Special Edition: In Memory of Coco Faxon

A church bell rang out across the grounds of Columbia. I knew that it was for a ceremony for all of the commencements happening this week and that it resembles happiness, joy, renewal. But, unfortunately, for me, that morning it sounded much more like a knell. For more than half of my life, I've had a constant friend and companion. On Wednesday night, I learned that my fourth sister, my dog Coco, passed away.

At first it seemed too hard to believe. The day before I had been on the phone with my dad (Coco was back in San Diego with my parents), and she was barking in the background, I spoke to her on the phone and she was fine.

Sometimes we are presented with unexpected tragedies and they do bring a world of hurt. However, I made a vow when I started this blog that this would not be a sounding board for rants or for anger or sadness. And I will hold true to that. My heart is breaking, but there is no better way to express love and care for someone lost than to celebrate the goodness of their life after they have passed. So, this blog post is dedicated to my dog and all of the warmth, laughter and joy that she brought into the life of my family, friends and me.

In late December of 2001, my sisters and I convinced our parents that we needed a dog. Not that we wanted one, but that our childhood would not be complete without a dog and that it was the duty of our parents to fulfill this standard base requirement. We went to the local shelter (go adoption!) and we looked at a number of pooches. Then, about a week into our search, my dad came home saying that he had found one that we were all going to love. I remember walking down the hall at the pound with dogs yipping and barking and running around playfully, all looking at me with eyes that said, "Choose me!" At the T section of the hall there was a pen with three puppies: a chow, a pit bull  and this pathetic looking brown pup with a long tail and white paws. The pit bull was beating her up and she looked up at us through the gate with her big round eyes and we all knew. This was the one.

We put down our names for her immediately, but there was a one week waiting process. This pup had been left to be "held," but if no one claimed her in that span of time, she would be ours. The only trick was that if we were not at the pound at a certain time that afternoon, the pup would go to the next family in line. I remember telling my teachers at the end of school on that day, that I had to hike it out of there, so that we could go and get this perfect puppy. My dad, my sisters and I made it to the pound with a good half hour to spare. In my then eleven years of life, this was the longest half hour I'd ever withstood. But when it ended, we were the first in line. The pup with the white tip on her tail was ours. As my dad filled out the paper work, a lady approached him and said that if we decided that we didn't want the dog that we should give her a call. I guess that her family was second in line.

The way that CA adoption policy works, the dog has to be spayed before coming home, so we didn't get to bring Coco home for a couple of days. We picked her up from the vet a few days later. It was rainy, which was odd for San Diego. The pup, in a cardboard box, and I were put in the back of my dad's truck (not the bed), where we stared at each other the hole ride home.

It was not long at all until that dog and I were like "pees and carrots." She was my shadow. She followed me everywhere. That sixty-five pound dog and I slept together every night in my bed - her taking up most of it. Whenever I would get ready to sleep, she would sit at the side of the bed and watch for me. I'd climb in to claim my spot and then I'd pat on the side and say, "Hup-hup," and up she'd come. The reason for why I'm such a deep sleeper is probably because I was conditioned for most of my life to ignore the sounds of a loudly snoring dog sleeping on my arm. She would lay right beside me, cuddled up to my side. I'd put my right arm out straight and she would use it as a pillow. We'd sleep the whole night that way. It's strange to think that the next time that I go home, there won't be a dog to keep me warm at night.

My dad goes to work really early, so every day (even on the weekends) Coco would be fed bright and early. Dad would take her for her walks around the neighborhood and she would bark at her favorite dogs. But she was a very good dog and never bit anyone or anything, she didn't even go after Bella when I took the cat home this past winter.

My sister Amanda and her boyfriend, Tim, would care for the dog, also known as "The Face," when my parents would go on long trips. This past weekend, Tim sent us the below photo saying, "Guess who's sleeping on the floor."

Coco would also accompany my parents on occasion in the RV. She was a moto-enthusiast, just like the rest of my family.

Of all the members in my family, Coco had the most nicknames: the Face, Coco-face, babushka (it's Russian for 'grandma' because we'd occasionally put bandannas or scarves over her ears and she would look like an elder woman from the old country - absolutely no offense intended.), baby-dog. We called her Face because when we'd come home after going out to dinner, or if she hadn't seen one of us for a long time, while her entire body wagged from her happiness, a side of her face would scrunch up, like she was trying to smile, but couldn't and it was absolutely hilarious and super cute.

My grandma used to say that Coco had the most human eyes of any animal she had ever seen. It was true, while her eyes were caramel, when she looked at you, it was like she understood. Comforting us when we were sick. Always giving us a good laugh.

My mom put together a beautiful tribute to help us say goodbye to our baby.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yO1yPTFGDX0&feature=youtu.be

This hasn't been easy to write. I intentionally did it while at work, so that I would not be a sobbing mess, but still, I drew the attention of my colleagues and they were very understanding and supportive. I'm glad that they were around. It makes it a little easier to be surrounded by good company at a time like this.

I will always miss you and love you, Coco. You truly were the best dog anyone could have ever had.

Coco Faxon

2001 - 2013

"Take Me Out to the Ballgame"

If any of this is highlighted in white, I apologize ahead of time.

“Choosing a path means having to miss out on others” 

― Paulo Coelho

I recently saw this quote on my friend Gillian's Facebook and it couldn't be more true for this week's post. While I'm not sure what my plans were any more for last Monday night (but I'm certain there was something) around midday, my colleague peaked her head up so to see me above my monitor (our desks face each other) and said, "Hey, Sarah, wanna go to a Yankee game tonight?"

I thought on it for half of a second then said, "Sure."

Danielle then returned to her phone conversation and said, "Yeah, Sarah's in; she's the easy one to convince." Or something to that effect.

'Tis true. Life has taught me that even the best laid plans can distract you or detract from potential greatness. There's a fantastic line in the Pirates of the Caribbean movie (I think the first), where the pirates who are allegedly governed by the sacred code "as laid forth by Morgan and Bartholomew". Someone (not a pirate) says when she sees that they are deviating from their constitution, "What about the code?" 

The pirates shrug and say, "They're more like guidelines." 

I think we should use the same approach to plans, especially after my Monday night.

The regular workday played-on; did some grant-writing training, knocked out an expense report, taped things to paper, etc. (If you're a regular reader, you should know by now that this job is anything but dull or in-need of excitement). But at one point I realized that it was going to be chilly out, and my little university fleece would not meet the grade at Yankee Stadium. For weeks I've been putting off purchasing a Columbia Uni sweatshirt, but this was just the push that I needed. 

The end of the work-day rolled around and Danielle and I were ready to fly. We made a last minute decision to take the train into Harlem as opposed to waiting for the bus, which turned out great. We were able to stop by her apartment to freshen up and Danielle was able to grab some warmer clothes for herself, little did we know (I just love that cliche) how good these decisions to grab extra layers would turn out to be.

Yankee Stadium
If you live in NYC and you haven't been, why not? This was my second official visit to the area, and while I hear that Old Yankee Stadium was a sight to see, the new Yankee Stadium is a monolith of its own right.

Danielle and I were awed by the sights, the sounds, the crowds and we completely bi-passed the gate where  her step-dad was waiting for us with the tickets. With the flotsam and jetsam that is the hour before gametime, this isn't hard to do. It was like floating through a sea of Yankee-blue decorations. But of course, this is New York, so the awe of it all would occasionally bring us back to NYC, when a disgruntled fan would scream profanities for people getting in their way. Don't slow down or physically block New Yorkers; it never works in your favor.

Eventually, we made our way to Gate 6, found Rob, and into the Stadium we went. My first time to Yankee stadium was about a year ago and this time around, the stadium was equally as incredible.

As a nerd with a particular emphasis on New York history, being surrounded by something that is such and has been such an integral part to New York life, was spectacular. Not going to lie, I don't know much about the game - I was raised in a Charger/Dallas football-only household, but I do enjoy watching baseball and playing very much. Regardless if the Yankees won or lost, it was going to be a great and blog-worthy experience.

We left our extra ticket with will-call for a friend that was coming later and then headed off to our seats. And boy were we delightfully surprised-

We were in the section where there were warnings on the back of every seat that said "Look out for foul balls and bats." The seats were padded, the leg room was great, and, believe it or not, we had the option of not leaving our seats to go and get treats.

In-seat service, baby. But we chose to go the old-fashioned way and stand in line ourselves. It was interesting though to watch the runners come and check the placards to see if anyone was ready to order anything and a number of people did. If you spend that much for seats, you might as well. But being as our tickets were free...

The game was delightfully engaging. The first foul ball landed a couple of rows in front of us. A camera guy came right up in Danielle's face and she and a corner of me ended up on the mega-tv for the whole stadium to see! There was even a marriage proposal on the mega-screen and as it turns out, the lucky guy and lady were about thirty feet to our lefts. (She said 'yes').

Our missing friend, Rachael, came and joined us and we discussed the many meanings of "ramparts" from the National Anthem, the awesomeness of the seats, and we witnessed what it means to have the foam-finger in the first-class seats -

The life of the game came from four young men who were sitting just behind us. One of them was particularly verbal, but he was not profane in any way. At one point, there was a huge argument among the umpires and the Yankees coach, and we were privileged enough to hear "first-hand' the conversation thanks to these guys, one of whom was clairvoyant and was channeling word for word the dialogue. This gave us and the people directly behind us a ton of laughs. When the young man stopped his prolific expressions, the people behind us cheered him on and told him that the game wasn't worth it without his dialogue. Delighted by this, the man stood up and started berating  and coaching the players again.

Toward the end of the game, Rachael pointed to the back of the field and said, "Isn't it a trip how there's a wall of television screens?"

To which I replied, "That's a club." I had been in there once before thanks to a trip I made to Yankee stadium last year. It wasn't much, I explained, but the view of the field was incredible. Granted, our seats were incredible.

Upon further examination of our tickets, Rachael said, "Hey look, we can get into that club." Sure enough, our tickets granted us access to the exclusive Mohegan Sun bar. So, Danielle, Rachael, and I skipped off on a little adventure to the Mohegan Sun to see what was inside. When we got there, we were a little let down. I'm not sure that if I'm "allowed" to write about it, but the views at our seats were better. If anything, it was warmer in the enclosed club and the bathroom was nice.

Back out into the cold we journeyed, returning to our seats. Our tummies were starting to rumble and it was getting very cold, but we still had a great time. And the Yankees won.

After the game, we skipped off to enjoy cocktail hour at Applebee's where the good times continued to roll. It was a great night and even though we had to be back at work early the next morning, what is a lack of sleep when compared to the joy brought by spontaneity?

"Live in each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit."

-Henry David Thoreau.

Your humble writer,

S. Faxon

Special Edition: Mother's Day

Whether we outright acknowledge it or not, we all have heroes or idols to whom we model our lives or to whom we look for strength and guidance. For me, my hero is my mom. There are so many articles and conversations out there right now saying that women can't have it all, mostly meaning a career and a family, that they have to make a choice, have to make sacrifices. But my mom, she's done it all.

While managing earning her degree and working full time, my mom was an active, involved, and supporting participant in the lives of her four daughters. There was never a competition, performance or birthday missed. And we were very active youngins. My sisters and I were involved in Girl-scouts dance, band, ballet and orchestra. And she was always there snapping a million photos, capturing every moment.

For guidance and wisdom, kitchen company, and many, many laughs, I know to turn to my mom. I'm so glad and so proud to call her my mom that I wanted to share this sentiment with you, dear readers.

To you, mom, I am sorry that I could not be there with you for Mother's Day back home, and I know that that it is tough with the continental US separating us, but know that you are with me in my heart always. Love, your baby.

My mom, my sisters and me in Summer of 2011

Weather

In Southern California, when it rains the youth dash outside to feel the water falling from the sky upon their faces. It is refreshing. It is a blessing from the gods and they feel their pagan ancestors calling them to pay tribute, so they answer the call and prance barefooted or in flip flops (the general equivalent) in the puddles. It is ceremony of renewal. In Native American lore, rain is a symbol of cleansing, rebirth. When it rains on your wedding day, it is a sign of good luck.

When it rains in New York, forget about it.

Two steps out from my apartment on Wednesday, I was drenched. You know it is raining hard when every person on the bus looks like they took a dip in a pool in their professional attire. I started writing this blog while on the bus in the deluge on my way to work. I thought about texting my colleague, ''I'm wet and uncomfortable, may I go home?'' But, like the Post Office,  rain, sleet, plane delays, or super storms cannot stand in a peace builder's way.

Weather is fascinating to me. A childhood in So. Cal means that watching the weather forecast is not done to see the temperature, it is done to see John Coleman say, 'And the breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze....'

Daytime weather in So Cal is usually between 64* and 80* with low humidity, so this translates to New Yorkers as Florida without the sweating.

In my first year in New York it was the coldest winter in a decade if I am not mistaken. It does get cool (note that I didn't say "cold") in San Diego in December to February, but that's it and if it were to ever snow in San Diego proper, people would fear that the Apocalypse is near. Even in that movie, The Day After Tomorrow, in one of the scenes it is snowing on the San Diego/TJ border (Tijuana). So snow in SD = Bad News Bears. The first blizzard that I encountered was so alien to me. The university shut down for several days, but being that I lived in a dorm, I had to venture out into the wild to collect food.

Geared up in an ankle length, down parka, with jeans, sweats, gloves, thermal socks, boots, fur cap, and scarf I readied myself to be blasted. I never felt closer to my primordial ancestors than on this morning. 

When I first stepped outside of my dorm building, it was cold, but it wasn't horrendous. It was 19*, which is child's play to me now, but was misery to me then. I walked through the path, still covered in ice, through the walls of snow piled shoulder-high (keep in mind my shoulder height is around 4'8'') and toward the cafeteria that was at the end of a long corridor between buildings. On a normal day on this campus, this corridor is breezy as the campus is on a hill in deep Queens. On a blizzardy day, it is a vicious wind tunnel that seeks to suck the soul from your body. One step on to the central path and I was nearly blown over. Did I mention that the regular wind chill was -5? The tunnel windchill was probably -15. Not normal.

That day I saw many people get blown over onto their backs from the icie ground and the pushy wind. This just further proves my theory that we are meant to migrate south for the winter - the geese do it, why shouldn't we?

The next year brought us another winter full of snow. I was living on the campus in Manhattan then and two of my friends and I decided that we should celebrate the snow-day by migrating north (makes sense) to Central Park. We were going to have a real, right-proper snow day. So, my two warm climate friends (one from Barbados and the other from Texas), and I geared up and trekked out. Getting to the park was probably the most difficult part as many of the roads and paths had not yet been salted (this makes it sound like we live in some remote part of a mid-western state - no offense intended - but we lived smack in the middle of the Financial Center).

Looking north up West Broadway

When we made it to Central Park, we could not believe how much snow had fallen.

And we certainly had a blast playing in it.

Well, sort of - maneuvering in the snow after a lifetime of bare-feet/flip flops and sunshine was a bit exhausting.

But failing at making snowmen (being shown up by a youngster) and falling without the capacity to get up was a blast and a lot of laughs.

So errant weather will be what you make of it. It's raining here now and I'm using the time productively by blogging and grading finals. (Bella Tuna is using my distraction of blogging to raid my purse - I'm not really certain what she's after, but she's two thirds buried in my bag...I should probably stop her.)

Your humble writer,

S. Faxon

Peace-building, An Exercise

As many of my readers may know, I work at a peace-building organization. My colleagues and I have been trained in conflict resolution, mediation techniques, and self-meditation practices. We're sort of like professional hippies out to fight the battles for peace with dialogue and understanding. Due to all of this training, we are all relatively calm individuals who can control our passions and express ourselves (mostly) via rational means even when discussing our passions.

But, there was "never a calamity ever so great" as to what happened in the office fridge "by mistake" (Yes, this culminates quotes from Tim Burton's opening of The Nightmare Before Christmas).

Last weekend, my colleagues and I hosted a two day training seminar for one of our regions of focus. We had an elaborate spread of food on the first day that left us with the most scrumptious looking leftovers; two gallons of salad, a gallon and a half of humus, a proportionate amount of pita bread, two sandwiches, and a packed box of baklava. Being that my colleagues and I are very busy in the office, it was exciting to think that we would not lose time (or money) on food that upcoming week because we had enough food for all of us for several days.

Monday rolled around and we were hosting a delegation from Burma/Myanmar - it was an all day and very important event. There was a lunch with the faculty at Columbia where I was the photographer. While I was really hungry, I didn't eat because it would have been horribly awkward for me to be filling my plate in the background while a long table full of diplomats, professors, and directors of major programs were having an intellectual discussion of how to assist ground efforts for peace and stability in Burma/Myanmar. There was all of that food in the office anyway.

After the lunch, there was a public lecture to which over 150 people attended, where our special guest was able to answer questions from the audience, a good number of which were from his country. All the while, I'm jumping around the enormous room, snapping away photos and ignoring the grumbling in my tummy. The lecture ended, the hands were shaken, the business cards exchanged and the time at last had come for me to sneak away and celebrate with pita, hummus, and baklava.

I excused myself from a potential informal post-event meeting and skipped off to the office. My head was feeling light, so I knew not to fool around, but to eat right away...this of course means that as opposed to working for an hour before eating, I only sent out approximately fifteen minutes worth of emails. Sent buttons pressed, I armed myself with a plastic spoon and plate, readying myself for the feast.

The fridge for our department is in the office two doors down and it happened to be unoccupied at the moment, so I grabbed the key from our office and went to the fridge. With all of this excitement built up, imagine my horror when all that stared back at me from the fridge was a liter of soy milk.

My heart dropped.

The food was gone.

It was one of those moments where I could not process the image of a clean, empty fridge before me. "It was there last night!" I thought to myself, "We stacked the remainders from yesterday around Saturday's food! I know we did this!"

But then it hit me and I knew exactly what happened without any fingerprinting kit or evidence necessary.

I closed the fridge. I locked the office door. I crossed the short hall to the trashcan across the way (still holding my spoon and plate, by the way). And there it was. In a tall, grey trash-bin, all of our food lay. It was a sad image - the trays of food were put to rest without having been given the chance to fulfill their purpose.

That was it. I charged back to the office and sent the following three texts to my colleague:

"The food is all gone"

"Only soy milk remains."

"I'm going home."

So I did. We work in peace-building in regions where people starving to death is normal and here in the first world, we throw away food if it takes up too much space or if it is starting to look bad. I was furious. Furious on three levels: one, I knew who did it - and this colleague did not ask us or anyone whose food was in the fridge and if it was okay if he threw it out; two, that food would have fed three people for a week; and, three, nothing was put in the fridge to take up the space made. The soy milk had already been in there - there was no point to taking out the food. I knew for a fact that as of the night before the food was in perfect condition.

One bus ride later, I felt like I was being ridiculous about the food, so I called my colleague to be talked down, but the complete opposite happened. She was equally as upset; her hopes for dinner had been smashed. She also knew instantly who it was that threw away all the food. We grumbled together about how we had to now purchase food and what our next steps should be, if any. My colleague decided to compose a professionally written email, asking if this colleague felt obliged to empty the fridge in the future, to ask around first. The email was diplomatically composed and should have settled everything.

(I did not lose sleep over this, just so that you know).

The next day, mid-morning came and the person in question responded to my colleague's email with a less than believable excuse:

"The food had fermented.  It was quite literally a health hazard." And that was all this colleague wrote.

There is no way that the food had fermented in a very cold refrigerator over the span of one night. If anything, I would believe the salad with vinegar dressing had turned sour, but everything else? In the words of any life long New Yorker, "C'maawn!"

(Translation for non-New Yorkers: "Come-on!")

 It brought us a couple of laughs, regardless of our fury, but it was an exercise in our ability to remain calm. We did not have any confrontations and nor did we put the soy milk in a bowl of jello as retribution.

The great retribution, the thing that made it funny in the end: two days after all of the drama, my two colleagues and I were working away in the office, when completely out of the blue, the boss-man said, "Baklava doesn't go bad for like two weeks!"

And after a laugh, that was it (mostly).

Moral of the story: don't throw away other people's food (unless it is blatantly moldy) and don't let the actions of others distract you to the point of wanting to commit retribution. Retribution is like throwing gasoline on a fire - it only aggrandizes the situation. So readers, remember to take deep breaths and to find humor in any situation. There's always a sliver of hope for it.

PS -

It turns out that Bella Tuna is like her mom - she has a fondness for spicy foods. While I was chatting with a roommate, Bella leapt up onto the table, grabbed a chicken bone smothered in spicy sauce, and ran away with the bone to her secret lair - the dark underworld beneath my bed. I couldn't get her out from under the bed, but she emerged eventually to play in her litter box. After arming myself with a flashlight and several minutes of deep investigative searching, there was no chicken bone to be found. Knowing full well that she did not consume the entire chicken bone, I grabbed one of my other roommates as she was passing through the hall.

"Jess," I started, knowing from the get-go that this was going to be an odd request. "I need your help. Bella stole a chicken bone."

Jess shook her head at Bella and called her naughty.

"She took it under the bed," I continued with the same dry, cautious tone. "I can't find it." Jess and I both laughed. "So, I know that this is an odd request, but could I ask you to lift the bed while I dive under to find the chicken bone?"

Jess happily offered her services of helping to lift my bed. Sure enough, smack in the middle, there it was.

With the object in question detained, the cat-burglar still on the loose, life was able to proceed to normalcy....the suspect is looming over the other chicken bones now, waiting, stalking, praying, for her next opportunity at thievery. What has my cat-child become?