I have a long haired miniature dachshund named Theodore. Twice a day, he has to take two different medicines for epilepsy. At first, we gave him medicine in peanut butter, which he loved. Peanut butter doesn't love him, though, and we eventually switched to canned pumpkin. All three dogs get a treat of pumpkin, only Theodore takes the pills like sprinkles. He never spits them out or licks around them. About his medicine, he's a trooper and I often wonder if he knows what the sprinkles are for.

One day I was sitting in bed with my laptop, my favorite writing space. All three dogs can snuggle on the bed--no crowding or shuffling for position is necessary. Theodore climbed over the keyboard and up onto my chest. He does this a lot, frequently pressing his chest into my nose and mouth to lovingly smother me.

I thought about pushing him away, but I noticed he was drooling. The seizure started then, with his wild-eyed stare and rigid little body. My laptop rolled onto its back in submission and slid onto the mattress. After a while, Theodore was able to move his eyes. I talked to him and petted him. The kids came and sat with us. Theodore threw up, like always. We managed to get to the garbage in time, which was a minor victory.

When my kids were little and one of the dogs had a really stinky gas episode, I told them we have to love everything about the ones we love. The wagging tail, the soft, silky ears, and the toxic farts. Everyone is a package deal.

Theodore's epilepsy gives us a daily ritual, a treat the dogs all love. It gives a tremendously assertive and demanding little guy a weakness--or his knowledge of his weakness causes him to overcompensate. None of those things makes his disease a good thing, but epilepsy is a part of who Theodore is.

This is what always happens when I buy rawhide bones. I put the bag on top of the entertainment center and rip a hole in it. All the while, the guys bark and jump around my feet. I give the first to Ollie, the rat terrier. He's ten, the oldest and biggest, and always goes first. Ollie runs to the couch and immediately begins to gnaw. I give the two mini longhaired dachshunds, Theodore and Levi, their bones simultaneously. They each grab their bone, but drop it and run over to steal the other guy's bone.

Theodore prances off to hide his bone. There's no other word for his gait. His back legs are about one-third longer than his front legs, so they always want to drive his nose into the ground. His nose, however, flies high. He's so stinking cute, I can't stand it, and his walk is the cutest thing about him.

Levi sits down right where he is. He chews for all he's worth. He's only two, the youngest and smallest of the guys. His face looks like a precious moments figurine, winsome and teary-eyed. The minute he comes up for air and lets go of his bone, someone else will take it.

I watch them carefully, rescuing Levi's bone before someone makes off with it. He keeps dropping the bone to look around. When my attention wavers, he noses me and looks up with those droopy eyes. Ollie has two bones.

"Ollie, give that back. You can only chew one at a time anyway."

Ollie lets the bone go. He wouldn't think of snapping at me. Levi takes the bone with adoring eyes and goes back to chewing. He works with a vengeance. Meanwhile, Theodore comes back. If you look hard enough, you can find his bone in a laundry basket, an open drawer, or tucked at the back of a closet. He sidles over to Levi.

Theodore cuts his eyes at Levi, glancing around his massive ears. He'll go in for the bone in a minute, and Levi won't protest. Theodore knows better than to take Ollie's bone. It's taken him five years to concede the fact that Ollie is bigger and stronger. But he can get it away from the baby.

Once Levi realizes Theodore wants his bone, he drops it. Little wimp can't bring himself to chew something he knows Theodore wants. I take the bone away at this point, and both guys pout. Ollie even stares at the confiscated bone, ignoring his own sticky, slobbery one.

I hide the bone in my armpit and continue working. Theodore comes up to sit with me, but I'm not fooled. Those eyes are on the bit of bone sticking out behind me. He grabs the nub of bone from time to time, but I'm not letting it go. I notice that Levi has gone. In moments, he returns with Theodore's hidden bone.

Theodore looks stunned that Levi would steal his property, but he never takes the bone away. I give him the bone hidden in my armpit, the one I offered him in the first place, and he runs to hide it. This is the scene at my house until someone comes home and they all drop their bones and run for the door.

On the news this morning, I saw an interview with the last man who walked on the moon. I don't recall his name, which is embarrassing, but I wasn't really paying attention. The news depresses me. However, this man caught my attention when he objected to being called the last man to walk on the moon. He asserted that a young man or woman living today would walk on the moon again.

I don't hear people talk like that often. With assurance that something big will be accomplished. As a nation, what lofty goals do we have? What aspirations do we work toward?

We bicker. We focus on petty things.

Our people walked the moon. Unlike Icarus, their wings didn't melt. How much nearer the sun could we have gone? How much farther could we still go?

I'm no scientist. I don't understand the rules of space travel, but I've been on a swing. I love best that breathtaking moment, just before the swing falls, when you leave the seat and float in the air, hands holding tight to the chain.

It seems to me that we, as a nation, are at that point. An exhilarating moment. What if we spread our wings and let go the chain? We've been to the moon, so we know we are capable. Just let go the chain and free our hands for what needs doing.

But what's the point if we have no particular place to go? Might as well sit on the swing.

The Antioch Writers Workshop has come and gone. I attended this year for the second time. I learned a lot before, and this year, I expected reminders of things I knew. I hoped to discover something I never heard before. The thing about expecting something entirely new, is that, when it happens, it still surprises you.

I chose the afternoon session led by David B. Coe. I did not know him as an author before I chose his group. I picked him because his books seemed most interesting to me when I read through the bios. David led the sessions, but he managed be one of the group, a member with authority. My experience on these afternoons was extraordinary, but it was due to much more than his teaching.

 Twelve writers brought their manuscripts forward for assessment. Each of these twelve offered critique of one another's work, plus David's comments. They gave genuine and kind affirmations, clear and reasonable criticism. I tried to maintain this quality when my turn to speak came around.

My manuscript would be critiqued on the very last day. I tried to savor the anticipation and not to panic. I focused on doing my very best for the people who came before me. I gave them what I wanted myself, and what I saw they gave each other: heaps of deserved praise and honest criticism.

Some things unexpected began to happen right away. These writers saw one another as friends. Some knew each other already, but this group of thirteen developed solidarity. Despite my pathological reserve with unfamiliar people, they even drew me in.

On the final day, I felt emotional. Nerves played a part. My time for critique had come close. I still expected to hear something unexpected. I just knew someone would find some huge problem with my manuscript, an issue which would force me to dissect what I had written. I wanted to make my story better, but facing those twelve people scared me.

I felt emotional for one other reason. I didn't want to leave these people. I didn't want to lose the magic they had spun the last six days.

My critique began and I heard praise and honest criticism. I felt honored to be told by these people how they reacted to my work. I suppose it sounds hokey to you reading this, but I felt closer to them all when they critiqued my manuscript. I had expected to be pushed away.

The huge and unexpected that came to me had nothing to do with my manuscript. Yes, I learned new things. I see a clear path ahead, and for that I am thankful. But this is the epiphany. In only seven days, I became part of a we. For me, that is an unheard of thing.

When I was about ten, I choked at a potluck dinner in the basement of Waynesville United Methodist Church. The entrée was ham, and I was eating it because you have to eat what you're given, especially when you're the preacher's kid. I had already finished the delicious casseroles that the ladies of our church had brought to share. I wasn't sitting with my parents, maybe because this was a work event, so I was surrounded by nice church people. Nobody was emotionally close to me because we moved every two to four years and I never bothered to get attached.

The bite of salty ham I was chewing was mostly gristle. I gave up chewing it and tried to swallow. It seemed best to get it over with quickly. The wad of gristle went halfway down and lodged there. I tried to cough it up but it was stuck. I tried again to swallow. Then I tried to breathe. Nothing.

If I had been sitting by my mom, I would have grabbed her arm. I didn't feel comfortable grabbing the nice people sitting around me. I couldn't ask for help because I was unable to make the tiniest sound. I started to panic. What could I do? I must have put my hand on my throat. I don't remember.

The next thing I knew, someone struck my back hard and the gristle flew into my mouth. I sucked in air then, the most beautiful feeling. I heard exclamations around me. I started shaking. I pulled the gristle out of my mouth and set it delicately on the plate where it sat there, chewed and disgusting, but still intact.

"Do you want to go home?" One of the ladies asked.

I didn't look at her, but I nodded.

I never saw the man who saved me. If you should ever ask my dad his name, he'll give it immediately and forcefully. After all, this was the man who saved his little girl's life. Still, I can't connect the name to a face so I never remember it.

What brought that man to the church basement that day? What events of his life brought him to that denomination, that town, that part of the world? Some people would call him a guardian angel. They might say God had brought him there. I don't know about that.

I will commit to this one thing. Whatever events happened in this man's life, good or bad, those events brought him to me. He wouldn't have saved me if he hadn't been there.

I have a theory. Nothing solid, certainly not scientific, more a thought, I guess, than a theory. God may or may not have had a cosmic plan for that man, but He made the best of that man that day. He makes the best of us all every day, just who we are.

Okay, so I heard two things yesterday. First, a professional writer scoffed at those who say they can't live without writing. He claimed only to write because he was paid to do it. Second, I heard that people actually make money performing as air bands (meaning they stand on stage and play air guitar while a recording is played).

I found myself indignant at both these things. First, while I wouldn't die if I didn't write, I am driven to do it, and I make no money. Second, while I have made my living playing music, I make very little now, and am disgusted that people are paid to do nothing when I have worked very hard to actually make music.

Now, this is, of course, a bald expression of my knee jerk reaction. I can step back and see these things from a different perspective. After all, you have to make a living some way, and a writer who isn't paid will starve if he or she has no source of income. And air bands are just silly fun, so why shouldn't they make money if people are willing to pay? I'm not going to step back, though. I know I can find a soapbox around here somewhere.

Yes, I found it. My soapbox is all about me, just like everybody else's soapbox is all about them.

To my first point: It is insulting to us writers with no publishing success to make fun of us for having a dream. Don't be a jerk. If you didn't have a job as a writer, maybe you wouldn't write, but I do, thoroughly without success. It may be sad or it may be heroic, but it's not a mockery.

To my second point: Yes. I am a classically trained musician. I play the oboe, but I'm really an English hornist. Yes. I get that my marketability is rather thin. And yes, I get that most people would rather watch an air band. And yet, I am good at what I do. Somehow it's sad that people would rather watch someone pretend to make music than listen to someone actually do it.

There is a legitimacy gained by education and profitability. If you have letters behind your name or a nice salary, you are legit. If you make a crowd happy, you are (if I can quote MC Hammer) too legit to quit. The rest of us are lucky if we can be Don Quixote instead of Sancho Panza. Hey look, my soapbox just turned into a windmill. That's more appropriate, since I'm just spinning my wheels.

But I digress. Behind my name, I can add B.M. and M.M., which most people would construe as poop and chocolate. Both are necessary to life, I don't care how high and mighty you are.

I digress again.

Thank you. I have found my point. I would rather be silly than indignant. Still, if I have managed to communicate anything, I stand by it. On my soapbox. My windmill is currently under repair.

I wonder about technology sometimes. With the exception of my dad, I have the least tech capability of anyone I know. If there's a way to mess up a computer, I'll find it- and I don't mean dropping it, spilling juice in it, or leaving it outside in the bushes. I haven't done any of those things. I mean a general sense of helplessness on my part and habitual freezing on the part of my computer. I can't even explain what's wrong, but I'll try to do something and it won't work. Specific, I know, but I can't even comprehend the lingo of computers, and I know the meaning of the word perspicuous.

That's a joke, by the way. The meaning of the word perspicuous is funny because nobody knows what perspicuous means.

So, back to my point. My computer is infested with ants, and I already said I didn't spill anything. That's not my point, but an ant just ran across my screen and I killed it.

This is my point, as I flick the dead ant off my fingers- every time we develop a new technology to make something better, something else gets worse. I learned recently that screws and levers are classified as simple machines. I wonder why it is that the newest technology is obsolete within days, but screws and levers are still used and identifiable?

My first novel is in fragments on several computer disks, but I don't have my old word processor, so I can't look at the pitiful work I did back then. I have a gazillion cassette tapes that I can't play. My senior recital is on reel to reel, but the screwdriver in the kitchen drawer still comes in handy.

When I was a kid, a new appliance could be counted on to work for the next twenty or thirty years, but now they last no more than ten, but they're more efficient. You can find anything in the world on the internet in three minutes and buy it from your most comfortable chair. If you're me, you'll wonder why it never came and realize weeks later that you must have left a field empty. Sigh and start over.

One day, will someone have to reinvent all those old rusty farm implements we ignore in small town museums? The cotton gin isn't a beverage, but does it matter any more? What machines will last? Will we become so tech savvy that we are helpless in the real world?