News Trend Visiting Prison: Part One|Actual

Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison.

But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life.

I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.

Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room

Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.

Part Three: On the other side of the wall.

Part Four: The women in the van

* * * * *

My alarm blasts me out of bed around 3:30 or 4:00 am and that is unquestionably the worst part of the entire day. Once I'm up and moving, the adrenaline kicks in and I feel the holiday mood take over.

I'm going to visit prison today!

Sometimes we drive ourselves the 279 miles to Washington State Penitentiary; I also take advantage of a van service that provides free rides to people going to visit their loved ones in prison. Either way, I'm on the road before the crack of dawn, traveling over the mountain pass, down to the Columbia River, and across the farmlands full of wheat, hops and grapevines on a route that runs diagonally across most of the state.

The mood is typically festive. My friends and fellow travelers are usually just as happy and excited to be on their way to a visit as I am. But that is not always the case. Sometimes, there are people in the van who are quiet and withdrawn. I understand that they are likely dealing with the complex emotions and vulnerabilities that can come from seeing your son, your father, your husband in prison, and I feel very protective of them.

We doze along the way. We talk. We stop for coffee and food and restroom breaks. We stretch and groan and check our watches, anxious to arrive on time.

And around 10 am, we roll through the prison gates.

Along the entrance drive. The guard towers remind me of miniature lighthouses.

The man I visit is assigned to a Close Custody housing unit, what used to be called Maximum Security. Those buildings are on the west side of the sprawling property: terbaru, clean, and surprisingly attractive. A guard house protects the entrance to this side of the prison but there's almost never anyone inside. We drive inside the prison grounds without stopping. Razor coils and guard towers top the fences to the left of the entrance drive; on the right runs the long, lean, low horizon of golden fields and bright blue sky.

Okay so this day it was definitely cloudy in Walla Walla. But I'm sure it was a rare exception.

Seems like it's always sunny in Walla Walla.

We leave all our possessions in the car, bringing in only what we are allowed inside.

Driver's license

Prison debit card

Cash to put on the card

Car keys

And our phones.

We can't take our car keys or our phones to the visit, but we can leave them in small lockers inside the visitors' check-in center. Phones don't like to spend the day out in the 100 degree heat.

Check in begins at 10:15 am. We line up at a counter and in turn, announce our loved one's prison ID number and present our own identification. The corrections officer checks to be sure we are registered visitors, with a photo and an authorization to be searched on arsip. And then the officer checks on the status of our loved one.

This is a critical moment. Inmates can be denied visits for any sort of infraction, and while the prison does its best to communicate with families and friends, they don't make any promises that our guys will always be available to visit when we show up. So we hold our breath until we are sure the visit is a go.

This is also the moment when the corrections officers inspect our outfits to ensure they meed the visitors' dress code. The list of violations is long and confusing:

No clothing that is orange or camo-colored; no grey sweatshirts.

No hoods, hats or scarves.

No cargo pants or extra zippers or pockets of any kind.

No sleeveless or low cut tops.

No leggings unless covered in front and back by a long top.

No ripped or torn jeans.

No more than one necklace, and three bracelets and rings, total.

And so on.

Sooner or later, we all run afoul of this large and mysterious body of rules and must either change into something from the prison loaner wardrobe or forfeit our right to visit. Experienced visitors often bring alternative outfits in their cars so they can run outside to change; I dodge the bullets by wearing the same outfit every time I visit.

Hey, the men we come to visit always wear the same thing so why shouldn't I?

Once, we are registered for the visit, there is time to load money on the prison debit card - up to $40 max - which we will use to buy food at the vending machines inside.

And then it's time for the security procedures.

First, we take off shoes, jewelry, belts, and anything else likely to trigger an alarm, and walk through the metal detector. Our bin of possessions goes through an x-ray device and sometimes passes under the nose of a drug-sniffing dog. We present the bottoms of our feet for inspection, and then get a black light ink stamp on our inner wrists.

We are then led one by one into a small room for a mouth inspection and a pat search, We stand with arms outstretched as a same-gendered corrections officer rubs her hands down our bodies, front and back. Once properly vetted, we are ushered to seats where we wait for everyone in our group to catch up.

Through this process, spirits are running high. Certainly the staff impresses upon us that this is serious business, and they maintain a professional authority over us. But we visitors are generally happy and chatty; over the months, the regulars get to know each other and we have our own reunions and conversations during this time of the day. Sometimes the corrections officers will chat with us too; the energy is surprisingly loose and relaxed and friendly.

The lay of the land.

Around 11 am, when all the visitors are processed and waiting, the corrections officers  join us in the waiting area. The metal door clanks shut behind us, separating us from the check-in area. Now we are officially inside the prison. Then another metal door slides open ahead of us, and we move forward down a hallway and then outdoors.

We step out onto a concrete courtyard. We are surrounded by tall fences topped with razor coils. They glisten in the sun and look beautiful to me, despite their fierceness. Above us, the sky blazes blue. In the winter, the cold wind whips past us; in the summer, heat pounds down. To our right, we see the housing units of the men we have come to visit; on the left, we see the round building that houses the Death Row inmates. We feel very thankful that our men are where they are.

We cross this outdoor space - about the size of a tennis court - as the third door closes behind us and a tall gate in the chain link fence opens in front of us. We pass through to a second fenced area - much smaller than the first - and through another metal door into the entry of a small building. Once again, the door behind us must close before the one ahead will open, and now, with five locked barriers behind us and the outside world, we finally step into the visiting room.

News Trend Visiting Prison: Part Two|Actual

Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison.

But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life.

I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.

Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room

Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.

Part Three: On the other side of the wall.

Part Four: The women in the van

* * * * *

After five hours on a journey across the state, and a thorough going-over at the visitors' check-in, my fellow visitors and I have finally made it to the actual visiting room.

The room looks a bit like the lunch room in a small, low-budget elementary school. A row of windows run high along the walls, letting in brilliant natural light. The lower parts of the walls are decorated with painted murals of wild animals - bears, wolves, orcas. A children's play area - (2) on the map below - sports brightly colored play mats and a handful of toys. Some of the tables feature built-in checkerboards for playing checkers or chess.

But we still have a few more hoops to go before our visits begin.

^ My handmade map of the West Complex visiting room.

See the key below, and please remember that this is a rough representation

rather than a technically accurate schematic.

^ Channeling my inner cartographer.

As we leave the tight quarters of the visitor's entry (10), we are instructed to walk single file along the walls of the visiting room, past the professional visit rooms (8) and around the corner by the office (lima) and storeroom (4).

There we wait as the corrections officers sitting near the restrooms (tiga) assign us to our tables. One by one, they call out the last name of the man we are visiting; we then step forward, hand over our drivers' licenses to be filed away for the day, and listen for our table number.

Each table sports a triangular wedge of wood with a number woodburned into both sides. These relics look like a middle school shop project from the 1950s and they make me smile every time I see them.

Now the hunting and gathering begins. While we wait the last few minutes for the men to join us, we crowd around the vending machines (1), pulling together meals of our guys' favorite treats:

Deli sandwiches, hot pockets, chicken wings, breakfast sandwiches

Cheetos, Sun Chips, Oven Baked Lays

Twizzlers, Kit Kats, Snickers

Dasani sparkling water, Cokes and Dr Pepper, coffee.

As our prison debit cards fly in and out of the machines' chip readers, and we follow the rules about removing all food wrappers and serving the food on paper plates, we keep our heads on a swivel toward the inmates' entry (9).

They should be arriving any time, and the excitement is palpable.

* * * * *

And then they come. Sometimes in a trickle, sometimes in a steady stream. We see our men through their entry window just before they join us, and electricity snaps through the room. As they walk in, I like to watch their eyes search among the tables to find their loved ones, and see how their faces soften and their shoulders relax once that connection is made.

I watch for my friend and there he is, tall and lanky, tanned and strong. Our eyes meet across the room too, and we grin at each other.

This is a profoundly beautiful moment. Whatever has gone wrong in the lives of these men, whatever toll that has taken on these relationships, in this minute,

All is restored.

All is healed

All is love.

We all stand and hug our men. Lovers share modest kisses, babies are passed into their father's arms, toddlers shriek in happiness, grown men wordlessly pound each other on the back. Mothers hold their sons at arms's length and give them a good looking over, and then pull them back into a hug.

Tears are shed here and there around the room. But they are tears of happiness and joy and sweet, sweet relief.

We are all so glad to be together.

* * * * *

Before I visited prison, I thought I would feel scared to sit in a room full of convicted criminals.

I expected that they would put out a menacing vibe, a dark energy,

I was prepared to feel afraid.

But now I laugh at my preconceptions because they were so silly and so wrong.

The men, as a whole, are shy. For the most part, they keep their heads down, their attention focused on their own visitors. But from time to time, my friend will tell me a story about one of the other men in the room, and as we are looking at him, that other man may glance over and notice us staring. The guys will share a private smile, and often, the other man will offer me a small wave. I smile and wave back.

The men offer a certain reverence toward me, and seem very much in awe of my freedom and apparent success in navigating life in the outside world.

Appearance wise, the men also defy stereotypes. Orange may be the new black on Netflix, but at Washington State Penitentiary, they wear white t-shirts tucked into khaki pants, accessorized with khaki military style web belts and white trainers.  In the winter, they add grey crew neck sweatshirts over the top.

Though their clothes all match, the men express their individuality through hair and beard styling, and homemade tattoos. Some of the men earn reputations as skilled barbers and tattoo artists, and with basic tools, provide these services under the radar. The guys can also buy a range of styling products so there are plenty of sleek pony tails, neat man buns, and well-oiled Afros.

* * * * *

So finally, finally we all settle in to visit.

My friend and I eat together.

We talk about anything and everything. I listen to whatever is on his mind. We swap funny stories from our everyday lives. We discuss books, movies, TV shows, current events. We talk about fun things, happy things. And sometimes we talk about hard things.

We laugh a lot.

Sometimes we cry.

And we pray together.

Six and a half hours fly by

When other people are visiting with us, we often play games or cards. My friend teaches us new games he's learned from other guys.

Of course, there are plenty of rules to guide our behavior during the visits.

Hands above the table at all times

Touching is allowed but keep it clean.

Inmates are not allowed by the vending machines but they can get water.

Both feet must remain on the floor.

Restrooms are available only at designated time windows throughout the visit.

After using the bathroom, you must be pat searched again.

Inmates must sit in the green chairs placed at each table, so all are facing in the same direction.

The men may eat their regularly scheduled meals while visiting.

On and on the rules go. No one can ever remember them all, so the COs watch over us and correct us when we make mistakes.

* * * * *

At lima:20 pm, the COs announce that the visit is almost over. We wrap up our conversations, clean up our tables, and steel ourselves for what's to come.

As my friend says, saying goodbye is so awkward.

And I agree with him. There's just no way to make it not awful. So we do our best to power through those last minutes and the final hug as quickly and quietly as possible.

All around us, I see other groups doing the same thing. No one cries or wails or breakdowns. Well, other than a few toddlers who feel free to express what we are all feeling.

We hate this.

We all hate this.

We want the bad dream to be over and we want to take our loved ones home and have life just be normal and happy again.

But that can't happen and we all know it. So as we visitors crowd toward our entry once again, we just search out our loved ones' eyes one more time. We wave and we smile and we say, "See you soon!"

And our men watch from the tables as the COs hand us back our licences and check our arm stamps with a little black light flashlight, and herd us back toward the visitors' entry where those five metal doors will open to let us out and then slam shut between us.

This is a hard part of the day.

And you might think it is sad.

But it's not. We walk back to the visitors' check-in with smiles on our faces, with strength in our hearts, with the certain knowledge that, at least for right now, everything is okay.

And we know that soon enough, we will be back to visit again.

News Trend Visiting Prison: Part Four|Actual

Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison.

But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life.

I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.

Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room

Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.

Part Three: On the other side of the wall.

Part Four: The women in the van

* * * * *

Driving home after a prison visit is simple.

Emotionally cleansed from reconnecting with my friend, I feel good. Facing the five-hour road trip home from  Washington State Penitentiary on a perilously sleep-deprived brain requires focus and attention, whether I'm the driver or one of the passengers helping to keep the driver alert. Cheeseburgers and conversation spell the end of a successful day.

More complex is the ride home in the van.

In Washington, there's a privately-funded van service that provides free rides to anyone who wants to visit a state prison. Research shows that inmates who get regular visits are more successful in their lives behind the wall, and readjust better to life when they get out. Families are happier, prisons run more smoothly. Everybody wins when prison visits happen, and this service makes more visits possible.

While the morning van ride to prison is invariably quiet, a trip in the van with mostly other women passengers is special The post-visit euphoria can take us in some different and surprising directions.

Early morning rest stop at Snoqualmie Pass.

Take for example my last van trip in August. Seven women spread out in the eleven-seat vehicle and most of us still sat quietly absorbed in our own thoughts.

Except for Mo.

Mo was sitting directly in front of me, roughly my age, and experiencing her first trip to prison to visit her twenty-four-year-old nephew.

Maybe it was because this was her first trip.

Maybe it was because this was her nephew and not her son or brother or husband.

Maybe it was just because we were going home.

But Mo was in a mood to talk about her guy.

She told me in great detail about how her nephew had landed himself in prison: the years of addiction, the robberies committed to fund the drugs. She described the changes she saw in her nephew during the visit, who was sobered and matured after a few months behind the wall. She opened up about her emotions - how it felt to see her sister's son in this state, how she would struggle to explain what she had seen to her sister whose physical condition left her unable to visit her son herself.

I listened while Mo talked. The other women minded their own business and mostly ignored us, quietly making phone calls, staring out the window, or talking about logistics with the driver.

And when Mo finally wore herself out, she smiled and asked what I had been hoping she wouldn't ask."So. Tell me about your friend. What's he in for?"

Hmm.

It's not that I don't want to talk about my friend.

It's not that his crimes are a big secret.

All that he did is a matter of public record, his crimes are high profile.

All around the world and across the internet, people have talked about his story.

But I try not to talk about it.

The events of that day are profoundly personal and searingly intense.

The media has misrepresented and misunderstood the story.

And while I long to correct public perceptions of my friend's actions, I know that is not for me to do

This is my friend's story.

He is the only one who can explain what happened.

And when the time is right, he will tell us.

I look forward to that day.

For now, I try not to talk about it.

And an evening stop at the same location.

As these thoughts flashed through my mind in an instant, Mo saw the hesitation on my face.

"Oh, you don't have to tell me. I don't mean to be rude," she pulled back.

But this time, I knew I needed to try to talk.

So.

I drew a deep breath and spoke about depression, Invisible depression that no one can see, not even the people who love and support and spend time with a person. Sometimes no one can glimpse the black void of hopelessness that sucks a person down into spiraling, devastating despair. Sometimes even the person himself doesn't have any idea what is happening to him.

I spoke about guns. How natural it is for a person who is feeling utterly powerless to reach out for a gun not as a weapon for committing a crime but as culturally respected symbol of power .How they cling to the desperate idea that owning a gun may somehow provide a tiny foothold of strength in the midst of this unending panic.

I spoke about perfect storms of intense emotion that slam together only rarely in our lives, when all rational thoughts and coping skills and sound advice are drowned out by the wild screams of our pain, and we utterly lose control.

.

Then I stopped. I didn't know what else to say.

And I suddenly noticed pin-drop silence.

Every single person on that van was staring at me.

They had listened to every word I spoke.

Their compassion and understanding electrified the air.

One of the women spoke my friend's name.

She said it with humanity and respect.

She had followed his story.

She recognized him when she saw us sitting together in the visiting room.

Mo asked a question. "Do you mind if I Google him and read more about his story?"

My heart sank.I knew the bleak picture those stories would paint.

But who am I to tell anyone what she can and can't Google?

I said, "Sure, read whatever you want. Just know the media doesn't get it."

I spelled his last name for her, and sat back in my seat, feeling defeated.

An idea popped into my mind.

I leaned up over the seat, scrolling through my phone as I interrupted Mo's reading.

"Take a look at this. It's his sentencing statement."

And Mo took my phone and read the words my friend read to the court last January.

Words that don't necessarily explain what happened on that fateful day, but words that reveal much about the character, the beautiful heart and mind, of my young friend.

Mo read.

Then she handed me back my phone and wiped away the tears from her cheeks.

"Tell your friend that Mo is praying for him,"

We hugged each other across the seat that separated us.

* * * * *

These are the kinds of things that happen when I take the van to visit prison.

And even though I love the privacy and convenience of a car, it can sometimes be a remarkable gift to share life with the women in the van.

News Trend Visiting Prison: Part Three|Actual

Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison.

But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life.

I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.

Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room

Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.

Part Three: On the other side of the wall.

Part Four: The women in the van

* * * * *

As I'm zooming across the state and processing my way into the visiting room at Washington State Penitentiary, my friend is going through his own preparation rituals for our visit. Based on my many questions and best recollections of his answers, this is what a visiting day is like for a man who lives inside the walls.

* * * * *

No need to wake up early; on a visiting day, my friend pops out of bed at his usual time, around 7 or 7:30 a,m.

Though there are quiet hours, there are no mandatory sleep times at Washington State Penitentiary. The men are free to sleep and wake on their own schedules.

A morning shower is a normal part of my friend's routine, though the time can vary depending on how the different groups within his unit are scheduled to share the showers. On visiting days, he gets to pull rank and grab an early shower, Around 9 a,m,, he uses the intercom to make his request. "Hey, I have a visit today. Can I get a shower now?"

"Sure," comes the response. In the unit's control room, someone hits a button, and the mechanized door to his room slides open. He is free to gather up his stuff and walk downstairs to the shower area.

^ Using the stubby pencils and scraps of paper provided in the visiting room, my friend and I draw maps, make lists, and keep score of our domino games. I bring them home and treasure the memories.

The cells in my friend's unit are not cells at all. They are proper rooms, with solid walls and metal doors with windows. Inside his room is a set of bunk beds with built-in storage areas, a wall-mounted desk with two attached seats, a shelf, a sink and a toilet. My friend and his roommate have space for several changes of clothes, a television and their tablets, hot pots and commissary-purchased groceries such as rice, fruit, and freeze-dried fish, an electronic keyboard, and stacks of books and magazines.

Forget every cliche you've ever heard about prison showers. This unit features individual shower stalls with doors that provide privacy from waist to knees.

Likewise, the orange jumpsuit is a thing of the past. Each man's capsule wardrobe is built around

grey crew neck sweatshirts

grey sweatpants

grey sweat shorts

khaki pants

and the classic white t-shirt,

Rather than send the t-shirts off to the laundry, where they are washed and dried in a mesh duffel with all of their other clothes and quickly turned a dull shade of grey, some men opt to hand-wash their shirts in their rooms so the shirts will stay bright white.

Around ten a.M., my friend is breakfasted, showered, shaved, and dressed in his sparkling t-shirt special-event khakis, ready for the call to the visiting room.

He waits.

By eleven o'clock, I have checked in. His name pops up on a computerized visit list in the unit control room, and the COs make arrangements to send him over. If it's a visiting day for the unit, a CO calls all the men with visits to the exit area and they all walk to the visiting room together.

But when I come by van, my friend is likely to be the only one in his unit with a visitor that day. And the CO simply opens the door and my friend steps out into the sunshine alone and walks by himself the several hundred yards to the visiting room.

My friend enters the visiting room by a double door airlock, just as we visitors do. He yanks his ID badge over his head and hands it to a CO who will hold it for the day, just as I relinquish my driver's license. Then he looks around for me, shoots me a grin as our eyes meet, and joins me at our table.

This must be an emotionally complex process for men who live behind the wall. Studies confirm the common sense notion that reconnecting with loved ones has a positive effect on a man's behavior and attitude. To know that you are loved and valued, to see familiar faces, to feel a hug or a handshake or a good ol' slap on the back - all of these things are humanizing and affirming and good.

But at the same time, this reattachment comes at a cost. It is fleeting, and after a few short hours, the men will be ripped out of this loving embrace and isolated once again. The process of visiting is a crazy roller coaster of emotions, but at this moment, the beginning of the visit, everyone is smiling.

We sit, we eat, we talk, we laugh.

The vending machine food is a far cry from the home cooking that every man craves but it goes a long way in adding to the celebratory mood of the visit. As I'm walking back and forth to get more treats for my friend, I notice the other men wolfing down heaping plates of convenience-store-quality food and I smile.

The hours flash by and before we know it, we are saying goodbye. As we outsiders exit the visiting room, the men quietly sit at the tables, sending us off with smiles and last waves.

And while we are gathering up our car keys from tiny lockers, walking to our cars, and rencana where to stop for dinner, our men are undergoing a full body cavity strip search.

I understand that the COs are looking for drugs, and that trafficking drugs through visits is a real and persistent duduk perkara.

But

I hate the indignity of this process.

I hate that the joys of a visit are so quickly turned into a degradation.

I hate that my friend is treated like an animal.

I've asked him how he feels about this strip search.

He shrugs it off. "Whatever. You just get used to it."

But I still hate it.

And I hate leaving my friend behind the wall. Sometimes I worry that visiting only makes life worse for him, as he is perhaps more acutely aware of what he has lost when he sees me.

But I know that's not true.

In my best moments, I see our visits as a stairway. Each time we meet, we are lifted up and when we part, we are both in a new place that is higher and better than the place we were before. Through our visits, we are going somewhere together. And though I can't exactly say where we are headed, I know it is good.

* * * * *

I know that my friend will get dressed again and head back to his room, share some laughs with his roommate, and cook up something good to eat in his hot pot. He'll call his mom that evening, and stretch out to read before he sleeps. Maybe he will think a little bit about our conversations of the day.

And while I understand that my friend's life behind the wall is still full of challenges and hardships and trials, I also believe that he will be stronger - just a little bit stronger - because of our visit.

News Trend Hunting Dog|Actual

A secret smile slips across my face as I listen to my dog's footsteps fall on the soft ground under the trees.

I look back to see her nose down, lingering around the bases of the towering Douglas furs, scenting whatever has been there before her.

She's becoming a little hunter after all.

In the first few weeks after I adopted my girl, Gracie, she ignored the thirty feet of freedom offered to her every day on our long walks. Preferring to walk at my side, she didn't wander in the brush or even track scents on the sidewalk. Assuming that her life with her last owner didn't allow for much time in nature, I have been hoping and praying that her natural-born hunting instincts would eventually return.

I hear her gait shift gears as Gracie rushes to catch up to me. Expecting her to whoosh past me and take the lead, as she has also begun to do, I'm surprised that she slows as she approaches me..

I glance down just as reaches my right side and beams up at me, her eyes aglow.

With a decidedly dead squirrel in her mouth.

Two thought instantly and conversely pop into my head.

This is the deadest thing I have ever seen.

Flat as flat can be.

Drier than any autumn leaf.

Definitely in an advanced state of decay.

Though surprisingly intact and recognizable as a little furry animal.

I am grossed out beyond words.

But. At the same time:

The look of joy on my dog's face as she presents her treasure to me with the utmost love and devotion is sweet enough to make the angels sing.

My heart bursts with love for her.

Still, she holds this dead varmint in the mouth that occasionally rests against my pillow

and I'm not having that.

So I let loose a weird gurgling wordless cry of protest

and my dog drops her prize.

I praise her effusively

and we continue on our walk.

* * * * *

About a week later, she does it again.

After lagging behind to track among the trees, Gracie catches up with me and voluntarily heels in her proper place on my left, slowing her pace to perfectly match mine.

This is odd.

I glance down at her and there it is.

Her lips gently clench the same squirrel, even drier and deader than before.

Her eyes shine with pride and devotion.

Gracie clearly offers me her prize.

And this time I can't even fake it. I scream, "Drop it!"

Gracie does not know what that means.

So I take her by the back of the neck and shake her until she drops the carcass. I kick it to the curb

Then I pull myself together and praise my pup to the high heavens.

* * * *

A few days later, we encounter the squirrel again.

This time, I'm prepared. I scout the curb as we walk, and spy the flat flap of fur perhaps before Gracie does. But we both know it's there, and we stop to look at it.

I take a photo.

I praise my dog.

And we walk on to unknown adventures, my clever hunting dog and I.

News Trend Gracie's New Horse Farm|Actual

True confessions: Sometimes I feel really guilty about keeping a dog in the suburbs.

Maybe it's my dogs' wild enthusiasm for adventure.

Maybe it's a throwback to my country upbringing in a day when dogs could run free.

Maybe it's just my utopian fantasies.

But for all the dogs that I've raised here in suburban Seattle, I feel a certain regret for keeping them here in the land of leash laws, property lines, and busy streets.

And this anguish is all the stronger for my girl, Gracie, because Gracie grew up on a horse farm.

We walk every day, rain or shine, for about an hour.

Just think of it. Two hundred and thirty-some-odd acres of freedom, with perimeter fences designed not so much as to keep the dogs in as to keep unwelcome invaders out.

I've seen photos of Baby Gracie romping through meadows, wading into ponds, and racing alongside her gorgeous Irish sister. There is no leash at her neck. She is free.

Now she lives with me. There is good in that, because Gracie loves her humans and she needed more attention that her horse farm life could provide. But every day, as I tether my dog to a long leash and guide her through the somewhat dangerous and decidedly dog-unfriendly streets of my community, I suffer pangs of remorse.

I wish I could give Gracie a happy life on a horse farm.

Well, you can't, I tell myself.

But still I struggle with the life I am giving to my dog. But eternal optimist that I am, I try to find the sweet spots, the hidden joys, of my dog's life in suburbia.

She's becoming a good little tracker, and works the scents left behind

by the dozens of other dogs who patrol this street every day.

Let's not even pretend to call it a leash I walk my girl, as I walked Casey and Ranger before her, on a thirty-foot rope. This allows my active pup to race ahead, scout out the most intriguing scents, and scruffle around in the brush a bit while I carry on at a steady pace. Eventually, she loses interest and gallops up to take the lead again

This arrangement not only allows my dog and me to walk at our preferred paces, but the rope is quite the conversation starter. Oh, if I only had a dollar for every person who says, "Wow, that's a long leash!" and to whom I typically reply, "Yes. Yes, it is," then I could probably buy a lifetime supply of rope.

As much as we enjoy this merry form of romping down the sidewalk, there are tines when we must heed a more civilized approach. When crossing the busy streets or passing by pedestrians of the canine or human variety, I coil up the rope to a more conventional length, and Gracie obediently heels at my left side. It's good discipline for her, and she gathers many admiring looks and comments as she walks like a proper lady.

Squirrel country.

About fifteen minutes into our walk, we veer off the sidewalk and turn onto a lane that winds along the sports fields behind the high school. As I give Gracie permission to run out the full length of the rope, she delightedly bounds up a bank to get full view of the soccer field. A bundle of eager and attentive energy, she is often rewarded by the sight of players kicking around a ball. Quivering with excitement, Gracie loves to stand and watch for a bit, just as she does anyone on a skateboard, bike or scooter. Fluid motion seems to fascinate her.

Next we traipse along the outfield fences of the baseball field. During the late summer and early fall, the marching band lays dibs on this as a practice space, and we usually encounter a subset of the group, such as the drill team or the brass section, if not the full-blow show band.

Not gonna lie. Gracie attracts a lot of attention.

"I love your dog!"

"What's her name?"

"What kind of dog is that?"

"Your dog is soooo cute."

"That's the longest leash I've ever seen."

Adults run here and there among the fields. Last week a man about my age took one look at my dog, shook his head in apparent amazement, and beamed at me. "Boy, that's a good-looking dog!"

Sometimes we stop for a petting session, but usually I happily answer questions while Gracie marches on, head held high, tail a'wagging.

She knows we're all talking about her. But she's got things to do.

Lately, Gracie has been trying to convince me that the best way to stalk the squirrels would be to crawl commando-style under that turquoise bench. I am not having it. Yet.

We leave the busy world of the sports fields behind. We cross a walkway through the woods and come out into a serene little clearing in the woods. An administrative building nestles among the trees, and we walk the full perimeter, enjoying this little wild space.

Lately, Gracie has become obsessed with the squirrels back here. As soon as we step off the wooden bridge, her posture changes - head down in a hunting position, gait slow and stealthy. She is a bundled coil of energy. I play my part in this game by staying quiet and keeping out of the way. I gather up the extra length of rope so it doesn't noisily drag stray leaves across the pavement, and tiptoe behind my furry red hunter..

The squirrels happily prance in the lawn, scamper across the paved lane, romp around the garbage dumpsters, and frolic in the trees. Gracie freezes in mid-step when she sees them, waits, and watches. Occasionally, she will break free and race after one, but usually she simply stands until she is sated, and then we happily march on.

Now, on the far side of the school, we pass through a busy pick-up and drop-off area for the gymnasiums and swimming pool. We say hi to more students, who ask more questions and offer more compliments. Often there's a line of cars where parents wait to pick up their kids. I'm sorry to say that Gracie has been known to jump up on a car door, lay her huge furry paws on the open window, and stick her head inside in order to properly greet the occupants.

Once she tried to board a school bus waiting for the football team. She cleared the stairs inside the bus before I caught up and hauled her out.

Younger children come and go from swimming lessons at this pool, so I often wrap up the leash and keep Gracie on a heel here. The other day, Gracie and I were engulfed by a class of still-damp young swimmers, probably eight to ten years old, who wanted to pet her. As the kids' eager hands reached out to pet my calm dog, I offered that her name is Gracie. The girl closest to me, missing several teeth, beamed up at me with joy and said, "My name is Gracie too!"

That's the bone my dog found in a bush. Not under the bush. IN it.

We come out of the high school grounds and head toward home, passing cars on the streets full of friendly if unknown faces who often wave or smile at us. Many of these strangers grieved with me when my Ranger passed away, and now their faces light up at the sight of Gracie. Last week, one woman whom I don't know rolled down her window as her car approached us Wordlessly, she pointed with an outstretched arm at Gracie, and then, with an ear-to-ear grin, gave me a huge thumbs up.

We see human walkers who say hello. Some people are visibly afraid of my big dog, so I heel her over to the side of the walkway to let them pass. Others smile and say hello. Sometimes we see neighbors and friends, and stop to chat. Occasionally we encounter my husband walking home from the bus stop.

And we see other dogs with their humans. Gracie has a deep appreciation for other dogs. She stares at them. In fact, she gets so caught up in lasering her eyes onto them that she'll walk right into me if I'm not careful. So I've learned my lesson. When Gracie is goggling at another dog, usually on the other side of the street, we just stop in our steps. I tell my dog to sit, and then together we just stare at the object of her affection as if this were the most normal thing in the world to do.

The owners usually notice. If the social awkwardness meter pegs, I simply say, "Sorry. My dog is obsessed with your dog." And that has made us several new friends.

On we walk. Gracie is learning how to weave in an out the shrubs planted along the sidewalk without tying her long rope into a cat's cradle.

And she's teaching me a few tricks too. The other day, she shoved her head all the way up to her shoulders into a yew tree, a solid thing of soft, thick, green needles. And when she came back out, she carried in her mouth a bone.

The bone must have been resting in the branches of that yew. It was the strangest thing and I could barely believe what had happened. But I took a photo for proof.

* * * * *

I wish with all my heart that I could give Gracie a horse farm. I wish I could throw away that long yellow rope and let her run wild and free in a safe, natural place.

But it occurs to me, as we turn the last corner into our neighborhood and cross the street toward home, that Gracie doesn't seem to mind the rope. She might just like that sense of connection to me, and the reassuring tugs and commands that I sprinkle throughout our walk.

And though my mind boils over with the many restrictions and limitations that suburban life puts on my dog, it also occurs to me that Gracie doesn't understand those things. For all I know, maybe she sees our surroundings as her new horse farm: a big, friendly, rollicking place filled with humans and animals that bring interest and variety into her life every day.

That is what I hope she thinks.

But horse farm or not,  what I know for sure is that when Gracie gets home from her walk, she is content.

News Trend Essentially Clean|Actual

Sometimes when you're cleaning the bathroom at 1 a.M., you find yourself suddenly annoyed at the little bottles of essential oils scattered here and there across the counter.

And you realize these little gems need a proper home.

Your mind flashes to the wooden set of shelves you bought at the thrift store last spring but never found a good use for.

Is it still out in the garage, waiting to be re-donated?

Quick. Run down and check.

Yes.

But will the bottles fit?

Maybe.

This is too close to eyeball, so quick - gallop up the stairs with the shelves in hand, choose a bottle and c a r e f u l l y slide it into place.

Yes.

By the width of an eyelash, the bottles fit perfectly.

All that remains is to paint the set of shelves white, attach it to the wall with Command strips, and load in the bottles.

Alphabetically, of course.

And now, the bathroom looks truly and properly clean.