Rural Living

Margo Oxendine

I recently received several letters and emails from you loyal and wonderful readers. You all inquire about little Brownie’s health. Thank you! I am happy to say that Brownie is eating like a Marine on leave. I hide her three heart pills in her dish, and she seems oblivious to the ruse. (Well, there’s one large pill she always leaves in the bowl. But it is coated with the rest of her expensive food, and eventually, that disappears, too.)

She has also gained a pound or two. For a dog who had lost a third of her body weight, this is a great thing. (Another great thing is that I have somehow managed to lose at least 30 pounds. How did it happen? I don’t care!)

One dear lady who wrote sent me a photo of her darling doggie. He has a remarkable name: Little Hebrew Boy Underwood. Wow! Little Hebrew Boy (I don’t know his nickname, but surely he has one), looks very much like Brownie. He doesn’t have her lush, fluffy tail, but then, few dogs do. In his photo, LHB appears to have just been awakened from a nap on a cushion in a rocking chair. He is propped against a floral pillow, and wrapped in a blanket. He is adorable. Thank you, Mrs. Underwood, for sending his photo.

Quite a few readers have sent me quite a few handwritten letters through the years. And, while I always truly mean to sit down and write back to them, I somehow never do. I am embarrassed. (But appreciative, nonetheless.) I was signing my book, A Party of One, at a reading recently. An old fellow shambled up and said, “My wife loved reading your columns.” I gushed a happy reply. To which he responded, “She wrote you a letter, but you didn’t answer. She’s gone now.” Oh. I felt ashamed.

Many writers include photos of their own dogs. As more than one reader points out, “They are like our children.” (Except, we don’t have to send them to college.)

The readers who send me emails usually get an answer, unless they’ve got a humorless chip on their shoulders (it’s always the men, for some reason) about something I’ve written. Sometimes, if the mood hits me, I fire back a snarky retort. And that seems to be the end of that. Good. Mission accomplished.

This month, I am headed back to the hospital to get my left knee replaced. The new right knee is doing remarkably well. I am astonished at what physical therapy and time (and a dollop of dedication) can accomplish. I am not as scared of the whole process now. I know what it entails: One week of pain and hell and hospitals. Another week of thinking, hey, I’m feeling better. Then, on week three, the major breakthrough of being able to put on my own sock. And beginning to drive again. For five weeks, I will be showering with a stranger watching me. And several other thrice-weekly health-care visitors. Then, I am blissfully on my own. After that, it’s eight weeks of bi-weekly physical therapy, and feeling better every day.

My goal is this: To be able to walk in the woods again by mid-July. Of course, summer-phobe that I am, mid-July is not an ideal time to be traipsing through the woods. But by September, and the onset of my favorite season, I will be out there. Probably singing out loud, and laughing to myself. Yay!

I received another great letter this week from a lady in South Hill. She is a retired OR nurse (she worked until she was 78!), who witnessed and assisted in … knee and hip replacements. Her sweet, chatty letter was packed with good advice (she had her own knee replaced two years ago), and wry observations. (She told me about her parents, and that she’d decided they were 100 percent cotton, and she is “made of polyester.”)

She also mentioned she didn’t expect me to write back to her. Thank you, Mabel Jane! Consider this your response.

To a person, those who write tell me this column is the first thing they turn to in this excellent magazine. Hurray! Keep paging back here, folks. And I’ll keep attempting to entertain you. (Unless, of course, you’re a fellow with a slim sense of humor!)