tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86252229790617624602024-03-05T17:48:52.481-08:00Cat WranglingSharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-20706812239113869552021-03-15T08:27:00.003-07:002021-03-15T08:27:53.741-07:00How To Befriend a Skittish Cat<p>I've posted variations on this advice so often that I've decided to write it once where I can refer to it easily.</p><p>Many new cat owners/rescuers ask: What do I do with my cat who won't come out from under the bed?</p><p>Here's what I have found works.</p><p>Gather your supplies:</p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>A large newspaper (I prefer The Washington Post, but whatever you prefer-- something with multiple sections with many pages in each section)</li><li>A pen or pencil</li><li>A snack you can share with the cat (cheese is my go-to)</li></ul><p>Go to the room where the cat is hiding and make yourself comfortable, preferably on the floor, but if you can't do that, on the bed. The floor is best because getting down on the same level as the cat makes you less threatening.</p><p>Spread out the paper and start reading. Take your time. Look at the ads; read the opinion columns. Use the pen/pencil to do the crossword puzzle, Sudoku or any other game. Ignore the cat.</p><p>I find that very few cats can resist the big, flappy pages of a newspaper page being turned. Typically, within 15-20 minutes, curiosity overcomes the cat and they will come out to explore. Keep ignoring them. Let them sniff you all over. Let them investigate the edges and dive at the paper, trying to shred it and hide under it at the same time. Tear off a piece (or use an ad flyer), ball it up, and toss it for the cat to bat around.<br /></p><p>Let them smack at your pen/pencil. Fence with them a bit. Once they are relaxed enough to play with you or plop down on the paper you can start talking to them, let them sniff your fingers, give them little skritches. Now is the time to break out the snack and share it.</p><p>Repeat as often as necessary. The whole point of this is that you're in the room with them, down on their level, not focused on them, and giving them the time and space to get used to your non-threatening presence. I like newspapers because, like I said, few cats can resist the pages, plus if they tear it to shreds I'm out <$1. Magazines or other semi-perishable reading material would also work, but don't bring your precious First Editions-- keep it sacrificial.<br /></p><p>Kids can do a variation of this, too: Bring in paper and crayons (markers might get messy) and let them color in the floor near the cat, or have them bring toys that the cat can enjoy, too. The key is calm, quiet, and letting the cat set the pace for getting acquainted. </p><p>So there you go. Good luck with your new little friend!<br /></p>SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-62344902887698106652017-08-14T21:16:00.002-07:002017-08-14T21:17:00.001-07:00The Burden of FreedomI've been struggling with trying to put down my thoughts after witnessing the events that took place in my city this weekend. <br />
<br />
I had decided in advance not to go to the rally, as repugnant as I found it and as much sympathy as I had for the counter-protesters. These troglodytes came from out of town looking for attention, looking for a fight. With all of the firearms sure to be on display and with passions running high on both sides, I figured someone was going to get hurt. I thought they'd get shot-- the possibility of someone using a car as a weapon didn't really occur to me. From now on, it will. <br />
<br />
One issue that I keep circling back to is the issue of freedom of speech. This is one of the founding principles of our society-- right there in the First Amendment to our Constitution-- so it's not something to be shrugged off lightly. One fundamental principle that I remember vividly from my Constitutional Law class in law school is that if the Freedom of Speech doesn't protect the worst, most heinous type of speech, it can't protect any of it. As repulsive as the words of the Nazis who polluted our town are, they have the right to say them.<br />
<br />
However, there are limits.<br />
<br />
You can't yell, "Fire!" in a crowded theater. You can't deliberately cause a panic and create a dangerous situation.<br />
<br />
You can't incite a riot. You aren't allowed to use your words to turn someone else into your weapon.<br />
<br />
You can't use "fighting words." Interestingly, the case that first explored this principle in depth involved a Jehovah's witness who was preaching (yelling) on a street corner, and when the town marshal went to stop him, he called the marshal a "fascist." The Supreme Court found that this speech was not protected, that it was a grave enough personal insult to excuse the marshal's response (which was, I believe, arresting the guy, not punching him, although honestly I'm not sure. Given the time period, it may have been both). Of course, the people who came to stir up trouble this weekend call themselves fascists, Nazis, and worse, so I don't think they can take any comfort from the facts of this particular case.<br />
. <br />
These principles show those of us who wish to stand up to these purveyors of hate and stupidity the limits of what we can and cannot do, but they also show us a path forward.<br />
<br />
We cannot ask the government to outlaw their beliefs. If their lives are so pathetic that the only thing they can find to take pride in is the accident of their birth and the likely false belief that their ancestry is somehow "pure," there is very little anyone can say to convince them otherwise. But we can insist that the authorities make sure that when they dress up in their costumes and have their chest-thumping public displays of their deep-seated inferiority complexes that their psychodramas stay within Constitutional boundaries.<br />
<br />
I continue to believe that the best way to fight speech we disagree with is more speech, not attempting to stop the offensive speech. <br />
<br />
Do your research.<br />
<br />
Practice discipline.<br />
<br />
The second thought that I've had is that lesson that we have lost from the Civil Rights movement is the power of nonviolence. People mistakenly believe that active nonviolence is a display of weakness. It is not. It takes practice, discipline, training. It is hard work.<br />
<br />
Our instincts when threatened are to defend ourselves-- to fight back. Martin Luther King, Jr., James Farmer, and John Lewis studied Mahatma Gandhi and learned the lessons that changed our country despite the best efforts of the KKK and fascists of the time, a time when they acted under the absolute color of law and with the confidence of knowing that law enforcement and the judicial system were largely on their side. The images of children getting blasted with fire hoses, of college students getting beaten bloody, of peaceful assemblies being broken up with vicious attack dogs were more effective than any amount of words. And once King and Farmer and Lewis had everyone's attention with those images, they were able to make them listen to their words.<br />
<br />
These folks who call themselves the "anti-fa" are demonstrating, unwittingly, exactly why King and Farmer and Lewis were right. Responding to violence with violence, no matter how just the cause, only begets... more violence. The modern alt-right is clever-- I wouldn't say "smart," but clever. They know what to say to provoke a response, and they use those images of Bohemian hippy chicks screaming obscenities and black-clad hooded figures throwing tear gas to proclaim their victimhood and win sympathy. While Jason Kessler may have a face that begs for a fist, giving in to that impulse only strengthens his platform and increases his visibility. <br />
<br />
Condoleeza Rice tells the story of growing up in Birmingham when the 16th Street Baptist Church was bombed by the same organization that brought their ugly rhetoric to our town, valiantly murdering 4 little girls, classmates of Ms. Rice. When the time came for the responding nonviolent protest, her father-- a WWII veteran-- stayed at home. When she asked him why, he told her that he understood Dr. King's call to nonviolence and respected it, but he knew himself well enough to know that he couldn't do it. If someone hit him, he knew that he would hit back, and he knew that would be disastrous, not only for him personally, but for the movement. The KKK only needed one photo of a big, black guy KO-ing a white man and all the work of the Civil Rights movement would be over. So he stayed home and found other ways to contribute.<br />
<br />
We may all be wise to consider the wisdom of the ones who fought this battle before us... and won. Sometimes the best way to fight is to sit down, or kneel. Sometimes the best way to support something you believe in is to stay away. But if you do go, have the discipline to make sure that you don't inadvertently strengthen your enemy.<br />
<br />
Be safe, folks. And don't forget that in the end, love wins.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-5714678846500066162016-02-05T19:51:00.002-08:002016-02-05T19:51:40.596-08:00Chocolate Syrup Cake<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Mom called last night with an unusual request: Aunt Sue told her that
her assisted living facility is putting together a cookbook to sell as a
fundraiser for Alzheimer's research, and they're asking the residents
to contribute their favorite recipes. She particularly wants to submit
her recipe for her favorite chocolate cake, and she knows that I have gathered all of
her recipes and have been sorting them out. Mom asked her how I would
know which recipe was the right one, and she said, "Well, it's got a
whole can of Hershey's syrup in it..."<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://www.gourmetsleuth.com/images/default-source/dictionary/chocolate-syrup.jpg?sfvrsn=2" src="http://www.gourmetsleuth.com/images/default-source/dictionary/chocolate-syrup.jpg?sfvrsn=2" /><br />
<br />
THAT SHOULD STAND OUT!<br />
<br />
As it turns out, I found two versions of this recipe, one called simply "Chocolate Syrup Cake" and one called
Devil's Food Cake. The cake part is the same, but the icing recipe
is different: One is for a two layer cake and the other is for a 13x9
sheet cake, so I assume that explains the difference in the
icing. Anyhoo, here you go:<br />
<br />
<b>1 cup sugar</b><b><br />
</b><b>1 stick butter or margarine</b><b><br />
</b><b>4 eggs</b><b><br />
</b><b>1 cup flour</b><b><br />
</b><b>1 tsp. baking powder</b><b><br />
</b><b>pinch of salt</b><b><br />
</b><b>1 16 oz. can Hershey's syrup</b><b><br />
</b><b>1 tsp. vanilla</b><br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 350°F.<br />
<br />
Cream together sugar and butter; add eggs, one at a time, and beat well.
Sift flour, baking powder, and salt together. Alternate adding
flour mixture and chocolate syrup to the butter and egg mixture; add
vanilla last and beat well. <br />
<br />
Grease and flour either a 13" x 9" sheet cake pan (or glass
casserole dish) or two 9" round layer pans; add cake batter. Bake
for 30 minutes, then turn off oven and let cake(s) gradually cool
for 10 minutes before removing from oven.<br />
<br />
<u>Icing for sheet cake</u><u><br />
</u><br />
<b>1 cup sugar</b><b><br />
</b><b>1/2 stick butter</b><b><br />
</b><b>1/3 cup milk</b><b><br />
</b><br />
Mix together, bring to a boil. Cook 2 minutes, stirring
constantly. Remove from heat. Stir in:<br />
<br />
<b>1 tsp. vanilla</b><b><br />
</b><b>1/2 cup chocolate chips</b><b><br />
</b><br />
Beat until consistency to spread; spread over cake in pan.<br />
<br />
<u>Icing for layer cake</u><u><br />
</u><u><br />
</u><b>2 squares dark chocolate</b><b><br />
</b><b>2/3 cup milk</b><b><br />
</b><b>2 cups sugar</b><b><br />
</b><b>
2 Tbsp. white Karo syrup</b><b><br />
</b><b>1/2 stick butter or margarine</b><b><br />
</b><b>
1/2 tsp. vanilla</b><b><br />
</b><b>
</b><br />
Melt chocolate in milk until thoroughly dissolved. Add sugar
gradually. When it begins to boil, add syrup. Cook, stirring constantly, and test as for
fudge by dropping in cold water (soft ball stage). Remove from
heat, add butter and vanilla; beat until right consistency to
spread.<br />
<u><br />
</u>SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-8797112050637910662014-12-01T17:28:00.000-08:002014-12-01T17:28:50.543-08:00Aunt Jean
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<h2>
<span style="color: purple;">Not In Vain - Emily Dickinson</span></h2>
<i>If I can stop one heart from breaking,<br />
I shall not live in vain:<br />
If I can ease one life the aching,<br />
Or cool one pain,<br />
Or help one fainting robin<br />
Unto his nest again,<br />
I shall not live in vain.<br />
</i><br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I have come here today to say a few words about my Aunt
Jean. Let me begin by acknowledging that some of you knew her as
Mary Jean, but to me she was always Aunt Jean, so that’s how I will
refer to her.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">I feel I have to start by
acknowledging that Jean’s life is not one that lends itself to an
easy summary. If there was ever anyone who truly marched to her own
drummer, it was Jean—a trait that is apparently genetic
[significant look at Mark and Ian]. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">To someone on the outside
looking in, it would be easy to assume that she had a difficult life,
defined by a series of trying circumstances. She was a single mother
at a time when that was uncommon. She suffered a couple of severe
injuries at work that resulted in years of hearings and appeals on
top of sometimes grueling and tedious medical treatment. Looking at
her this way, it would be easy to miss the quiet courage and sheer
persistence that it took to make her choices and continue her
battles, and to overlook the ease and resilience with which she met
each new challenge. She marched to her own drummer, but she also
lived by her own values, and that is something to be respected.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">First of all, it is
impossible to talk about Jean without talking about her art. It was
so much a part of who she was and how she interacted with the world.
A simple brush or pencil in her hand was a magic wand—with a few
deft strokes she could capture a moment or tell a story. When I was
a child, I was frequently complimented on my artistic ability and
told that I must have gotten my talent from my Aunt Jean. I took
that as an enormous compliment, but it wasn’t until I got older
that I understood just how good she really was. I took my first
drawing and painting classes in high school, and quickly realized
that I am what’s known as a “realist” or realistic painter—I
pretty much paint or draw what I see. Jean was an impressionist—she
painted with blobs and smears and light and colors, and when she was
done, what she created was more beautiful—more true—than any
photograph. I was humbled.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Please allow me a moment
of artistic geekery here, but I also want to point out what a tricky
medium that she mastered. Watercolors are delicate and require
patience—you have to paint a little and wait for it to dry, then
paint a little more and wait for it to dry—it is the art of
painting in layers. Oil is the most forgiving medium. It takes a
long time to dry, so there’s time to edit your work and get it
juusstt right before you call it done (I prefer oils—I am an
editor). For those of you who aren’t painters, what you need to
know about acrylic paint is that dries almost instantly. There is no
editing—you get it right, or you paint over it and start again.
Jean preferred acrylics, working quickly and confidently to produce
startling and amazing things. Acrylics sometimes get dismissed in
some artistic circles, because if you don’t know what you’re
doing, what you end up with is something flat and cartoonish. Jean’s
works were anything but flat and they were far from cartoonish. They
had dimension and light and movement, and the fact that she
accomplished that with a medium like acrylic is just all the more
remarkable.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">When I was a kid, she gave
the coolest gifts, because a lot of them came from her art stores!
We had latch hook rug kits (remember those?), crewel and embroidery
kits, kits to make leather bracelets and wallets and chokers (hey, it
was the Seventies), and (my favorite) paint by number kits. I am, as
I have mentioned, a realist, and my brother Wade is an engineer (he
was even then), so we would sit with our kits and meticulously follow
the instructions, staying carefully within the lines. When Aunt Jean
painted with us, it was a completely different experience: She
viewed the manufacturer’s printed pattern as a mere suggestion, and
she took, shall we say, great liberties with the images on the board.
Her paintings never looked like the ones on the box—they were
always much better! And yet she used the same little plastic pots of
paint that we did. It always amazed me.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">But her artistry wasn’t
restricted to two-dimensional painting. She was always trying—and
mastering—different mediums and crafts. She delighted in any new
technique or tool that came along: macramé and Modge-Podge,
woodburning and leather working, beading and jewelry making. She
crocheted baby blankets and booties, pillows and socks, delicate
snowflakes and angels as well as colorful afghans and ponchos (again,
Seventies). She painted ceramics and pottery, giving the pre-formed
greenware details and colors that definitely were above and beyond
what those simple forms suggested. And she loved to share what she
made. Over the last fifty or so years, there are probably hundreds
of babies all around Lynchburg who received, a sweater, layette,
blanket, Christening cap, or framed announcement of their birth.
They may not have never even met, but they still benefited from her
handiwork.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Jean had an eye for beauty
and a love of color, light, form, and arrangement that she brought to
everything that she did. She always had a project going—usually
several at once!—and was happy to show off what she was working on,
but she was also always happy to drop everything and help you put
together a wreath or a flower arrangement in a way that she made look
effortless. She loved to work with other artists and crafters and
had a great appreciation for things that were handmade. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">That brings us, naturally,
to her love of baking. Jean was a good cook, like her mother, but
she was an excellent baker. She was always trying new recipes,
making cookies and cakes and pies and cobblers, but also dips, Jello
salads, and simply amazing cheese balls. Mom and I both have many
recipes in our boxes that came from Jean, because Jean was always
willing to try something new and share the results. She tested and
happily passed along her successes, carefully noting where she had
“improved” on a standard recipe to make it better. Her
improvements were usually phenomenal, and we were all happy to be her
guinea pigs.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Speaking of small mammals,
it is also impossible to talk about Jean and not mention her love of
animals. From the time she was a little girl with her beloved Cocker
Spaniel Nippy she was surrounded by pets. When she lived in an
apartment and couldn’t have a dog or a cat, she had a parakeet
named Mike that she taught how to talk. But once she and Mark moved
back to Lynchburg and back in with her mom, she got Suzie, a sweet
little dog who had to learn to share her life with a lot of cats.
Jean was the person who would stop on the side of the highway to
pick up a stray dog or cat and get them to the vet or to a shelter
(or, occasionally, simply to her house, where they settled right in).
She had a long succession of cats and they all lived the spoiled,
decadent lives that every cat seems to think it is entitled to, a
tradition that Mark and Ian seem to have carried on! Jean would
ignore Grandma’s rants about “feeding her food to those dang
cats” while she silently swiped a leftover chicken thigh to shred
for them. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">And she wasn’t content
to simply feed her own cats. She maintained outdoor dishes of food
as well in order to feed any strays that might be in the area. The
rest of us may have suspected that the neighbor’s pets were simply
finding a way to sneak a late night snack or that the local possum
and raccoon populations had discovered an unexpected bounty, but Jean
didn't care. She just wanted to make sure that everyone got fed.
And she didn’t just feed those strays, she took care of them. I
know of at least one occasion when a neighbor got angry because they
found out that their cat, who had been missing for a few days, had
been trapped and taken to the vet and neutered. Hey, if you weren’t
going to be a responsible pet owner, she’d do it for you!</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">That love and caring for
the less fortunate also played out in her work at the Training
Center. The Training School was not the first job that Jean ever
held—she talked fondly of her days working for the telephone
company when she lived in Arlington—but it certainly became a
defining space in her life. For those of you who don’t know the
details, Jean worked in a ward with men who had been labeled for one
reason or another as “difficult” patients. Some had a history of
violence, some were suicidal, all had some sort of “behavior
problem,” but Jean loved them, and they loved her. She took care
of these men that had been cast aside by their families, society, and
even the institution that housed them, and they listened to her. I’m
sure that her calm, unruffled nature certainly helped, but I have to
think that they appreciated that she was willing to meet them where
they were and treat them with kindness and dignity. Even after she
was injured by one of her patients, she didn’t blame him and it
didn’t dampen her enthusiasm for working with “her boys.” </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Eventually, Jean found a
way to take it a step further and bring beauty into their lives, as
well: She brought her art to work with her. She looked around her
ward and saw how bland, featureless, and colorless it was, so she got
permission to bring her paints and brushes, and on her own time began
to paint murals on the walls. Some of them were permanent
decorations, but some of them she would change up, painting Easter
baskets and bunnies, Santa Claus, or Jack-O-Lanterns as the seasons
dictated. Her murals were so successful and so well-loved that she
was asked to paint other wards as well. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">After her leg was
re-injured by another patient, she finally had to leave the Training
Center and take care of her own health. At the time she was injured,
Jean was overweight and had other health problems and had never shown
much interest in physical activity, so when the doctor told her that
the only way to keep from losing her leg was to begin a
strenuous—almost daily—routine of physical therapy, exercise, and
massage therapy, I think he expected that he would sooner or later be
amputating that leg. Much to his surprise, she began her therapy
immediately and took it quite seriously. It was while attending a
water aerobics class at the Y (a low-impact form of exercise that her
therapist recommended) that she had a life-changing experience: She
found the Senior Women’s Swim Team.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Jean maintained all of her
prescribed therapy appointments, but added the Swim Team practices
and meets to her schedule. This opened up a new world to her—new
friends to hang out with, the opportunity to travel out of town to
attend swim meets, the chance to explore new cities and new areas.
Suddenly, instead of art store gifts, I started to get cool new
earrings from craftspeople all up and down the Eastern Seaboard as
Jean indulged our shared love of funky jewelry. It was clear that in
addition to a shared interest in swimming, Jean also found friends to
share her love of painting and flowers and crafts and people, and it
was fun to hear her stories of their triumphs and exploits. The team
brought a great deal of joy to her life.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">You may have noticed that
the word “joy” keeps coming up, and I don’t think that’s an
accident. Jean certainly had her challenges, but Jean’s life was
not a sad or miserable or depressing one. She had a way of looking
for the beauty around her, and if she couldn’t find it, she made
it. Jean reveled in her art, but she always colored outside of the
lines, and what she created was far better than anything the lines
could imagine. Jean took in strays, whether they were animals or
people and always kept a sharp eye out for the underdog. She loved
her family-- especially Mark, and most especially her grandsons-- and
demonstrated that with her actions, if not her words. In her quiet
way, she brought calm and beauty into a lot of lives. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Those who
march to their own drummers sometimes frustrate the rest of the band,
who can’t understand why just don’t just follow the routine, but
the world would be a far less interesting place without them.</span></div>
SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-59385951652068440962011-11-13T06:49:00.001-08:002011-11-13T10:44:00.730-08:00NostalgiaIn Richmond this weekend-- I always sleep so well here. I think it's a combination of being with BikerDude (it's hard to sleep alone when you're used to having someone else share the bed), a comfortable mattress, being away from the usual home stresses and the quiet house. There's something familiar about this house, even though it's clearly new, and I think it has to do with the fact that it was built in the same era as my Grandmother's house.<br />
<br />
That said, I had the most vivid dream last night. I was back in Grandma's house, showing it to a young couple who were considering purchasing it, so I was walking them through. As is true in most dreams, not everything we walked through was actually part of Grandma's house, but so many significant details were.<br />
<br />
I was first struck by the smell. Grandma's house had lovely, old heart of pine floors throughout, so there was always a faint, pleasant aroma of pine mixed with whatever furniture polish/cleaner she was using at the time-- slightly soapy, clean and... warm. Grandma's house was usually warm. No air conditioning, but a furnace that fueled two ENORMOUS steam radiators-- one in the living room, right inside the front door and one in the kitchen. Grandma loved color, so they were painted to match the decor: Avocado green in the living room and bright orange (yes, orange!) in the kitchen. The house was small-- only four rooms plus the bathroom-- so those two ginormous radiators were plenty to keep things warm! <br />
<br />
The front door included a very old-fashioned heavy, louvered glass storm/screen door. You twisted a winged knob to open the glass louvers-- all in all a safety nightmare in a number of ways (pointed corners to hit your head on, heavy non-tempered glass either sticking out horizontally presenting a solid, very breakable surface to stick your arm through...). It was heavy, but very effective!<br />
<br />
The closets smelled faintly of cedar and mothballs. They were deep and dark and had high shelves holding many mysterious boxes. The back porch was high off the ground as the lot sloped down from the front yard to the back. One of the posts of the covered porch held a pulley which operated the clothes line. Waayy out across the back yard, on the edge of the lot between Grandma and her next door neighbors to the right stood a telephone pole-- I recall that somehow the neighbor had finagled having it installed-- and there were accompanying pulleys for both Grandma's and the neighbor's clothes lines attached, so that the laundry hung 20-30' in the air, waving high above the backyards, in the sun and out of the way of Grandma's pride and joy: Her garden.<br />
<br />
Grandma had, over the years, terraced her back yard into a multi-level ornamental garden with raised beds and careful pathways. She could grow anything and was always fascinated and delighted to try new plants or share her successes with fellow gardeners. Needless to say, her basement was, essentially, an enormous potting shed with a washer (and, eventually, dryer) stuck in one corner amidst the shelves of pots, vases, gardening implements and whichever rusty lawnmower she was nursing at the moment. Spending time at Grandma's house usually meant spending some time helping her pull weeds, edge the lawn or sort out and store various bulbs, seedlings or corms.<br />
<br />
So the other smell I associate is dirt. No, not just dirt-- soil. Grandma knew how to cultivate. The smell of the cool dirt of the basement (with just a hint of heating oil for the boiler), warm sun on grass and the sweet smell of the butterfly bushes and abelia mixing with the almost petroleum-like smell of the redwood shingles that sided the house-- throw in the smell of rain from the cover of large covered front porch and you have a summer afternoon at Grandma's.<br />
<br />
It's amazing how much scent triggers memory-- and how many memories one dream can trigger.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-81708422000132000352011-10-26T21:19:00.000-07:002011-10-26T21:19:26.397-07:00Faith<dl style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
<dt><i></i></dt>
<dd class="author">
<dl>
<dt><i>Seeing, contrary to popular wisdom, isn't believing. It's where belief stops, because it isn't needed any more. --Terry Pratchett, </i><i>Pyramids </i></dt>
<dt><br /></dt>
</dl>
</dd><dd class="author">I've
once again found myself in a place where I am confronted by atheists,
some of whom I admire, who intelligently defend their belief. Gene
Weingarten, in particular, is most eloquent and even respectful towards
people of faith, and his logic is difficult to assail. The foundation
of his belief is that history has inexorably moved towards science and
away from magic-- that there has never been an instance of something
that science once believed that was later proved to have a mystical
cause.</dd><dd class="author"><i><br /></i></dd><dd class="author">This is true.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">However,
I think he is mistaken on the purpose of faith, of the draw of
religion. He states that faith is a way for people to cope with the
terror of existence; that by inventing an afterlife, they can construct a
scaffolding of denial about the ultimate futility of our existence.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">I
am no philosopher and even less of a theologian. I have never been a
proselytizer because I don't have a dramatic, Road to Damascus story to
share. All I have is my own experience, limited though it may be.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">First
let me say that I don't think life can be planned. You can certainly
make plans, but by the time you've reached, say, 30, you should be
acquainted with the fact that life is what happens to you while you're
making other plans. By the time you're 46, you should have started to
make peace with that fact.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">Second,
a word to the ardent atheists out there: Take your cue from Gene and
maintain some respect for people who do not share your beliefs. Stating
that people of faith value magic over science and referring to us as
worshiping sky fairies demeans you far more than it does us. Setting up
straw men and knocking them down is a cheap rhetorical device-- it
doesn't sting us because, as Gene has pointed out many times, it's hard
to take offense at something that is simply not true. It just makes you
look petulant and adolescent.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">Science
and faith are not incompatible. I understand science and am fascinated
by it. I revel in the newest discoveries in physics, medicine,
astronomy, biochemistry... you name it. I have a degree in anthropology
and if forensic science had been a career option when I was in college,
I likely would have pursued that as a career.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">But
of course I understand that science has limits. Science will always
have limits. Any good scientist will tell you that. There are things
in this world that science can't explain, try though it might. I'm not
talking about the mechanism of creation or the evolutionary process--
science has actually done a pretty good job with those, and will
continue to reveal more information I'm sure. But what about art?
Music? Human interaction? Why are Van Gogh's paintings so
captivating? Why is Mozart's music so beautiful? Why do some people
prefer Lady Gaga? Why do I love BikerDude and not any of the other
many, wonderful, eligible men that I've met in my life? </dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">There aren't scientific answers for these questions.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">Atheists
might think that these observations are irrelevant, but they aren't.
What makes a painting beautiful is just as valid a question as how did
the universe begin. Once you define the important questions as the ones
that your belief system can answer, you are no better than the most
faith-drenched, devout priest you can imagine and despise. Framing the
question is so important to winning the debate.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">I
don't have answers. I can't prove that God exists. I can say that I
have experienced him and his presence-- or her and her presence (gender
isn't really an issue with God). Just because some people use religion
to abuse others, justify evil deeds and ostracize those who don't
believe as they do does not disprove religion or faith. Science has
also been abused the same ways over the years-- do I really need to
remind anyone of phrenology, eugenics and the Tuskegee experiments? Bad
people do bad things with the tools they have-- it doesn't mean that
there is anything essentially wrong with the tools.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author">Atheists
ask why hasn't God ever revealed himself in a way that eliminates all
doubt? I don't know, but I suspect it has something to do with faith. I
refer you to the quote at the beginning of this post-- once something
has been proven definitively there is no need for faith.</dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd><dd class="author"><br /></dd></dl>SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-16038203408847393162011-10-12T20:55:00.000-07:002011-10-12T20:55:57.590-07:00Sir TerryI just read an interview with Terry Pratchett by Neil Gaiman. This is like Nerdvanna for me-- two of my favorite writers, having a meaningful conversation!<br />
<br />
I tried reading Mr. Pratchett's first book, <i>The Color of Magic</i>, and had a hard time getting into it, so I put it aside. Then I took <i>Small Gods </i>on a camping trip with me, and it was a revelation! It was a savvy, thoughtful critique of organized religion, religious fanatics and the power behind the structure of the church, along with a celebration of true faith, wrapped up in some of the cleverest wordplay and most hilarious scenes I have ever read, anywhere! After that I couldn't get enough! I went back and read all of the Discworld novels and have never been disappointed.<br />
<br />
If you haven't had the pleasure of experiencing any of Sir Terry's oeuvre, I can't recommend them enough. He manages to tackle some of the most serious and thoughtful issues, providing stinging critiques of modern foibles and fallacies all while making you laugh out loud, groan at puns and delight in the sheer joy of words! A brief sampling:<br />
<br />
<dl>
<dt>Stupid men are often capable of things the clever would not dare to contemplate...</dt>
<dd class="author"><i>(</i><i>Feet of Clay) </i></dd><dd class="author"><i><br /></i></dd>
<dt>A good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.</dt>
<dd class="author"><i>(</i><i>Guards! Guards!)</i></dd><dd class="author"><i> </i></dd>
<dt>An education was a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It made
you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you had the urge to pass it
on.</dt>
<dd class="author"><i>(</i><i>Hogfather)</i></dd><dd class="author"><i> </i></dd>
<dt>Of course, it is very important to be sober when you take an exam.
Many worthwhile careers in the street- cleansing, fruit-picking and
subway-guitar-playing industries have been founded on a lack of
understanding of this simple fact.</dt>
<dd class="author"><i>(</i><i>Moving Pictures)</i></dd><dd class="author"><i> </i></dd>
<dt>Seeing, contrary to popular wisdom, isn't believing. It's where belief stops, because it isn't needed any more.</dt>
<dd class="author"><i>(</i><i>Pyramids)</i></dd><dd class="author"><i> </i></dd>
<dt>It was so much easier to blame it on Them. It was bleakly depressing
to think that They were Us. If it was Them, then nothing was anyone's
fault. If it was us, what did that make Me? After all, I'm one of Us. I
must be. I've certainly never thought of myself as one of Them. No one
ever thinks of themselves as one of Them. We're always one of Us. It's
Them that do the bad things.</dt>
<dd class="author"><i>(</i><i>Jingo)</i></dd><dd class="author"><i> </i></dd></dl>
A few years ago, Sir Terry announced that he had been diagnosed with a rare form of Alzheimer's. Those of us who have long been fans of his writing were devastated by this news, not only, selfishly, because we understood that this might be the end of his wonderful words, but also because after 20+ years of reading his words and wisdom, it was a little like hearing this about your favorite uncle. Fortunately for all of us, he has not slowed down! He had just released his latest book <i>Snuff, </i>which is a rollicking send up of the English Cozy Murder Mystery genre, but also a commentary on slavery and the Holocaust. The fact that he can successfully mix those things is a testament to his ability.<br /><br />
I find the fact that anyone can write like him both inspiring and paralyzingly intimidating. <br />
<br />
Here's hoping he will continue for years to come.<br />SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-66365299954460620842011-10-05T21:20:00.000-07:002011-10-05T21:20:18.568-07:00I'm getting oldSteve Jobs passed away today. What a shame. Pancreatic cancer is unforgiving.<br />
<br />
I've never drunk the Apple Kool-Aid, but it's hard to overestimate the impact that he had on our lives. I'm old enough to remember BC-- Before Computers. When I was in high school, there was a Computer Science Club where kids could learn to write programs in Basic on primitive boxes. I remember how impressed everyone was when one kid built a computer for his science fair project! Of course, he built it from a kit and it could play Tic Tac Toe, if I remember correctly, but everyone oohed and aahed, and he won the fair, of course.<br />
<br />
By the time I got to college, some departments were beginning to put in computer labs, where you could go to use "desktops" that took up way more space than most desks. The lab in the basement of my dorm was considered cutting edge because it had monitors with amber screens instead of green ones! <br />
<br />
My first foray into word processing ended in the metaphorical, and almost literal, flaming wreckage of my honor's thesis (a project that was otherwise doomed, but that's a story for another time. Suffice it to say that it was on Quadaffi's Libya and that about a month after I started working on my thesis, Ronald Reagan bombed him. I should have taken that as a sign...). This is to say that I was a computer skeptic. However, a girl down the hall got a Mac when they first came out, and I remember the first time I saw it, with its WYSIWYG screen (google it, kids), icons and "mouse." Totally radical, dude. I knew it was a game-changer.<br />
<br />
I was in law school during the ensuing PC/Apple wars, and ended up in the PC camp by default, not choice. My law school and subsequent employers used PCs and Apples weren't compatible with them, so PC user I became. Still, Apple's influence reached me. Icons, computer mice, those WYSIWYG screens-- all of these ended up in the PC world, too. More recently, iPods have changed how we buy, store and listen to music, iPads have revolutionized tablet computers and iPhones have ushered in the era of smart phones. <br />
<br />
And finally: Pixar. All of our lives are richer from Mr. Jobs' contribution.<br />
<br />
Very few individuals can truly be said to have changed the world; even fewer of them can be said to have changed it for the better. Steve Jobs qualifies. What a legacy.<br />
<br />
<br />SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-41458917899565171622011-10-04T19:59:00.000-07:002011-10-04T20:02:32.537-07:00DriftingI created this blog three years ago to try to make myself write. We can see how well that has worked out... no posts in almost 2 years!<br />
<br />
Things are so different now with Brian working and going to school in Richmond and me being here. The hardest part is at night-- sleeping alone is difficult when you're used to having someone next to you in bed. The only nights I really sleep well are the nights when Brian is home or I'm in Richmond. Makes for some interesting weeks.<br />
<br />
I had knee surgery in March after injuring myself in December. Recovery is slow. After almost 3 months of physical therapy, I morphed into a gym membership at ACAC. One of the benefits of working at a large, soulless corporation is the excellent benefits, including a reduced price on the gym membership! I'm getting my money's worth, at least-- I work out with weights/cardio MWF and with pool aqua therapy TTh. I'm also loosely doing Weight Watchers again, although only the online. I don't want or need a support group-- there's nothing wrong with them, but it's not my style. So far no weight loss, which is kind of discouraging, but I think part of it is because I'm building muscle. I notice a (slight) difference in the way my clothes fit, and I'm getting some of my stamina back. Sigh. It's just a slow process.<br />
<br />
Still watching current events/history unfolding with interest. We are here in the middle of the Second Great Depression (despite the desperate attempts of those in charge to not call it that), and the politics are getting ugly. President Obama has finally decided to quit trying to reason with the unreasonable and has come out swinging. Good job! At least if he goes down he'll go down swinging, which is way more honorable than refusing to take a stand for fear of alienating different people! The best news for the President is that he has to run against a Republican, and that party is publicly unraveling. Governor Christie from NJ has just held his umpteenth press conference to announce that "For the love of God, I am NOT running for President in 2012, so PLEASE STOP ASKING!!" When someone uses the phrase, "Short of suicide, I don't know how to convince you," I don't think it's a news story when he confirms... again... that he's still not running. That leaves Mitt Romney, Rick "Governor Goodhair" Perry and a whole clown car of assorted wackos.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, a small part of the general public has awakened and has taken to protesting daily on Wall Street. This could get interesting, given the current income disparity. Could put the "war" in class warfare...<br />
<br />
I'm tired. Off to bed. The Redskins are winning, Dallas is collapsing, Pittsburgh with their resident rapist Ben Roethissburger is looking weak, so football is off to a great start, so I'll curl up with the kitties here and call it an early night.<br />
<br />
Peace.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-67505769039175195272009-12-17T07:27:00.000-08:002009-12-17T07:44:31.064-08:00Off to the doctorSunday night BikerDude noticed that Tweak, the psychopath, was acting stranger than usual. She was grooming herself excessively, particularly her behind, and the fur around her butt was matted and stinky. We tried to clean her up with a warm, damp cloth, but that just got us a string of cat profanity, so first thing Monday morning I called the vet and took her in for an appointment.<br /><br />I actually succeeded in bribing her into the carrier by tossing a few treats in, but something tells me that that's a trick that won't work again!<br /><br />Dr. Bohne and I discussed her weight (16 lbs! I actually thought it might be more) and her general health and she agreed that we were looking at a UTI, complicated by both fleas and worms. She wanted a urine sample, so I left her there for the day to give them a chance to collect it.<br /><br />When I went to pick her up, they told me that they hadn't been able to get a sample. They gave her fluids all day, but she refused to pee. I can just picture her there with her little kitty legs crossed, refusing to cooperate. They tried to draw some urine directly from her bladder, but that didn't work, either. The procedure involved flipping her over onto her back, holding her there by her scruff and using an ultrasound wand to locate the bladder and attempt a needle extraction. The mind reels with the image-- I can JUST IMAGINE how cooperative she was! When the vet tech explained the procedure to me, she saw the look on my face (which I'm sure clearly said, "Better you than me!") and said, "She was kind of... feisty." Hah! I bet! I'm going to guess she was a complete and total little sh*t!<br /><br />Anyway, between her attitude and struggles and the many layers of fat, they weren't able to extract anything, but the vet decided to treat her with a course of antibiotics, anyway-- she was pretty confident of the diagnosis.<br /><br />So, of course, as I was paying the bill, she peed in the carrier. A LOT! Like she'd been holding it all day...<br /><br />Shortly after we got home, I got Brian to help hold her and I used the pill popper to give her her first antibiotic pill. I did give her several treats afterwards, but I figured that she would be trying to kill me in my sleep after all of that.<br /><br />Surprise! Perhaps she a secret masochist, or perhaps she sees me as the Savior who rescued her from That Horrible Place where they did rude things to her all day, but she actually cuddled up to me! In fact, Tuesday night she slept on my feet for the first time EVER (if she gets on the bed at all, which is rare, she ALWAYS sleeps on BikerDude's feet. After all, he is God and I am simply staff). <br /><br />Yesterday she followed both of us around and would drop periodically, roll over on her back to display her shaved and now clean and healthy butt to us, and generally look for attention. Last night, she slept on my feet again.<br /><br />I guess I know how to win her over from now on: Take her to the vet and bring her home! I am the Rescuer! <br /><br />Weird little cat.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-67554847871128571062009-10-08T19:21:00.000-07:002009-10-08T19:50:44.246-07:00Health care for everyoneI'm going to go out on a limb right now and predict something: There will be a health care bill passed before the end of the year and it will include a public option.<br /><br />President Obama is a savvy politician-- probably the best that Washington has seen in two generations. He's also really, really smart and really, really patient when he has to be.<br /><br />Everyone is crying right now because the White House hasn't presented a bill and the President has not spoken out to draw a line in the sand, letting legislators know what he will and won't sign off on. This is deliberate. The minute he puts a nail down, he provides the opposition with something to hang their hat on. He's not going to give them any help.<br /><br />Also, by letting things play out, he's letting public opinion (a) form and (b) get back to the individual legislators, each of whom is primarily concerned with getting re-elected. <br /><br />I agree that to some degree he has pulled a "take-away" on the public option, a car sales technique where the salesman tells the customer, who is drooling over the high-option vehicle but whining about the price, "Well, it's a shame you can't afford this beautiful Cadillac with the sun roof, leather seats, GPS and satellite radio. Let's go look at something in your price range-- I've got a some economy cars with cloth seats and crank windows." <br /><br />Congress is now the husband who has to go back and tell the wife (the public) why he is jeopardizing the purchase of the Cadillac that SHE has fallen in love with. She's reminding him that they just bought a new, tricked-out truck for him and a bass boat last year, and he wants her to settle for a Chevy Cavalier? And what about that fishing trip you paid for last year and took three of your friends on? <br /><br />No husband ever wants to have that conversation, and every husband knows how it will end: She'll get her Cadillac. She may have to compromise and get the 22" rims instead of the 24s and she may let the GPS go but keep the satellite radio, but she will have her Caddy.<br /><br />I just wish the Dems were smarter about controlling terminology. Stop calling it a "public option" and call it a "nonprofit option."SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-24798439540035548222009-10-06T08:23:00.000-07:002009-10-06T08:33:23.082-07:00Stupid Bengal TricksIt’s amazing how something that can’t talk can reduce you to complete, sputtering incoherency.<br /><br />This morning, BikerDude had to get up early (at 6:00) in order to get to his 8:00 class, but I wanted to sleep in a little longer. Hah! All of the cats got the idea that since someone was up, everyone should be up, so they began a relentless campaign. After BikerDude had left and before my alarm went off, MonkeyChild's little Mama Cat Denny had taken over the bed-- quite an accomplishment for a cat that weighs less than six pounds. She was simultaneously tunneling under the covers, biting my hand to get me to pet her, purring LOUDLY and chasing off any other cat who tried to get onto the bed.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Razor had stolen the drain plug from the bathroom sink and was playing hockey with it in the bathroom. Nothing like the quiet sounds of a hard rubber disk being smacked against vinyl floor, porcelain and the walls accompanied by the galumphing of a 15 lb. moose cat pouncing around after it to lull you back to sleep. A few minutes later there was a hissing and swatting match at my bedroom door, but I ignored it. Kaos retreated from his attempts to get on the bed (thwarted by Denny) and took up residence on top of the wardrobe, perched like a gargoyle on one corner and sizing up the opposition as the came and went from the room.<br /><br />I had just about dozed off when I realized that someone was on the jewelry armoire next to my bed (a little chest on four spindly legs that has all of my jewelry in it and also serves as a bedside table for me at the moment, until I can find some good bookshelves that are the right height). I thought it was Kaos, who generally climbs on everything, but no. It was Razor. Who is (a) MUCH less agile than Kaos and (b) far too big to be climbing on such a precarious piece of furniture. Which he discovered when he let out a startled little yip as he lost his footing and fell to the floor. I turned over to make sure that he was alright and realized what he had been doing up there: Reaching down, opening a drawer and fishing out one of my necklaces! <br /><br />Do you know how many swear words you can mutter when you are half-asleep? A lot. I think I made up a few.<br /><br />Which will give me something to pray about later, I suppose, so it all works out.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-7143701936883095572009-10-05T19:40:00.000-07:002009-10-05T19:56:16.819-07:00Never enough timePart of the whole blogging thing is to get practice writing, but never having time to write seems to be defeating the purpose.<br /><br />I suppose, like most things, it's all about what you make time for.<br /><br />I would suggest that I am willing to let the housework go so that I can make time for my writing, but, sadly, looking around it becomes painfully obvious that I have already given up on that. <br /><br />Maybe I can give up reading the newspaper in the evenings?<br /><br />Anyway, life has a way of staying interesting.<br /><br />BikerDude and I are entering a new phase of our life with the advent of grad school/seminary. He started last month and it's already been a long, strange trip. We've spent the last four years so focused on him going to school full-time and working full-time and having very little time for anything else that we both have to get used to him actually having free time! He's a full-time grad student now, so you'd think he'd have LESS time, but after the schedule he's kept for the last four years, he's seeking a little more balance. <br /><br />I'm in favor of this, not surprisingly.<br /><br />Change doesn't have to be scary... it can be kind of fun!SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-65848388344006070002009-09-12T08:30:00.000-07:002009-09-12T10:25:35.057-07:00Eight Year LaterIt doesn't seem like only eight years ago. <br /><br />At the risk of sounding like a cliche, it was such a beautiful morning. A perfect late summer-- the skies were a beautiful blue, it was cool with low humidity and just a hint of fall in the air.<br /><br />I was running late (as usual) and was in the kitchen and first floor bathroom getting ready to leave for work when NPR, just finishing its Morning Edition broadcast and preparing to begin its morning classical music, paused and Seth Williamson said, "We're just getting news that a plane has hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York..."<br /><br />There was still a lot of confusion. A plane? What size? Everyone was thinking a small, private plane, but how could a pilot have been THAT confused or lost on such a clear, beautiful morning with unlimited visibility?<br /><br />Curious, I flipped on the TV and tuned in to CNN, figuring that they would have the most immediate coverage.<br /><br />I was watching, casually interested, when the second plane hit.<br /><br />I immediately knew what had happened, and felt a chill go down my spine.<br /><br />The second plane was unmistakable. It was definitely a full-sized passenger jet, and it flew full-speed, straight into the building. It was clearly deliberate. The World Trade Center had been a target of terrorism just a few years before, and Oklahoma City was still pretty fresh in everyone's mind. I didn't immediately call up the name Osama bin Ladin, but I did recall that the Saudi guy who was behind the first bombing had never been caught.<br /><br />I watched for a few minutes, then headed for work. The radio stations still hadn't caught up with events-- NPR was playing classical music and everyone else had their regular programming on. I finally found ABC radio on the AM dial and listened to Peter Jennings start sorting things out. He was the first one to use the word, "terrorism." I felt ill.<br /><br />I got to work and told the receptionist and the facilities manager to turn the radio and/or TV on, two planes had just hit the WTC and it wasn't an accident.<br /><br />When I got upstairs I told folks as I passed, "Turn your radios on!" Some already had-- word was starting to get around.<br /><br />About the time I got to my office and got my radio turned on and my computer booted up, word was coming in that something had happened at the Pentagon. Reports were still sketchy: A plane had flown into it. No, a helicopter. No, a helicopter had blown up on the landing pad. No, it was a plane...<br /><br />All of the news websites were overloaded and no one could get online. The radio now mentioned that a plane had gone down somewhere in central Pennsylvania, and that the Secretary of Defense had shut down all air travel and ordered all of the airplanes out of the sky. <br /><br />Kristen, an Analyst who worked with me, was frantic. Her parents were scheduled to fly out of Pittsburgh that morning and she wasn't able to get them on the phone. There was no information about the plane in Pennsylvania and she was practically hysterical. We tried to assure her that the fact that she couldn't get through to their cell phones probably didn't mean anything-- communications were either down or overloaded all over the eastern seaboard, so most calls weren't getting through, especially anything north of us.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Rachael, in the office next to mine, was calmer but still very worried--she had a brother and a sister living in New York, the sister in Tribeca, not far from the part of Manhattan that was under attack. No one in her family had been able to get through, but they knew that wasn't unusual. <br /><br />Rachael and I tried, on our respective computers, to get onto a news website, any news website. CNN, NPR, all of the networks, the Washington Post, the New York Times... nothing. Too busy. Finally, I got onto the BBC website and we had our first look at the burning towers. We stood watching, horrified, listening to the live broadcast coming through from NPR. While we were watching, the North Tower came down. We started to cry, quietly.<br /><br />The office was at a standstill. Nothing was getting done. Anyone who had gotten through to a website had several other people gathered around, watching in shocked silence. Several of our IT folks were supposed to be flying back to Charlottesville, some from Dayton, some from New York, and they hadn't yet checked in.<br /><br />Before we could pull ourselves away, Security came through the building. They were shutting the company down and evacuating the building-- no one could stay behind. Across the street and down a couple of blocks from our building looms a tall, forbidding, fortress-like structure that until a few months before had housed the National Ground Intelligence Center for the US Army. Among other things, it tracked all of the air traffic for the country. Clearly the air traffic was under attack, and no one knew yet who was behind it or how current their intelligence might be. If whoever it was decided to do something to sabotage Army intelligence under such an attack, the NGIC would be a high-value target. Did the enemy know that the building on the edge of the Downtown Mall no longer housed this agency? Who knew? But all of the businesses in the area were advised to evacuate. Quickly.<br /><br />I shut everything down and left. I went to the blood center to donate blood, but was turned away. The wait was over 2 hours and they were telling people to come back the next day. I headed home and called my parents, who were already watching, then Karen and Marcy who both live in Northern Virginia to see if they had gotten home safely. For the rest of the day I mostly laid on the sofa with my cats and watched the news, horrified, terrified, sad, angry. My only conscious thought, which I knew I would eventually soften, was, "Kill them. Kill them all and let God sort them out."<br /><br />It wasn't a hot and angry response. It was a cold and furious one.<br /><br />It turned out that Kristen's parents were fine. They had just taken off when the pilot came over the speakers and told them that they were turning around and landing the plane. I don't know how much explanation they got until they landed. Not long afterwards, Kristen decided to leave Charlottesville and move back to Pennsylvania to be closer to her family and to get her MLS so that she could become a law librarian.<br /><br />Rachael's family was also fine, although her sister in Tribeca had to move out for awhile until power and services were fully restored.<br /><br />Our IT folks all landed safely, but could get no further than Dayton. They finally rented a car and drove back to Charlottesville, arriving sometime Tuesday evening. <br /><br />Unfortunately, two of our coworkers were not so lucky. Two Reed Elsevier employees from the New York office were on one of the flights that hit the WTC. The company devoted a memorial to them and has a scholarship fund in their names.<br /><br />Over the next couple of days, the thing I remember the most is the expressions of sympathy and grief that came from around the world. Someone on the web compiled a collection of photos and it can still make me well up. It was so beautiful, and so humbling, to see the tributes outside of American embassies and consulate offices around the world--not the official expressions, but the heartfelt tributes from everyday people who wanted all of us Americans to know that we were not alone. It was all meaningful and touching, and I hope that they all know that.<br /><br />This was also President Bush's one brief, shining moment. His speech at Ground Zero and later before the joint session of Congress were, sadly, the highlights of his presidency. He was never more articulate or more sincere than he was in those moments, which is one of the reasons that I hold him in such contempt. Clearly, he had the skills. He had it in him to be so much more than what he became. The fact that he squandered not only the national and international good will that poured out on him that day but also his own potential to rise up and be a genuine leader is disgusting. Sadly, for me that is going to be the epitaph of his entire administration: He could have been so much more.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-87270238172069898602009-08-25T11:31:00.000-07:002009-08-25T11:44:37.175-07:00Morning with BengalsI was awakened this morning at the bright and early hour of 5:45 by the sound of Razor playing hockey with the drain plug in the bathroom. THUMP-scramble-scramble-scramble-THUMP! He then got into a brief spat with Tweak, where she growled and he yowled and they both stared, circled and occasionally took half-hearted swipes at each other. At least he's finally standing up to her, but I wish he'd do so quietly, especially before the alarm goes off...<br /><br />Kaos prefers to sleep in, but he can be easily persuaded to wake up and join the fun. Usually Razor supervises my morning ablutions as well as any ironing I may choose to do. He likes to sit in the windowsill of the bathroom while I'm in the shower, then jump into the tub as soon as I turn the water off. That is, if Tweak doesn't beat him into the bathroom and park herself on the toilet first. Then he paces the floor and yowls indignantly while she pretends to ignore him, reveling in her momentary victory.<br /><br />Once Kaos wakes up, though, it's climbing time. He gets on the dresser while I'm picking out my earrings and tries to paw through my jewelry box, then climbs onto my shoulder while I'm trying to get dressed. Once Brian is up, too, it's time to play in the sheets! Both of the boys enjoy a brisk game of "bed weasels," but Kaos can't get enough. I usually end up just making him up into the bed. He rarely misses breakfast, so it's clearly not terribly difficult to escape when properly motivated.<br /><br />I think tonight I shall reprise the pork tacos that I made the other night-- I've still got half of a pork tenderloin to use up. I've become an expert on 30 Minute Meals-- thank you, Rachael Ray! Although I usually alter her recipes somewhat to lower the fat and calories and cut the pasta measurements in half (who the heck is she cooking for, the Offensive Line for the New England Patriots??!!!). Anyway, Brian really liked the recipe, despite the fact that it was a Weight Watchers one. As he was eating it, he said, "I usually don't really like chicken, but this is excellent!" <br /><br />"Um, Sweetie, that's because it's pork..."<br /><br />Sigh.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-21568023880949675572009-08-24T14:14:00.000-07:002009-08-24T14:21:27.429-07:00Settling inMonkeyChild has been back with us for a couple of weeks now, one of which we spent at the beach while she had the house to herself, which may or may not have eased the transition. It's good to have her back. She brought with her six little buddies, however: Cydnee, former resident kitty, Denny, a small white-with-gray-spots cat who is less than a year old, and Denny's four kittens, the result of MonkeyChild missing the spay appointment, then letting her outside. <br /><br />The kittens are, not surprisingly, adorable: A solid black girl (Fiona, aka Fifi), a solid gray girl (Lulu), a gray and white tuxedo boy (D'Artagnan, aka Tanner) and a white with gray boy who looks like his mom (Smudge). All six have been confined to MonkeyChild's room until they get their shots updated and a clean bill of health (appointments this Friday). The resident cats are fascinated by the sounds and smells coming out of that room, but so far there has been no interaction. Tweak will occasionally live up to her name, smell someone coming out of the room, hiss at them and run away. Little freak. The boys are more laid-back.<br /><br />Anyone want a kitten?SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-88636616319303173052009-07-23T07:14:00.000-07:002009-07-23T07:23:32.456-07:00Grandma Wright-LawhorneDave Barry posted a link to an article today about a new fashion trend: Women/models shaving or waxing their eyebrows. He opined that this gives them all of the sexy allure of a lightbulb. I don't disagree, but I was reminded of my grandmother. Grandma Lawhorne (Grandma Wright for the first 11 years of my life, until she remarried) used to pluck her eyebrows until she had removed them completely, then pencil them in thinly with an eyebrow pencil. This was apparently quite fashionable in the '30s and '40s, and is a trend she followed her entire life. Unfortunately, after years of doing this her eyebrows stopped growing back. Also, she had a less-than-steady hand with the eyebrow pencil, so invariably one of her eyebrows would be higher than the other, giving her a permanent surprised look.<br /><br />Anyway, I wrote this remembrance of her for her funeral in June of 2007. Since I'm thinking of her, I thought now would be a good time to post it:<br /><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /><br />When my college friends and I were first getting to know each other, we frequently exchanged stories about our families—our histories, hometowns, schools and relatives. Of course, we all tried to keep the various family members straight: Is that your Italian grandmother or the one who lives in Georgia? Do you mean your married sister or the one at UVA? I quickly learned that my stories about my grandmother had taken on a certain flavor when one of my friends asked me, "Is that the grandmother who's a great cook but can't drive?" <br /><br />Yes, that would be the one.<br /><br />As for her driving, what can I say? Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, passengers in Grandma's car were frequently forced to contemplate their own mortality—or at least to reflect seriously on their insurance coverage. She zoomed around town—one foot on the brake, one on the gas—a menace to everyone on the road. And the sidewalk. Even parked cars and buildings weren't safe. We frequently marveled at her ability to retain her license, but I think Mark was correct in assessing that no police officer wanted to be the one to give this sweet little old lady a ticket, so they just sent her on her way with a warning. If only they knew…<br /><br />But as bad as her driving was, her cooking… well, that was in a category of it's own, as well, but for far different reasons. Grandma didn't just fix dinner. She put on a spread, worthy of the farm she was raised on and the eleven siblings that grew up around her table: Two kinds of meat, three vegetables (including, always, a green and a yellow one), homemade pickles, gravy and biscuits. Oh, those biscuits! Mom once tried to get her recipe and quickly realized that it was hopeless. Grandma made biscuits with instinct and skill that required no recipe. She just threw the ingredients together until they "were right"—measuring the flour with a broken teacup and adding the other ingredients with a practiced eye and a pinch or this or that. <br /><br />And she always had at least two desserts in case someone didn't like one of the choices. The only thing that she could never master in the kitchen was making a cake from a mix. She would read the instructions that told her to simply add water and would exclaim, "You can't make a cake like that!" and would then proceed to add extra eggs, milk, oil, shortening, flavoring—whatever she thought was missing. The result was frequently a dense mess, riddled with toothpicks used to hold the layers together (we kids learned early on to cut the cake bites into small pieces with our forks before eating unless we wished to be speared). <br /><br />But as wonderful as her cooking was, it was merely a reflection of what was really behind it: Hospitality. Grandma's house was always open to all, and visitors were welcomed with a comfortable place to sit, a big glass of tea or lemonade or an ice-cold Coca-Cola, and an invitation to a meal which few had the willpower to decline. Her brothers and sisters and their families gravitated to her home and her kitchen, as did her friends and neighbors. Grandma didn't always keep up with what was going on in the world and couldn't tell you what the latest Washington, DC scandal was about or who was starring in the latest movies, but she knew where all of her family members were and how they were doing and kept track of the ladies in her Sunday School class, the ladies she used to work with and both her siblings and Grandaddy Wright's eleven siblings and all of their families. If she didn't know the details, she knew the generalities of where everyone was living and their general state of health and well-being. Perhaps being from such a large family and marrying someone from an equally large family contributed to her ability to welcome anyone, any time to her home, but wherever the impulse came from, she lived the Christian virtue of hospitality as well as anyone I have known.<br /><br />In Hebrews we are instructed, "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Any angel who may have had the good fortune to show up at Grandma's door would have left comforted and well-fed, and probably carrying a doggy bag with a slice of cake or a few cookies for the road. <br /><br />Finally, when I remember Grandma's delightfully batty personality and her conversational leaps that no amount of logic would allow you to follow, I can't help but smile. But what I remember, too, is that she was the first person to laugh at herself. Isn't that a wonderful legacy? To have provided comfort and caring and laughter to her family and friends. I'm sure that where she is now, she is calling together all of her brothers and sisters, clucking and fussing and making sure that they are all ok. And well-fed. <br /><br />I love you, Grandma, and I'll miss you. <br /><br /><br />Sharon Wright Bower<br />6/4/2007SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-32141581393478703872009-06-24T14:25:00.000-07:002009-06-24T14:35:14.507-07:00Narrowing things downLast night I watched a NOVA special on PBS about intelligence in great apes. The researchers conducted one experiment with chimpanzees, then wanted to see if more socially-inclined bonobos would behave differently. The experiment involved the apes pulling a rope that caused something else to move. As the cameras recorded the bonobo experiment, the voice-over said, "The first step is getting the bonobos to concentrate on the task at hand..." as the bonobos proceeded to swing from the rope, then pull themselves along the floor with it. I started laughing and BikerDude heard me, so I explained why I was laughing. He thought for a second and said exactly what I was thinking, "So what you're saying is that Kaos is a bonobo." <br /><br />Yes! That's exactly it!<br /><br />I'm not sure what Razor is-- whichever monkey species carefully observes then acts in a way that is easy to blame on someone else, most likely. Is there a sneaky monkey? (OK, ape, I know, I know...). Tweak would still be the psychopathic monkey.<br /><br />We really need a tall cat tree/jungle gym that these guys can swing from...<br /><br />***<br /><br />On a sadder note, I noticed that my former employer, OJ, didn't follow the instructions of the Virginia State Bar when they suspended his license last summer, and when he lost his appeal he apparently disappeared without notifying his clients, the courts where he had cases pending, or the bar. His license has now been revoked and his practice placed in receivership.<br /><br />Sigh. Same crap he was doing when I worked there 15 years ago. I guess it's good that it has finally caught up with him, at least for his clients' sakes, but it's still pretty sad.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-47633507105710345952009-06-23T07:20:00.000-07:002009-06-23T07:40:36.417-07:00Long time, no seeAfter Cinnamon's death, I didn't feel much like writing. That combined with work heating up and keeping me busy meant that I just haven't gotten around to doing any updates. I'm hoping to pick back up now, though.<br /><br />I still miss my little girl, but I'm really glad we have the other three to keep me distracted. No matter how sad I feel, the boys can still make me laugh! And sometimes Tweak, too. She has actually started occasionally crawling up into my lap and napping-- I think she misses Cinnamon, too. Cinnamon was the only cat she ever cuddled up with-- they used to bathe each other and sleep cuddled up together. She still won't cuddle up with the boys, but they aren't as nasty to each other as they used to be. They seem to have settled into a detente. <br /><br />Tweak still cracks me up with her little mind games, though. She knows that the boys are still intimidated by her, so she likes to place herself strategically-- stretching out on her back at the foot of the stairs so that they can't get around her, for instance, or laying in wait around a corner for them and pouncing them when they blithely stroll into her trap. She also guards the cat door at the top of the basement stairs, from either side. She truly enjoys positioning herself on one side of the door and slapping the head of whoever comes through. This is why we have to keep a litterbox on the second floor as well as in the basement-- she can't guard both flights of stairs simultaneously, so this way she can't block access to a potty.<br /><br />Kaos is still his full-throttle, romping, clownish self. He likes to play The Floor Is Lava and see if he can get all the way around any given floor without touching the ground. So far he's broken one lamp, a glass plate and a couple of candles. He's also started Midnight Love sessions with us. He's figured out that about half an hour to an hour after we have gone to bed, if he walks around us, over us and between us purring loudly, he will have us to himself and will get concentrated love and attention. BikerDude particularly likes to watch TV for a little while before going to sleep, and Kaos uses that time to just be silly. He throws himself against use, taking turns headbutting first BikerDude, then me. He crawls up onto us and rolls around, with varying degrees of success depending on how we are laying (I have some hard-to-explain scratches on my hip because I was laying on my side one night when he tried to roll around on my hip, started to slide off, and dug his claws in to regain purchase). He does the Bengal purr-chirp during this time-- purring so hard that he chirps. It's really cute, lucky for him.<br /><br />I keep telling him that those little love sessions buy him a lot of free spins. I think he knows this.<br /><br />Razor is still figuring out the whole lap thing. He still insists on laying upside down-- with his head and front paws on my waist and his butt on my shoulder. He now lets me flip him around right-side-up most of the time, and will settle down, purring and chirping and enjoying the attention. His favorite time to do this, though, is in the evening when I'm trying to read the paper (operative word: Trying). He's also started to get into BikerDude's lap while he's working on the computer--that is, when Tweak hasn't already claimed the lap for herself.<br /><br />Tweak is still unquestionably BikerDude's cat. I am a distant second-place servant/attendant, but she will come to me when BikerDude has thrown her out of his lap at the computer. She has also started regularly slaughtering her toys and bringing us the kill, frequently in the middle of the night. For some reason, she prefers wand toys, which makes me think she may have killed a few snakes or lizards in her feral days. Or she's just being a weirdo. Totally possible.<br /><br />Anyway, the time has come to invest in a good cat tree. This ought to be entertaining...SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-58226491537459831822009-05-04T20:18:00.000-07:002009-05-04T20:22:42.795-07:00CinnamonI came home tonight and found that Cinnamon had died. I am so heartbroken.<div><br /></div><div>Two weeks ago she was diagnosed with HCM, a fatal heart condition. I knew that she could go at anytime, but this still really sucks.</div><div><br /></div><div>The good news is that I'm pretty sure she didn't suffer. She was fine this morning-- a little slower, as she has been recently, but she sat on the dresser and messed with me as I put on my makeup as usual and ate her breakfast. </div><div><br /></div><div>She had already had two small blood clots because of the HCM. Clearly the third one was bigger.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm so glad I have my other kitties, but I am going to miss the little baby cat.</div>SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-48341744583509074932009-04-30T10:55:00.000-07:002009-04-30T11:20:39.948-07:00Senioritis is an ugly thingBikerDude is gearing up for his last push. Graduation is May 17 on Long Island, but he will still have to finish his last three classes-- simultaneously. The deal was that he could walk in May graduation if he finished his remaining classes by July, and he will meet that deadline, but the most he's ever taken at a time up until now is two, so he's going to have to work hard to finish out undergrad life. That seems appropriate. After that, he will have the entire months of July and August off before he starts grad school at BTSR in the fall.<br /><br />Remember Senioritis? That blissful illness that befalls those about to graduate, when the end of the race is in sight, you know you only have to pass your finals, turn in your last English essay and try not to blow up the school with your chemistry final and then-- FREEDOM!!<br /><br />Multiply that by about 10 and you get where BikerDude is right now.<br /><br />He's been working full-time and going to school full time for four years now. He's still looking at four years of grad school, but that is going to be very different-- sort of like senior year after you had gotten all of your acceptance and rejection letters and knew where you'd be going to college in the fall. In fact, along with his formal acceptance letter into BTSR, he was given a grant for having one of the highest GPAs of the incoming class (he will be graduating Summa Cum Laude), but I have reminded him that he still has to actually finish the classes! He will, but he has been spending a lot of time recently daydreaming.<br /><br />He is specifically daydreaming about his ultimate graduation present. When he graduates from grad school in four years, he wants us to take a month-long cross-country bike trip. For this, we will need, as best as I can tell, a camper and most likely a new bike. Or a second bike.<br /><br />The camper is easy. There are these super-cool little pop-ups that can be towed by a motorcycle. I grew up camping in a pop-up camper, and I think this sounds fabulous!<br /><br /><img src="file:///D:/DOCUME%7E1/wrightsf/LOCALS%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNHbN9yoNN0QZd-svW17mwGEq0DwoxZCVUU5G1l4nS7jV9m9_TBNZIsTins7uJ6jQEUIgUMrVCFBsq6gGghHkERE7Wu92NwOfVpIRarIDRn1qu9MxgbYAWctjS1cyBk-CecPE6wyps5NQ/s1600-h/classicaweb.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKNHbN9yoNN0QZd-svW17mwGEq0DwoxZCVUU5G1l4nS7jV9m9_TBNZIsTins7uJ6jQEUIgUMrVCFBsq6gGghHkERE7Wu92NwOfVpIRarIDRn1qu9MxgbYAWctjS1cyBk-CecPE6wyps5NQ/s320/classicaweb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330548224426578578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Cute!<br /><br />As for the second bike, he has determined that we either need to seriously upgrade his current bike or, better yet, buy a bigger one. If you have ever known a biker, you know that one can never own too many bikes. This is his current bike:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhifcf6nKZAZv_vq7NJwp3gdLJKT2gBST3Q46wWYo9J4wpTKci4veV25BBj49osoDaEo24-SjOmZH6j92oPPoMhXsKyJOu44i5W4bIU20YarsoC4-vT5wvEWjQVFbfYYeVDs53O7tLTWHmk/s1600-h/2005+Yamaha+Road+Star+Silverado+1700.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 188px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhifcf6nKZAZv_vq7NJwp3gdLJKT2gBST3Q46wWYo9J4wpTKci4veV25BBj49osoDaEo24-SjOmZH6j92oPPoMhXsKyJOu44i5W4bIU20YarsoC4-vT5wvEWjQVFbfYYeVDs53O7tLTWHmk/s320/2005+Yamaha+Road+Star+Silverado+1700.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330548696621397794" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This is the one he wants to upgrade to:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmINMN6cUqSrlHW7drWKev1pDz62Au_6SZ90vYKwsQ8uguFdcWTst0wcyXgbgUJg_9v9iLahtLPL_yaXQUnzAE6WuRr76097pvkD-7Qt1d3ckvrmStOKjD-r0qZW-nddkZ5tZQi3XMb_Cq/s1600-h/09ST_RSVen_CRd_S3_cbd66b8a.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmINMN6cUqSrlHW7drWKev1pDz62Au_6SZ90vYKwsQ8uguFdcWTst0wcyXgbgUJg_9v9iLahtLPL_yaXQUnzAE6WuRr76097pvkD-7Qt1d3ckvrmStOKjD-r0qZW-nddkZ5tZQi3XMb_Cq/s320/09ST_RSVen_CRd_S3_cbd66b8a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330549488595526178" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Undeniably more comfy-- a rolling Barca Lounger, one might even say. Not that I'm complaining!<br /><br />The other plan would be for me to get my Piaggio MP3, get comfortable enough riding it to be able and willing to ride it across the country, and for him to take his old bike and us to ride in tandem. I'm thinking that the Barca Lounger has better odds, all things considered.<br /><br />Anyway, he's got the routes all planned, right down to calculating gas station/rest stops along the way (important for cross-country biking, where you are unlikely to get more than about 100 mile on a tank of gas). We will, apparently, be iron-butting it directly to Denver before the more leisurely aspect of the vacation will kick in, where we will then spend about three weeks touring through the Rockies and the western national parks: Zion, Yosimite, the Grand Canyon, etc. We'll end up in the South Dakota badlands and head home via a more northern route.<br /><br />This is all fun, but about those final classes...?SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-9732275711281937042009-04-16T08:45:00.000-07:002009-04-16T10:30:30.276-07:00Children and dogs<span style="font-family: georgia;">The saying goes that actors should never work with children or dogs. Many cat owners feel the same way, but Bengals are odd cats.<br /><br />Most cats are leery of strangers, but my Bengals have all, to a greater or lesser extent, been friendly. Cinnamon, however, is in a class by herself. We call her our little Wal-Mart greeter: She runs to the door when strangers come in and DEMANDS attention! She usually hops up on the table that is just inside the door and simply looks cute. Most people can't resist a quick ear-scratch or a pet along the back, but if they ignore her, she will give them a loud MEOW! If they still ignore her, she will begin to pat them, first with her claws in, then with her claws extended. I just tell people, "Do yourself a favor and pet her because she won't leave you alone until you do."<br /><br />On Halloween, I have to lock her in the basement. She is convinced that all of those trick-or-treaters are there just to see her! Considering that we routinely have between 100-150 trick-or-treaters, she's safer in the basement.<br /><br />Anyone who comes in and sits down gets even more attention. Shortly after I bought my house, I had a guy in to give me an estimate on siding. He sat on the couch with a clipboard and some samples, and while we were talking, she got on his clipboard in his lap and layed down! Fortunately, he thought it was funny. Even the locksmith couldn't get rid of her. She supervised all of his work and even sat in his lap while he drilled out the place for the new dead bolt. I offered to remove her, but he was fascinated by this little cat who didn't run when he fired up the electric drill. <br /><br />But where Cinnamon's friendliness really shines is with children. All of my other cats, including my other Bengals, are reasonably friendly to strangers and will usually sashay into the room and check out any newcomers and look for attention and pets, but even they usually avoid small children. Not so with Cinnamon! This was something I noticed from the start. When she was only about 6 months old, some friends came to the house for a cookout and brought their 10 month old baby, who was just starting to crawl. He squealed with delight when he saw my cats (only 2 at the time). Winston took one look and beat it upstairs for most of the duration of their visit, but Cinnamon wasn't the least bit bothered. <br /><br />With the baby sitting on his mom's lap, Cinnamon hopped up into her lap as well and sniffed the little visitor. He laughed and touched her fur and her ears, and other than squinting a little when he pulled her ear, she didn't react, just arched her back when he touched it. He was enthralled! It worked well for me-- I had assiduously baby-proofed the house, but was a little concerned that he would get bored since I didn't have a lot of toys or baby-appropriate things to play with. Not a problem! He spent the entire day following her around and around: Kitchen to dining room to living room back down the hall to the kitchen. She stayed ahead of him-- just out of reach-- occasionally pausing to let him catch up to her and pet her. She never scratched, bit or hissed and only hopped up into a chair out of his way if she felt the least bit threatened. The perfect baby cat!<br /><br />I didn't know for sure if her reaction was specific to that child, but over the years I've discovered that it was not. Another friend visited with her young daughter and Cinnamon was equally comfortable with her. More recently, my sister had a baby girl (my niece Smiling Eyes) a little over a year ago and Cinnamon has adopted her as a Favorite Small Person. Every time my sister and her husband visit, Cinnamon immediately finds Smiling Eyes and touches noses for a greeting, much to my niece's delight. Sis and her husband have two cats of their own-- big old boys, a Siamese and a part Russian Blue that each had before they got married-- but they still stay pretty clear of Smiling Eyes. She's 16 months old now and quite mobile, so they have had to improve their evasive maneuvers! Not so with Cinnamon. She hops right up to the toddler and demands ear scratches and pets along her back. Even if Smiling Eyes grabs her tail or a handfull of fur, Cinnamon just steps out of reach to let her know this isn't acceptable.<br /><br />Razor and Kaos are more wary and tend to steer clear and observe from a distance, but they also can't stand the idea of someone else getting attention, so when they were up Palm Sunday to visit, Smiling Eyes ended up petting all three Bengals. Kaos is almost as friendly and fearless as Cinnamon, so it only took a few minutes of Cinnamon getting attention before he had to insert himself into the scene. Razor approached from the rear and carefully sniffed her from behind before allowing himself to be gingerly petted, but when she let out a loud laugh, he high-tailed it to the staircase and watched through the bannister.<br /><br />Last fall our church had a St. Francis of Assisi Blessing of the Animals service, so I took Cinnamon to represent the other cats. There was no way I was going to take all of them, but I didn't trust the boys. Even with a harness and leash, I would be the one standing under a tree with my arm straight up in the air, tightly gripping the end of a leash that disappeared into the foliage. I love my boys, but I am realistic about their behavior!<br /><br />Cinnamon was in her element, once she got over being a little freaked at being outside (she's strictly an indoor cat). I had her in a harness and leash, but still carried her around. Once she realized that all she had to do to participate was let people pet her, fawn over her and tell her how cute she was, she was completely on board with the whole idea! She got lots of attention and had a great day!<br /><br />Knowing all of this about our cats and their reactions, we thought we knew what to expect when we agreed to puppy-sit for one of BikerDude's friends. The puppy in question was a 10 week old Australian Shepherd named Maya-- a blue merle, odd-eyed ball of fluff and energy. We both work close to home, so it was easy for one of us to slip home during the day and let her out in the early months, until she grew enough that she could be left alone all day. It gave us a fun-but-temporary puppy fix and did a favor for the friend, as well.<br /><br />We introduced the cat to the puppy gradually, by leaving her in her crate initially until they had a chance to sniff her and scope her out. Next we kept her on a leash or held her in our laps-- they were very curious and immediately checked her out. Once she was allowed to run loose, we blocked off the bottom of the stairs so that the cats could get on the stairs to get away. She's a smart dog, so it didn't take her long to bypass our obstacles, but we kept changing them around and foiled most of her attempts to chase the cats up the stairs. Patches, our old lady cat, was still alive during this, so she would usually just retreat upstairs and stay there while the puppy was around.<br /><br />Maya was an energetic puppy and LOVED the cats! They were way better than any other toy! Much to our surprise, the cat who quickly adopted her was Razor. He was the most timid of the Bengals in every other new situation we had introduced them to, but he quickly discovered that the puppy was an excellent playmate! He would chase her, let her chase him, wrestle with her and play keep-away by jumping just out of her reach and tormenting her. Kaos and Cinnamon played along occasionally, but Razor was always up for a game of chase, and he would even put her in a headlock and bathe her ears.<br /><br />Maya's instincts quickly emerged and before long she was trying to herd the cats. This was just as hilarious as it sounds: She would chase them and nip at their heels, which would earn her a swat on the nose. She would corner them in the kitchen, then they would confound her by either jumping over her or, when she got a little bigger (and a little wiser), jumping up on the kitchen counter and escaping over her head. The look on her face was priceless: Australian Shepherds are cattle dogs, and cows don't go vertical. This was not a move that her instincts could account for! She would look at them with a mixture of "That's not fair!" and "How did you do that?" that always made us laugh.<br /><br />But she was really good at trajectories. When she would chase them and they would jump the barrier and run upstairs, she would run along the hallway into the kitchen, because if the stairs didn't go up to the second floor, that was where their trajectory would have taken them. She would run into the kitchen, looking up at the ceiling. She knew where they were, she just couldn't figure out how to get to them!<br /><br />Because of the cats, she learned a lot of interesting techniques that I'll wager most Aussie's don't know. Our friend was a little precious and worried about his poor little darling, apparently thinking that because she was a girl she was a delicate little flower. What he clearly didn't understand was that she was a moose, a bull in a china shop. Female she may be, but delicate: Not! Early on he was terrified that she would fall off of a piece of furniture or trip trying to go down stairs and break a leg. Imagine his horror the first time he came by to pick her up and found her mid-chase with the cats, following them as the went through the dining room, into the living room, up onto the ottoman, then bouncing off the seat of the chair to clear the back like a low hurdle, landing at a full run down the hall to the kitchen!<br /><br />She also liked to nap in the picture window, long past the time when she was really to big to do so. Seeing a cat or two curled up in the window is cozy; seeing a good-sized dog there is just weird, especially when she would roll over on her back to toast her tummy in the afternoon sun. <br /><br />The friend finally decided that enough was enough when he offered her a dog toy and she turned it down in favor of one of the cat's catnip mice. By that time she was old enough to spend the day with his other Aussie. Her house training was complete and she was big enough to hold her own against the full-grown boy. Apparently she has now surpassed her brother in the number and complexity of tricks that she has learned, and her new favorite game is playing Frisbee with Daddy! And she still loves kitties!<br /><br />What can I say. They were a bad influence.<br /><br /></span>SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-67539434783066004572009-03-17T10:50:00.000-07:002009-03-17T12:00:46.851-07:00Water BabiesOne of the traits that sets Bengals apart from other cats is their attraction to water. I discovered this with Winston right away, because from Day One he thought of his water bowl as a toy, and he did so until the day he died.<br /><br />When I got Winston, I didn't think I needed to buy a lot of stuff-- just food and litter, mostly-- because I had had a cat for 10 years. I had a lovely little matching bowl set for food and water-- typical ceramic "cat size" bowls, one for food, one for water. I kept them in the far end of the kitchen on a little kitty placemat. Shortly after I got Winston, I came home to find a toy floating in the water bowl. I thought it was an accident and that the water on the floor came from his attempts to get the toy out of the bowl, so I scooped it out, wrung it out and set it to dry on the kitchen sink. <br /><br />Winston came in and sniffed around the bowl, then left. A few minutes later, he came in carrying another toy in his mouth and dropped it directly into the freshly-filled water bowl and began to smack it around, clearly enjoying the splashes he was making. Shocked, I told him to knock it off, took the toy, and threw it out of the kitchen into the dining room. He ran after it and fetched it back... and dropped it right back into the water bowl. A new game! Awesome!<br /><br />A few days later, I came home and found a trail of water from the kitchen to the dining room and the water bowl upside down under the dining room table. I knew that this called for additional methods, so I went to the pet store and found a weighted food/water dish designed for large dogs. The thing was made out of some sort of resin with weights incorporated so that it looked like it had been carved from a block of black marble. It looked cool, but the key feature was that it weighed approximately five pounds with most of the weight in the base, so it was virtually impossible for a 6 lb. kitten to tip over or drag. It was, however, possible to splash all of the water out of it for an impressive distance in all directions around the fixed point of the bowl, as both Winston and I soon discovered. <br /><br />He didn't limit himself to the water dish, either. I came home one day and found him bathing himself. When I scooped him up, I discovered that he was soaking wet up to his armpits. I searched the apartment to find out where he had gotten into the much water and discovered that I had accidentally left the lid to one of the toilets up. Apparently he had a little pool party in my absence! He had managed to splash most of the water out of the bowl all over the bathroom floor, and as I mopped it up, he was still splashing around in it, chasing droplets and the edge of the mop.<br /><br />He also had to learn a few realities about water, though. Like the fact that if you play in water then get immediately into your litter box that contains clumping cat litter, you end up with a condition that can best be described as "concrete toes," and that despite your howls of protest, your mother will insist on chipping all of the offending material away, removing most of the fur in the process. He walked around with some very sad-looking little pink toes until the fur grew back.<br /><br />I also learned the hard way to lock him out of the bathroom, again, despite his howls of protest, if I wanted to take a bath. He didn't usually get into the shower with me unless he fell in from the side of the tub (which he did fairly frequently as a kitten, less often as he got older), but he couldn't resist a tub full of water. The first time he got in with me, I had to be very careful to get him out without ending up with scratches in places that I didn't want to have to explain to my doctor!<br /><br />I used to warn my guests that if they were drinking water, they should not set their cup down on the floor or the furniture. He ignored other liquids, interestingly enough (soda, tea, etc.), but if there was a glass of water he would walk up to it and stick his foot in it. I had to explain him a lot.<br /><br />I think his favorite thing that I ever brought home was the kitty water fountain. I finally decided to give it a try because he kept splashing the water out of the water bowl, and I figured that he would be hard-pressed to make a BIGGER mess than he already was. Besides, the fountain had a filter on it, which would hopefully cut down on how often I would have to wash the whole thing (with Winston floating his toys and putting his feet in the water dish all of the time, I usually had to wash it 2 or 3 times a day). He LOVED it! Lots of water, some of it bubbling, and when he floated his toys there was enough water for there to be a little current that would spin them! Hours of entertainment!<br /><br />When I had just him and then him and Cinnamon, I would take them with me when I visited my parents. Mom never got used to the water thing. We'd be in the dining room eating and we'd hear the tell-tale splish-splish-splish that told us that Winston was digging in the water bowl. Mom would tell him to stop it, he would totally ignore her, so she'd get up and go scoop him up and fuss at him while cradling him like a baby. I think on some level she knew that he was manipulating her-- he would splash in the water bowl to get attention, and boy, did it work!<br /><br />Cinnamon has never shown any particular interest in water, but the new boys certainly do. We usually have one or both of them in the shower with us, sitting on the side of the tub between the shower curtain and the liner. They haven't yet discovered the fun of floating toys in the water fountain, but Razor did start to get into the toilet once when BikerDude left the lid up (fortunately I caught him before he could make too big of a mess). They both like to get in the shower after we're done and splash around in the puddles and get in the sink while the water is running and play with the stream of water.<br /><br />Like Winston, their lack of fear of water can make discipline challenging, too. Long ago I discovered that water bottles can be effective, but with Winston, they were a game. I'd squirt him, he'd jump down and run away, but then he'd run right back as if to say, "Do it again!" Kaos does this, too. Tweak runs off and beats up another cat. But that's why she wears the "Bad Kitty" tag.SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-11852185035768519252009-02-12T16:44:00.000-08:002009-02-24T07:35:53.947-08:00ChangesIt's been interesting watching the boys as they have settled into our household. It's fun to watch their individual personalities emerge as they become comfortable.<div><br /></div><div>Kaos adapted almost immediately, but that's not surprising. He is a confident, laid-back cat with an insatiable curiosity and absolute confidence that he will be accepted, admired and treated well wherever he goes. He has never met a stranger: He likes to go up to "new friends" and give them a thorough sniff, check out any packages they may have brought in, stick his nose in their coat or shirt pocket, and offer his ears for a quick scratch. If you pick him up, he curls up into your arms and looks around from this new, interesting vantage point. Kaos is by far the most agile of our cats, but he therefore takes the greatest risks, occasionally leading to some spectacular crashes. It doesn't phase him in the least, though. He'll just keep trying 'til he succeeds. This is how he has learned to balance on the railing at the top of the stairs, perch on top of my closet door and lay down across the top of the clothes hanging in my closet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps his most impressive trick, however, is balancing on the "cannonball" tops of our four-poster bed. This bed, a 1920s or '30s era reproduction of an antique set, has eyeball-level posts that culminate in balls about the size of a softball. Kaos can perch like a circus monkey with all four paws on one ball. He then bounces off of the matress and lands on another ball, leaps to the top of the shelves next to my side of the bed or launches himself directly onto whichever of the other hapless cats happens to be trying to nap on the bed. It's hardly a stealth move, but he still manages to catch them occasionally off guard.</div><div><br /></div><div>Razor has been slower to settle in. This may be partly because he was in foster care longer, so it may have taken him longer to decide that this was truly his "forever home," but I think a lot of it is just his personality. Razor is a friendly cat, but not as exuberant as Kaos. He assesses situations before crashing into them, but his curiosity gets the best of him (especially if he sees Cinnamon or Kaos getting attention), and he likes to meet and greet visitors. He has only recently allowed me to start picking him up. He will relax for a minute and purr loudly, even letting me pet his head and snuggle him under my chin, but usually he will want to get down pretty quickly. I let him down when he asks so that he will let me pick him up again. Gradually, the lap time has gotten longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Razor does love attention, but likes to be in control. He loves to catch me when I'm reading and get behind me on the sofa or chair, then creep down my shoulder and walk across my lap between my eyes and the book, sometimes pausing long enough to draw his tail under my chin. Just passing through... </div><div><br /></div><div>I call these his "drive-by" cuddles.</div><div><br /></div><div>Razor is actually probably the smartest of the cats. He's the one who figured out how to work the toddler latches on the kitchen cabinets and still enjoys breaking into the food locker. He also likes to carry things around the house, so when something odd (a bottle of baby aspirin/Baby Jesus from the nativity set) turns up someplace where we usually don't keep it (under the dining room table/in the fireplace), I have a pretty good idea who is responsible. <br /><br />Recently, he has started following me into the bathroom in the mornings and demanding belly rubs. He flings himself down on the bathmat in front of the tub and rolls around on his back, purring loudly, until I stop whatever I'm doing and rub his belly. Sometimes he will respond by clamping up on my hand with all fours, but usually once he has me in his grip, he just washes my hand. <br /><br />His favorite game, though, is wrestling with the other cats. Kaos is his favorite target, and sometimes we will hear Razor walking around the house yowling, calling Kaos to come out and play. He doesn't usually bother with stalking: He just walks right up to Kaos and starts grooming him, then grooms a little harder, then pins him down to <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> wash those ears, then puts him in a headlock and pins him to the floor. Not very subtle. He does the same thing with Cinnamon, but she is quicker on the uptake and faster than Kaos, so she usually worms her way out of his grip before he can advance too far (she grew up with a bigger, older brother who used the same technique, so she's an old pro). So far he hasn't really tried it with Tweak. She still intimidates him.<br /><br />I am so glad that we decided to get both boys instead of one or the other. They keep each other entertained and are a great outlet for each other. If we had just one of them, either of them would drive Cinnamon and Tweak crazy. As it is they can take out their aggressive play on each other and leave the other cats to join in or observe at will. It's a nice arrangement.<br /></div>SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8625222979061762460.post-5870453214196227622009-02-06T13:49:00.000-08:002009-02-06T14:23:26.524-08:00Remembering a FriendI just found out that my former youth pastor passed away after an all-to-lengthy battle with cancer. Let me tell you about him.<br /><br />Youth pastors occupy an odd place in the spectrum of ministerial positions. Many end up elevated to Personality Cult levels by their young charges, but at the same time, they are watched with skeptical eyes, always searching for that Greatest of Adult Sins: Hypocrisy. Nothing will cost a youth pastor his or her standing faster than being branded a hypocrite, and it is a charge that most teenagers will find unforgivable.<br /><br />John came to West Lynchburg Baptist Church following in the footsteps of a youth pastor who had achieved that Personality Cult standard, and many of the older kids were prepared to despise him immediately because he wasn't the One Who Had Left. But John was made of stronger stuff. He was a Vietnam vet, after all, and yet one of the gentlest of souls. He was laid back and easy-going, engaging in conversations with us from the beginning, making sure that we understood that he was listening to us. Whether or not it was deliberate, it was the perfect formula: Every teenager, more than anything else, wants to be listened to. <br /><br />John did not coddle us. He challenged us. He would not let us take anything for granted. It wasn't enough to show up to youth group and spout the appropriate phrases and Bible verses, he was constantly questioning us: WHY do you believe that? Is that what you really believe? Defend yourself. He was the Devil's Advocate in the best sense of the phrase, making us really think about our beliefs and refine them. He assisted us through that transition from childhood to adulthood, from believing what our parents and elders had always taught us to understanding and refining our own beliefs so that by the time we went out into the world, our beliefs were OURS. We knew what we believed, but more importantly, we knew why.<br /><br />The greatest lesson that he taught us was to question everything. It isn't enough to repeat what you hear, you must consider the source, consider what is behind it and evaluate everything. This sounds subversive and, I suppose, in many ways it was, but he was a child of the '60s and had absorbed the lesson that Questioning Authority was sometimes necessary. Some parents were less than delighted that John encouraged their children to ask uncomfortable questions, but many, mine included, understood what a healthy approach this was.<br /><br />By the time I went to college, I was not ready to fall for the latest trend. I knew what I believed and why, and this made me comfortable and self-confident when it came to meeting people who didn't share my beliefs. They were no threat to me, after all-- I knew what I believed!-- and I learned a lot over the years from some very interesting people by engaging with them, frequently with the same questions that John and posed to me: Why do you believe that? What are the ramifications of your belief? Have you considered these alternate approaches? It lead to some wonderful friendships and long, late-night conversations with people who I might have otherwise avoided because they didn't believe what I did. <br /><br />And John never ducked the difficult questions. In youth group we discussed rock music and what effect it might have (a big concern in the late '70s and early '80s when burning and smashing albums seemed to be a national pasttime). We talked about dating-- not just "Don't have sex" but love and relationships and the importance of spirituality and family and, yes, sex. We talked about drugs and friends, crime and politics, theology and the importance of standing up for what you believe in.<br /><br />Every teenager should have a John in their lives-- an adult who loves and cares and forces them to think for themselves. And most of all, someone who isn't their parent who says to them, "What you have to say is important, and I am listening."SharonCvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05656654030079215776noreply@blogger.com0