the power of God to know my life. The Lord was my audience. He was the witness. Only his words counted.

I did not actually hear God saying, “Well done, faithful servant.” But as the wind picked up and the ice-crusted trees creaked, it felt like those words.

Our goals as Christians will always be to face any challenge fearlessly __ to finish the race marked out for us by Christ. We can rejoice over those who have courage to stand alone for the Lord, ignoring the need for applause from the world.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race. I have kept the faith,” the apostle Paul wrote to Timothy (2 Timothy 4:7)

Whether or not there was someone in his view applauding, Paul never lost sight of the spiritual prize.

On that icy, victorious night, my young mind did not comprehend the spiritual prize. I was occupied with other concerns, such as explaining to my parents what I had done.

But in the end, only a few things matter. We should live to please the Lord. Not only does that goal give freedom, but assurance as well. We can know “there is in store for me the crown of righteous” (2 Timothy 4:7, 8).

Robert Parlante

January 2017

A Winter's Read - Part 1

The following was published by The Lookout magazine on a snowy day in January. Get yourself some hot chocolate and enjoy this winter's read.

The night was still and frigid. The ice-crusted trees stood stiff. I remember the evening being cloudless and the stars especially bright that windless night. All the other kids had gone home, pulling their sleds behind them like defeated warriors.

“It’s too cold for sleigh riding,” my 11-year-old friend said. I stood alone, looking down the glazed road that ran through the hamlet where I lived.

The kids used the road for sledding even though our parents warned us it was too dangerous. It was the only road passing through Keystone, running for miles down the hilly Pennsylvania countryside to the railroad tracks along the creek. No car could maneuver its icy threat that night. But I knew my Western Flyer sled would make easy work of the challenge.

And a challenge it was. No one had ever sledded from the top of Ridgewood Road to the sharp bend, Dead Man’s Curve, about a half mile away. Usually road conditions were not right. Sometimes a car would come by, and you had to swerve off the road into a ditch to get out of harm’s way.

Halfway along the stretch was a flat section. I know of no one who had been able to sled through that troublesome spot without coming to a stop. But that night, I pulled the flaps on my hat tighter over my ears. I grabbed my sled by its outer rails and started running. With a plunge forward, I belly flopped onto the glassy road. I was on my way.

I felt like I was powered by an engine as I skipped effortlessly down the first part of the course. As my speed increased, my excitement grew. I never thought I could go so fast.

I spotted my house in the distance. One instinct said to stop and steer off the road. My parents would be upset if they knew I was sledding on the road again. I ignored the thought and kept right on going. I felt like I was never going to stop.

I got to the second downgrade, and my speed picked up. This was an important hill where you had to increase velocity before the flat stretch.

The sled rattled, and the ice beneath its runners crackled into submission. I was now at the flat spot. I pumped my legs up and down, trying to urge the sled forward.

I slowed down and resigned myself to another typical run. Nobody ever got through this spot.

I could see the beginning of the next downward slope ahead. It was just before the dark and desolate stretch to Dead Man’s Curve. So close and yet so far.

My body pushed forward into the sled, pumping with all its strength.

“God, no cars tonight! Please!” I prayed out loud.

Instead of slowing further, I felt my speed increase. “I’m going to do it!” I suddenly cried out loud.

It was like triumphant propulsion into space as I hit the crest and eased onto the last leg of the challenge. The sled began to move more swiftly. The vibration of runners against the ice sounded like thunderous applause in the quiet night.

When I reached the curve, I twisted the sled to a stop. There was no need to go any further.

“I did it!” This was one for the record books.
(to be continued)

Robert Parlante
January 2017