Barry Lopez on *good relations*

"Conversations are efforts toward good relations. They are an elementary form of reciprocity. They are the exercise of our love for each other. They are the enemies of our loneliness, our doubt, our anxiety, our tendencies to abdicate."

Barry Lopez

Barry Lopez on *relational beauty*

"We cannot save things. Things pass away. We can only attend to relationships, to the relationships between things. It is here that we see the most beautiful images we are capable of apprehending or imagining—the relationship between a mother and a child, the racket of sunlight on pooling water, a bird alighting on a limb."

Barry Lopez

Barry Lopez "Eden is a conversation."

"Eden is a conversation. It is the conversation of the human with the Divine. And it is the reverberations of that conversation that create a sense of place. It is not a thing, Eden, but a pattern of relationships, made visible in conversation. To live in Eden is to live in the midst of good relations, of just relations scrupulously attended to, imaginatively maintained through time. Altogether we call this beauty."

Barry Lopez

Groucho

In the Mid-Seventies, I sang and played guitar in a high school rock band called “Storm”. We were dedicated; we rehearsed three nights per week, and we drummed up our own gigs. We built a strong reputation and worked hard to keep it. Our set-list provided a four-hour, danceable, concert-like experience.

In addition to school dances throughout the Mid-Hudson Valley, we played just about any other gigs we could find: Fourth of July picnics, birthday parties, Christmas parties, pool parties... even a Halloween party at the Sawkill Firehouse.

Given the occasion and the era, it made sense that we would play the gig decked out as KISS. As the front man, it fell to me to be Paul Stanley. I didn’t have the chest hair for the role, but I thought that big black greasepaint star might look pretty damn cool painted over my right eye.

As with many of the best-laid rock-band plans, it was a girl that caused this one to go awry. Her name was Leslie; needless to say, she was beautiful. She was also smart. Honestly, she was out of my league. But she was a sophomore and I was a senior, and that evened things out just enough.

Leslie’s grand vision for the Sawkill Firehouse Halloween Party of 1976 was that she and I would attend the event as Harpo & Groucho Marx. It will hardly come as a surprise that my bandmates did not welcome the idea with enthusiasm. Peter Criss on drums, Ace Freely on lead guitar, Gene Simmons on bass, and Groucho fronting the foursome just didn’t strike them as a commanding lineup. But Leslie’s leverage was significant, so that is exactly how we appeared.

“I want to rock and roll every night and party ev-er-y-day…”

While I threw myself into being the Paul-Stanley-est Groucho that ever strutted a stage, Leslie was cavorting with a guy named Joe. He was a confirmed lover-boy, rarely solo, but uncharacteristically dateless that night. I watched them chatting, and laughing, and dancing… And then I watched them leave together. She honked her little bicycle horn and waved to me as they exited. I couldn’t blame him really – she was adorable in that curly yellow wig.

Through the lens of retrospection, train wrecks often seem so cleanly inevitable.

Turdhunter

I pull on my boots and stride purposefully to the backyard. Taking the shovel from its resting place, I grip it firmly. It is my minesweeper, and I am the Turdhunter – a bona fide suburban superhero. It is my mission to keep the premises safe for traversal, even in the dark.

I scan the grounds for stealthy brownish or blackish piles. The exact hue depends upon what sort of treats Boomer has been eating lately; charcoal treats are responsible for the blackish heaps, which are the easiest ones to locate.

The most difficult season for turd hunting is late autumn, when the yard is liberally strewn with Big Leaf Maple leaves. Confession: I would rather mow leaves than rake them, so our backyard usually remains covered until springtime when the awakened grass forces me to fire up the Toro. Until then, leaves camouflage Boomer’s creations, thereby escalating the danger factor during cleanup.

I step carefully and methodically, eyes peeled. In order to maintain a proper frame of mind, I must remember that pooping does not involve a moral dimension for Boomer. He seems to consider it a valid form of self-expression. And since I would rather clean it up outside than inside I verbally encourage him in his artistic endeavors.

Still, it is difficult not to resent a chore like this one. Tedious, hazardous, foul smelling… Of course, honesty compels me to admit that I too express myself offensively from time to time. This unsettling notion gives me pause as I slide the shovel beneath a semi-petrified, mold-bearded mound. Unbidden, an irreverent paraphrase leaps to mind: Forgive us our poops as we forgive those who poop against us.

Dog ownership entails poop management – it comes with the territory, so to speak. Relationships with humans are much the same (metaphorically speaking, for the most part – thankfully!). As I dispose of this expedition’s last shovelful I find myself faced with a messy question: Am I willing to extend the same sort of grace to the people in my life that I offer my dog?