Max, clubs, and the Panama Canal

Max is gone. We don’t know where. Paul’s confident he’ll be back.

Max adopted Paul 11 years ago. Paul found him lounging in the bed of his truck two days in a row. Paul told Max if he was there the next day, he was taking him home. Max was there, ready to meet his new family. We never knew where he came from, how old he was, or the circumstances that brought him to the truck. Max is the smartest dog that was ever created.  He understands language, knows how to manipulate his family. I wonder if he’s grown bored with us and has found another family that needs him more. Max likes to be needed. And lately the dog next door has been a major pain in Max’s life. Max is getting old, he doesn’t tolerate ignorance any more.

Max is Paul’s first dog.  I remember my first dog, King. My uncle Toby ran over him in our driveway at our pink house. He cried. I was 4. I told him not to cry because my Dad could fix anything, he’d fix King. I have that same feeling about Paul. He can fix anything, even a missing dog.

I did think my Dad could do anything back then, but my opinion change. I became more realistic. This weekend was spent painting his house. I still think of it as his even though legally it belongs to my sisters and me now. (Well, actually we own half- a long and bitter story goes with the other half.) A friend pointed out to me today that we knew each other because we were in the same club. I’ve never been much of a clubber. I even turned down an invite to be a Junior Leaguer… too much of an individual, I guess. But I am a member of this club… a club of adults who have had their life changed by their experiences with a very sick parent. I’m a two time member… believe me there are no special privileges in this club. And its not a club you want to join. This club changes your life, and forces you to a new kind of normal that you never asked for… or wanted. The dues to the club are steep…. I wish I wasn’t a two time member.

There’s something else that I wish… I wish I was going to the Panama Canal tomorrow. Our friends Penne and Rory are. The canal makes me think of  Teddy Roosevelt, he was  an adventurer. So was the guy (Mark Childress) who wrote “Crazy in Alabama” which by the way is not about my family. He loved the Panama Canal so much he moved from Monroeville, Al to Costa Rica. That’s adventure- especially when you consider he went from his momma working at the Vanity Fair sewing mill to living in Costa Rica. He wrote another book about an alternative universe that occupied a physical space in Costa Rica. In this universe, Amelia Earhart lived next to Marilyn Monroe. Characters from all the world’s greatest mysteries were represented. I imagine floating through the canal and catching glimpses from his universe.

The canal opened in 1914, almost 100 years ago. It’s hard to imagine the hughness of the task, or the willingness to take the risk to build such a big ditch. It took people with imagination and a desire to be a part of something bigger than themselves.

Maybe there’s a connection with the club and the Panama Canal. Facing the illness of a parent- whether you have a close, comfy cozy relationship or not- is as huge a task as building the canal. It takes some engineering, some imagination, and a sense of adventure to survive.  And it takes a lot of people working together. A club. Knowing you are not attempting the task alone. Someone else has gone before you and understands the unspoken heartaches you feel, the exhaustion, the duplicity you experience.

so I’m a member of a club.

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