Jackson was just one really big dog. He was part German shepherd, part black lab and partly something else really big. He weighed about 100 pounds, was well muscled, confident, and displayed a no-nonsense countenance in his massive face. He was actually a very happy-go-lucky, friendly guy. However, he took the job of protecting his pack seriously, so he could look alarmingly scary at first meeting. And he was smarter than all the rest of us.
Jackson lived with me for a while in Santa Barbara. He was my brother’s dog, but he stayed with me when Richard was homeless. Not really homeless but living between Santa Barbara and Los Angeles as he pursued his ambitions to become a rock star. In fact, Richard once got stopped on the freeway because one of his taillights was out. The officer asked him where he was from, and he replied that he was sort of between residences. When he opened the trunk of his car, he and the officer discovered the problem. Richard had a dresser in there that pretty much filled the trunk, and it had knocked the taillight loose.
The perplexed officer scratched his head. “You really are homeless, aren’t you?”
The officer gave Richard a fix-it ticket and a good luck handshake. Since the back seat of my brother’s car was filled with guitars and amplifiers, there really wasn’t room for a big dog. So that’s how Jackson ended up with me.
Jackson had lived in this coastal town longer than I had, and he knew his way around. In the morning he would jump out my bathroom window to do his daily rounds. He had an air of being the honorary mayor of Santa Barbara. Animal Control knew him by name and would ignore him as he passed. He stopped at red lights at street corners on State Street and crossed when they turned green. Any time I was out with Jackson, I’d be amazed at how many people would call out to him. I began to feel invisible next to this legendary dog.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not bitter. I got a vicarious thrill out of living on the periphery of greatness. When Richard was invited to Jackson Browne’s wedding, I anonymously spent that same afternoon in a long line at a local park waiting to get a low-cost rabies vaccine for Jackson. Okay. Maybe I’m a little bit bitter.
I lived in a guest cottage on a small estate. At least, that’s what we called it. It was actually a carriage house with a granny unit upstairs and a converted garage below. The structure sat behind an old Mission-style home, on two acres. The modified garage served as my residence. I was working at my barely above minimum wage job that just covered the rent and my college loan.
I had reached my mid-twenties, and had a good life for a young, adventurous college graduate. By day, I worked in a hospital as a dietician’s aide, and at night I sang backup in my brother’s popular band. Jackson went everywhere with us. We always left an open window in the car so he could come and go, following his curiosity or his needs. Car security wasn’t a problem.
My upstairs neighbor, Michele, and I watched Jackson sometimes, as he effortlessly hefted himself in and out of my bathroom window. There was a planter box outside the window he used as a ledge to kick himself in and out. The landlady had warned me that his weight would bring down the planter box, but of course I shrugged it off. My young, ambitious cat, Alfy, found the window convenient to bring in the rabbits and rodents he acquired on his forays into the adjoining canyon.
I don’t recall what originally grew in the box primarily because it had long since been trampled to death. All I know is that the view from the commode, from that particular window, was stunning in the morning. I got a shot of the harbor, with a muted pastel sky as a backdrop. It was, frankly, the best view in the house.
As you can imagine, one night the planter box did indeed come crashing down. Michele and I surveyed the damage. The rotted-out planter box had shattered. The redwood siding on the cottage had snapped away leaving a gaping hole below the window and we had two days to make everything look normal again. At the time, I couldn’t hammer my way out of a paper bag. Michele, however, proved to be quite adept with tools and she piecemealed the siding back on. In the end, there still remained one large, unfixable hole.
I bought a new planter box that was a little bit bigger than the old one to cover that last hole. Michele secured it into place. Next, I needed to plant something, and we were running out of time. I began to shovel in the heavy, claylike soil from the yard into the box.
“It’s getting too heavy,” Michele warned.
The new box was too big, and the weight of the soil could bring it down again. It was time to get creative. I went into the adjacent storage area and found a box of Styrofoam blocks from someone’s new stereo system.
“Hey! How about if I put Styrofoam in there and shovel some dirt over it?” I asked, excitedly.
Michele rolled her eyes. “What’s going to grow in Styrofoam?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” I answered. I wedged the lightweight blocks into the planter and carefully covered them with dirt. All I needed at this point was some greenery to complete the project.
There were some established geranium plants on the property and Michele mentioned that the cuttings were good at taking root. “They’ll pretty much grow anywhere,” she mused.
We quickly started harvesting cuttings and sticking them into the haphazard box. It looked beautiful and rather festive. And sure enough, when the landlady showed up the next day, she simply said the place looked great. To Michele’s and my amazement, those geranium cuttings went on to survive and thrive.
Within a half year of this, my brother found a place in Los Angeles, with room for his dresser, but not particularly for his dog. I eventually decided to relocate there myself.
I ended up sharing a house in the San Fernando Valley with another musician, where Alfy and Jackson were welcome. Santa Barbara slowly became a distant memory, although I kept in touch with Michele. Jackson ended up living to be seventeen years old, and in his later years I’d have to say Richard and I shared joint custody.
Two years after leaving Santa Barbara, Michele called me, scarcely able to speak, she was laughing so hard. A new tenant had moved into my old apartment and was annoyed by the lush geraniums in the planter box. They obstructed her view of the ocean from the commode. As the tenant dug out the geraniums, she discovered all the Styrofoam.
Michele was right. Geraniums will truly grow anywhere.
******
***
The ManifestStation publishes content on various social media platforms many have sworn off. We do so for one reason: our understanding of the power of words. Our content is about what it means to be human, to be flawed, to be empathetic. In refusing to silence our writers on any platform, we also refuse to give in to those who would create an echo chamber of division, derision, and hate. Continue to follow us where you feel most comfortable, and we will continue to put the writing we believe in into the world.
***
Write for your Life with The Craft School
CRAFT SCHOOL is a vibrant community for writers led by Jeannine Ouellette, Emily Rapp Black, and Gina Frangello—three established writers with extensive teaching experience. They believe, and we agree, that when a community is both safe and rigorous, writers and their work flourish.
***
Inaction is not an option,
Silence is not a response
See our Resources and Readings
