Sandi Hutcheson: Rocket man |

Sandi Hutcheson: Anything but a necktie |

There’s nothing in the world better than a fresh Georgia peach.  Click here for the link to my latest column in the St. Augustine Record.

Peach picking |

Some things stay with us forever:

Sandi Hutcheson: We remember |

Sandi Hutcheson: Motherhood: What was I thinking? |

Hand (of God) puppet |

Hutcheson: I feel pretty |

This column ran in the February 1, 2015, edition of The St. Augustine Record:


It started almost five years ago, in the summer of 2010. I was moving to St. Augustine, fleeing what had been the scene of an ugly divorce. My daughters were in college. My son, who was 15 at the time, decided to stay in Atlanta with his dad.

While I understood that decision, I had a hard time coping with my prematurely empty nest. I sobbed while driving south on I-75. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do, worse, indeed, than telling my children our family was splitting up. It was the kind of heartbreak you wouldn’t wish upon your second-grade bully or even Genghis Khan.

My son’s dog, the three-legged Australian shepherd named Pancho, came with me. He rode in quiet sympathy, occasionally nuzzling me from the back seat as if to say, “Don’t worry. He might be able to last a little while without you, but he’ll never be able to stand being away from his dog.”

And that’s how it started. Pancho became our translator.

I began texting pictures of Pancho to my son with the caption “I miss you” or “Wish you were here!” It was a way of safely telling my kid how I felt, for there was no way he would ever rebuff a message from Pancho. We went on like that for almost 18 months, using the dog to say how we felt.

My son came to live with me at the beginning of his junior year of high school, and he’s now a sophomore at Flagler College. I got a second shot at mothering — three bonus years — and for that I will always be grateful.

The funny thing is that we never stopped communicating through the dog. Let’s say my kid was going out for the evening. “Where ya goin’?” I’d ask in my Pancho voice, which was slightly deeper than my own and mimicked the cadence of Scooby Doo’s speech patterns. When I came in late from teaching, I’d ask Pancho, “Did he feed you?”

It was a stupid thing to ask, as if I trusted a dog who would look me in the eye and lie himself silly. He’d practically pretend to collapse from hunger.

The conversation went both ways. When I was out of town, my kid would text me a picture of Pancho. “When are you coming home?” was the standard caption. Once the line “Mr. Pouty cuz Mom left” accompanied a picture of the pup wearing a melancholy expression, his chin resting on crossed paws.

I even built a pool in our backyard because Pancho said he wanted one.

My son moved out of the house over the holidays. He’s now sharing an apartment with a friend from Flagler. Pancho watched as the boy’s bedroom furniture was being moved. He kept running into the empty bedroom as if he were trying to figure out what was happening. He slept with one of the kid’s old socks.

Pancho felt better when our boy promised that he would visit every day. Still, I’m not sure how to tell the dog that he has permanently moved out. I’m worried that Pancho won’t handle this well. He might mope around the house, perhaps even howl a bit.

I’m afraid Pancho is really going to miss this kid.

This is my St. Augustine Record column for December 28, 2014.  You can also link to it here.


There are things — and sometimes even people — in this world that can get used up and messed up to the point of being a total loss. You can’t rehabilitate them.

Years ago, my in-laws came home from a nine-day trip to find that my sister-in-law’s cat had been locked in their custom conversion van the whole time. The cat, weak and dehydrated, was ultimately okay, but they couldn’t give that van away. That’s the kind of totaled I’m talking about.

A piece of chewing gum is another example. Once it’s used up, all you can do is throw it out, swallow it or stick it to the underside of a table in McDonald’s.

A box of hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts, once cooled, will never be the same. Rehabilitation is simply impossible.

My grandfather is nearly 92. Earlier this month, he suffered a heart attack, a stroke and a severe concussion when he fell and planted his forehead into a wall.

His doctor calls him “rehabable.”

I like that word. It means there’s still hope.

Granddad is part of the generation that holds out hope for things that should be tossed out. The evidence is all over his house — in a pencil worn down to a one-inch nub that still has a few scribbles left in it, in a pair of holey pajamas with one more night’s sleep in them. It’s in his favorite chair, an orange corduroy lounger that may or may not be held together in some places with duct tape.

After a few days in the hospital, he moved to an assisted living facility. We took his favorite chair and other items from his home to his new room.

The saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” isn’t exactly true. He’s weaker, and his memory flicks on and off like a lightning bug on a summer night.

What he recalls best is the fact he’s not at home. And it’s what he hopes for. “I just want to get out of here and go home,” he says, almost every hour.

Yet, I’m not so sure he’s talking about a brick house in Morrow, Ga. In fact, I’m fairly certain that’s not the home he’s longing for.

And as much as I love the inherent hope of the word “rehabable,” I’m no longer convinced that getting back to the way he was before is really in Granddad’s best interest.

I don’t mean he’s used up, worn out and totaled. That suggests depletion. His strength isn’t really gone. It’s all been transferred to us — his children, grandchildren, and even great-grandkids. And although his memory is failing, we will remember it all.

Granddad grew up in a place called Texas Valley, in the corner of northeast Georgia. Texas Valley people have some peculiar phrases. For instance, someone who’s sick is said to be “puny.” An extremely thin person might get called “wormy.” When you’re tired, you’re “give out.” Complete fatigue is being “plumb give out.”

Give out is exhaustion from doing your best, from giving everything you’ve got. It’s something to be proud of. Granddad’s not totaled, and he’s not used up. He’s just plumb give out.

I know I’ll be a total wreck when it happens, but I hope he gets to go home soon.

My St. Augustine Record column from December 5, 2015, reprinted below:

I have a pair of geriatric dachshunds who have managed to cram quite a bit of excitement into their brief lives.

For starters, Laverne and Shirley are on the vicious animals list in Henry County, Ga., for biting a tax assessor several years ago. During their wild and untamed youth, they pillaged and plundered every package ever delivered to my house. I pulled into our driveway one day to find them playing tug-of-war with a wine-colored cashmere sweater I’d ordered from Talbot’s. Once, they consumed a mail-order package of sweet potato pancake mix. We found them lying in the yard, bloated and inert.

Laverne and Shirley have slowed down in the past couple of years. These days, they get their excitement from chasing lizards. They mostly perch on the back of my sofa to monitor movement outside the house – the UPS truck driving by, perhaps, or a leaf blowing across the pool deck. On some mornings, they feel obliged to let me know when the pool pump turns on and the water begins to move.

They’ve also started engaging in a curious new habit. Laverne and Shirley like to lick the air.

The first time I saw them with their noses pointed toward the ceiling, their tongues flicking, licking nothing, it reminded me of a joke often told by Lewis Grizzard, the late Southern humorist. His version was slightly off-color, so I can’t tell it just like Grizzard told it, but the joke involves two good ol’ boys, Bubba and Earl, watching a dog doing a bit of inappropriate licking.

Bubba elbows Earl and says, “I wish I could do that.”

Earl responds, “Bubba, that dog would bite ‘chu!”

Laverne and Shirley’s air licking was funny for a few days, but when it became apparent that they weren’t going to stop, I got worried.

I Googled “dachshunds licking air,” and found out it’s something many dachshunds do. People have posted YouTube videos of the spectacle.

Someone even created a forum for people to speculate on why dachshunds lick the air. One person likened the behavior to that of a snake, with the tongue performing a sort of extra-sensory smelling. Another suggested that it could be a sign of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Someone else surmised that licking the air is a sign of anxiety.

Worried that my dogs are, well, worried, I began searching for ways to make Laverne and Shirley’s lives less traumatic.

I started by trying to identify potential stressors. What, I asked myself, would make me nervous if I were an elderly dachshund?

That question was hard to answer. For starters, Laverne and Shirley live at the beach. They have no mortgage. They have a housekeeper, a chef and a chauffeur.

They have free health care, job security and an enviable retirement plan. They’re practically federal employees.

I finally consulted the ultimate authority — Cesar Millan, the Dog Whisperer. He said that licking the air is a sign of boredom in dogs.

Apparently, what we need is a visit from the St. Johns County tax assessor.

At any rate, I no longer worry about my dachshunds. It seems they’re going to keep ticking right along. When being bored and nervous about nothing causes them to inappropriately lick the air, I’ll just watch. And wish I could do that.

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