How To Befriend a Skittish Cat

I've posted variations on this advice so often that I've decided to write it once where I can refer to it easily.

Many new cat owners/rescuers ask: What do I do with my cat who won't come out from under the bed?

Here's what I have found works.

Gather your supplies:

• A large newspaper (I prefer The Washington Post, but whatever you prefer-- something with multiple sections with many pages in each section)
• A pen or pencil
• A snack you can share with the cat (cheese is my go-to)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

So there you go. Good luck with your new little friend!

The Burden of Freedom

I've been struggling with trying to put down my thoughts after witnessing the events that took place in my city this weekend. 

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. 

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.

However, there are limits.

You can't yell, "Fire!" in a crowded theater.  You can't deliberately cause a panic and create a dangerous situation.

You can't incite a riot.  You aren't allowed to use your words to turn someone else into your weapon.

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.
. 
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.

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.

I continue to believe that the best way to fight speech we disagree with is more speech, not attempting to stop the offensive speech. 

Do your research.

Practice discipline.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

Be safe, folks.  And don't forget that in the end, love wins.

Chocolate Syrup Cake

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..."



THAT SHOULD STAND OUT!
 
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:

1 cup sugar
1 stick butter or margarine
4 eggs
1 cup flour
1 tsp. baking powder
pinch of salt
1 16 oz. can Hershey's syrup
1 tsp. vanilla

Preheat oven to 350°F.

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. 

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.

Icing for sheet cake

1 cup sugar
1/2 stick butter
1/3 cup milk

Mix together, bring to a boil.  Cook 2 minutes, stirring constantly.  Remove from heat.  Stir in:

1 tsp. vanilla
1/2 cup chocolate chips

Beat until consistency to spread; spread over cake in pan.

Icing for layer cake

2 squares dark chocolate
2/3 cup milk
2 cups sugar
2 Tbsp. white Karo syrup
1/2 stick butter or margarine
1/2 tsp. vanilla

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.

Aunt Jean

Not In Vain - Emily Dickinson

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain:
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
 

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.

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].

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

Nostalgia

In 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.

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.

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! 

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!

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.

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.

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.

It's amazing how much scent triggers memory-- and how many memories one dream can trigger.

Faith

Seeing, contrary to popular wisdom, isn't believing. It's where belief stops, because it isn't needed any more.  --Terry Pratchett, Pyramids 

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.

This is true.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?  

There aren't scientific answers for these questions.

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.

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.

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.

Sir Terry

I 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!

I tried reading Mr. Pratchett's first book, The Color of Magic, and had a hard time getting into it, so I put it aside.  Then I took Small Gods 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.

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:

Stupid men are often capable of things the clever would not dare to contemplate...

(Feet of Clay) 

A good bookshop is just a genteel Black Hole that knows how to read.

(Guards! Guards!)

 

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.

(Hogfather)

 

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.

(Moving Pictures)

Seeing, contrary to popular wisdom, isn't believing. It's where belief stops, because it isn't needed any more.

(Pyramids)

 

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.

(Jingo)

 

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 Snuff, 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.

I find the fact that anyone can write like him both inspiring and paralyzingly intimidating.

Here's hoping he will continue for years to come.

I'm getting old

Steve Jobs passed away today.  What a shame.  Pancreatic cancer is unforgiving.

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.

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! 

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.

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. 

And finally:  Pixar.  All of our lives are richer from Mr. Jobs' contribution.

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.

Drifting

I 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!

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

Peace.

Off to the doctor

Sunday 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.

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!

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.

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!

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.

So, of course, as I was paying the bill, she peed in the carrier. A LOT! Like she'd been holding it all day...

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.

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).

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.

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!

Weird little cat.

Health care for everyone

I'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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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?

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.

I just wish the Dems were smarter about controlling terminology. Stop calling it a "public option" and call it a "nonprofit option."

Stupid Bengal Tricks

It’s amazing how something that can’t talk can reduce you to complete, sputtering incoherency.

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.

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.

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!

Do you know how many swear words you can mutter when you are half-asleep? A lot. I think I made up a few.

Which will give me something to pray about later, I suppose, so it all works out.

Never enough time

Part of the whole blogging thing is to get practice writing, but never having time to write seems to be defeating the purpose.

I suppose, like most things, it's all about what you make time for.

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.

Maybe I can give up reading the newspaper in the evenings?

Anyway, life has a way of staying interesting.

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.

I'm in favor of this, not surprisingly.

Change doesn't have to be scary... it can be kind of fun!

Eight Year Later

It doesn't seem like only eight years ago.

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.

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..."

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?

Curious, I flipped on the TV and tuned in to CNN, figuring that they would have the most immediate coverage.

I was watching, casually interested, when the second plane hit.

I immediately knew what had happened, and felt a chill go down my spine.

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.

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.

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.

When I got upstairs I told folks as I passed, "Turn your radios on!" Some already had-- word was starting to get around.

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...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

It wasn't a hot and angry response. It was a cold and furious one.

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.

Rachael's family was also fine, although her sister in Tribeca had to move out for awhile until power and services were fully restored.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Morning with Bengals

I 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...

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.

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.

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!"

"Um, Sweetie, that's because it's pork..."

Sigh.

Settling in

MonkeyChild 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.

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.

Anyone want a kitten?

Grandma Wright-Lawhorne

Dave 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.

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:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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?"

Yes, that would be the one.

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…

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

I love you, Grandma, and I'll miss you.


Sharon Wright Bower
6/4/2007

Narrowing things down

Last 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."

Yes! That's exactly it!

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.

We really need a tall cat tree/jungle gym that these guys can swing from...

***

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.

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.

Long time, no see

After 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.

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.

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.

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.

I keep telling him that those little love sessions buy him a lot of free spins. I think he knows this.

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.

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.

Anyway, the time has come to invest in a good cat tree. This ought to be entertaining...

Cinnamon

I came home tonight and found that Cinnamon had died.  I am so heartbroken.

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.

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.  

She had already had two small blood clots because of the HCM.  Clearly the third one was bigger.

I'm so glad I have my other kitties, but I am going to miss the little baby cat.