Want some Ice?

http://www.stitcher.com/s?eid=32233914&refid=stpr

Here is the link to TALES FROM THE SOUTH podcast. I am the second storyteller.

We are engulfed in another 'Ice Age' week……so far the gutters are torn, the roof may need some work, trees are down all over, with some root balls showing, and the bamboo hiding our neighbor's trailer home and dog kennels isn't looking happy. WOWZA. More snow and ice are expected today and Monday and Tuesday.

Between running to town to drive "MR and MRS 'Daisy' " to the hospital and dr appts life's just a laugh-riot. Really considering how we can afford a trip -- anywhere - but holding up a bank seems the only option. I don't think I have the energy to deal with the fall-out from that, but we shall see.

The mustangs -- normally lovers of cold weather -- are crying 'uncle' and huddling in their running shed, which is quite unusual. The wild geese have to be held at bay or they will chase off the ducks for their food. The 'coons seldom brave weather like this to come to the terrace to eat, but when they do I keep an eye out so they don't slog through the ice and snow only to be disappointed.

The other day in ONE day I made lamb stew, chicken-cheddar-tomato stew, coleslaw, and apple pie. Now all there is to do is grow fat watching TV until we can thaw out….what are your plans this weekend? At least there is Downton Abbey and Sherlock on Sunday...

one wedding photo

Some of you wanted to see a pic of us, so this is on our wedding day…Excy's hair is tied behind his back -- I rather miss it long...

cricket's story

Hi all. I am going to tell my last story (Love Off the Record), on the NPR radio show 'Tales from the South.'  It will be recorded in Jan., but aired as a Valentines Day show. If you don't get it on your local NPR I can give you a link so you can watch it online sometime. The story below is one I helped my dad write about their beloved cat Cricket. I

I have been pretty busy between life and also taking care of my parents. Mom's first chemo was last week and it seems I am being more and more of the care-giver….take care……hope you enjoy the story…...

She sat regally in the middle of the Oriental rug, acting for all the world as fancy as an Egyptian ‘tomb cat,’ despite outward appearances to the contrary: rather ordinary looking, gray fur, no distinctive markings or features (unless you counted a slight overbite and alarmingly large, unblinking green eyes). “But Amy,” I moaned, “You told us she was beautiful!” 

“Oh dad, she’ll grow on you,” my daughter replied. “Besides she needs a good home. She’s just a kitten and was living in the woods. My friend wanted to keep her but his wife’s allergic to cats. But he’s taken her to the vet and she’s in great shape.”

Just as I was marshaling my most cogent arguments against the situation, the cat (as if she had heard quite enough), gravely rose to all four paws, languidly stretched her full but tiny length, and walked over to me. As if to say ‘put ‘er there, pal, we’ve got a deal,’ she then reached out one of her tiny front legs and spread her toes towards me as if to seal the contract. It was the feline version of the ‘high five.’ I was rendered speechless. I was also hooked. 

And so she moved in, taking immediate control of the household - my wife Ruth Ann, our elderly cat, Winston, and of course, myself. I named her ‘Cricket,’ for her high chirpy voice, which she demonstrated constantly. As several weeks went by, Cricket never settled down or stopped talking. She was telling us the saga of her life story and it was apparently a saga of infinite importance. After listening to Cricket morning, noon, and night - into the wee hours of the night, and beginning at dawn - my patience was wearing thin. The next time Amy came over I told her the cat had to go. “I just cannot stand the constant chattering. “She has got to go, as much as I hate to say it,” I said. 

“Well,” Amy mused, “I can’t bring her to into my house, but she could be a studio cat.” I was aghast. Their studio was 200 yards from the house! “Oh no,”  I shook my head. “Cricket’s a house cat. She’d never be happy relegated to the studio!” Amy tilted her head back and smiled faintly. Needless to say, Cricket stayed where she was. 

A week later we discovered Cricket was ‘in the family way.’ Despite our numerous feline companions over the years, we had never been midwives. Out came the cat books, and we started reading up on what to expect. According the ‘authorities,’ 1) We needn’t worry. Cats do this all the time and know what to do. (Except a young cat may need help with the birth. Oops). And 2) Cat mothers just want privacy. A cardboard box off by itself in an out-of-the-way closet is the perfect maternity suite.

We began feeling more secure. As weeks went by and the blessed event drew near, we prepared further. A box was made ready with several changes of towels nearby. Scissors, potions, lotions, cotton swabs, and any number of items we imagined might be needed were ready. We continued to read until we were reasonably sure our crash course in Obstetrics had made us fairly confident, but we wrote down the emergency vet number just in case. At last Cricket began acting nervous one day, pacing the house, poking into closets, going up and down stairs, and in general acting like something was about to happen, and soon. I told my Ruth Ann we would be proud grandparents by morning and should retire for the night.

Wrong! The prospective mother was having none of it! She wanted her midwife in constant attendance, and her birthing box in the middle of the living room. Ruth Ann managed to take the box downstairs to a somewhat quieter location, with Cricket following closely at her heels. Not long after, she hopped into the box and began the birthing process. After an hour, Cricket had delivered three fine kittens, and had done all the things she was not supposed to know how to do, so the midwife finally retired for the night. Imagine our surprise when the next morning we peeked into the box and discovered five healthy looking kittens. They were all cleaned up, nursing well, and seemed to have the requisite number of appendages. Cricket looked tired but seemed very pleased with herself.

For three weeks we didn’t see much of the little mother. We checked the box and kittens frequently, but Cricket seemed to have everything under control. Once or twice a day, a very tired Cricket drug her way upstairs to the kitchen and her food bowl, after which she came in the living room and flopped down with us for some much-deserved rest. It wouldn’t be long, however, before she’d hear cries from downstairs and off she’d go for another feeding. After three more weeks of this, the kittens were almost ready to be weaned.

Since the 1970’s, we have fed raccoons nightly on the upper deck. When they appear in the evening we bring out the day-old bread and rolls we buy for them. Generations of mama ‘coons have indoctrinated their kittens to this ritual. Apparently, Cricket had been registering all this with interest. One morning we went down to inspect the kittens, and found that sometime in the night Cricket had come up to the kitchen and jumped on the counter, grabbed a large plastic bag of rolls, and dragged them down the stairs and into the box as if to say “Okay kids it’s time! You’re on your own!” We then decided it was time to introduce the tribe to ‘real’ kitten food.

A year later, Cricket was sole cat (Winston had died after a long full life). We went on our annual trip to Florida for a month. We felt bad about leaving Cricket alone in the house so long, but had daily caretakers checking on her. When we got home, though, Cricket was fit to be tied with us. We were used to cats expressing their displeasure at our absence when we returned from trips, but  Cricket was determined to bring our ‘penance’ to a new level! She watched us dump our suitcase on the bed and go outside for another load. Once back inside the house, she commanded our attention with her meows, and then as we watched, she stalked down the hall, jumped on the bed, and looking directly into our shocked faces, proceeded to pee on our luggage. All we could do was laugh. We can also state that without a doubt, we have never been owned by a nicer cat.

Love, Off the Record

This essay was published in this month's new CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: the power of dating book. 

I hope you and yours had a wonderful holiday; best wishes for the New Year!! 

By 1989, I had been happily divorced two years, having weathered a few semi-relationships that failed to get off the ground for various reasons, and several disastrous first dates.  The closest I had come to a serious boyfriend was an architect who lived in New York. Since I lived in Virginia and worked in D.C. at the time, the distance between us was perfect. But this relationship also fizzled out. I was fine with that. I was happy with my work and enjoyed hanging out with friends, my family, and my cat.

So I was unprepared for an encounter with destiny when my editor-in-chief tossed a project on my desk with the command to “interview this person.” 

As the associate editor of an architecture magazine, I  was responsible for writing features on new projects, news developments, and products. This particular design project, soon to open in Austin, TX, was a combination piano/pool hall. Not many of those around, I hazarded to guess. Eric’s Pool Hall, as it was called, was executed with whimsy and flair, and I looked forward to talking to the imaginative and witty architect responsible. I picked up the telephone.

Usually, when an editor from an architecture magazine is on the line, explaining the nature of the call, you can hear the excitement in their voice when they find out they are about to be published. The first words out of this guy’s mouth, however, sounded like a sneer. 

“What’d ya do? Pick that out of the round file?” he replied flatly.

Feeling chastened and not a little awkward and offended, I quickly replied with as much starch in my voice as I could muster that I could tell he wasn’t interested, thanked him for his time, and hung up. 

As I sat there wondering what to tell my editor, the phone rang. It was Mr. Surly Guy, all apologetic and charming. He explained he had been caught up short; he had tried to retrieve the project slides a year ago and had been told the art department had ‘lost’ them, and he had been annoyed. As he made his apologies I couldn’t help but note how warm and masculine his voice sounded over the telephone. We agreed to set up a phone interview the following day.

Typically my interviews are a mix of handwritten notes and a tape recorder used as a backup and safety measure. As I had hoped, the interview was a lot of fun -- more so than usual, in fact. As I replayed the tape, I was struck by the realization there was about a 50-50 spread of business and all ha-ha-ha personal information flying back and forth. We had gotten pretty flirty. 

Over the next two weeks while I worked on the piece and chose slides for the layout, I was always pleasantly excited when I had a reason to call him up to confirm a fact or ask about a detail. I couldn’t deny I called him more than I usually did a designer when writing up a project. Finally the article was finished. I was satisfied with it, knowing he would also be pleased with the result. A bit regretfully, I called for the last time to thank him for his time and input, and let him know when the feature would be published. I made sure to get his address to send a complimentary copy.

The following day the phone rang. 

“Hey, kid. I just missed talking to you,” he said.  

As much as I enjoyed it, too, it was obvious I couldn’t have a personal conversation at work. The next thing I knew he had my home phone, and it became a habit for him to call around 10 at night. Both of us were night-owls, and we’d stay on the line for an hour at a time. The nightly routine was one I looked forward to.

After four weeks, he began broaching the subject of meeting in person. I brushed it off each time. He lived in Maryland, more than an hour away from D.C., but truthfully, I was  enjoying my new telephone buddy and didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship. I was afraid the bubble might burst if he was short, fat, or bald. Enjoying my flirt fantasy, I continued to put him off. After a few more weeks he finally he told me was driving down that Saturday to take me to lunch.

“I can’t, I have to work,” I quickly countered.

“You have to eat; I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon,” he said in a voice that broached no further argument.

After brief descriptions “I’m tall and dark-haired,” “I’m tall with auburn hair,” we hung up for the night. 

That Saturday as the noon hour approached, I was nervous as I reluctantly sat on a bench in the lobby awaiting my fate for the next hour. (Or so I thought). 

Soon a very tall, good-looking, slender man with shoulder-length wavy hair pushed through the entry doors. My heart did an actual flip-flop as these thoughts bubbled in my head: Shit! I don’t want to get married again!

____

Many years later as we were having lunch with a friend, she asked us how we had met. As I told her this story with my now-husband listening beside me, I laughed, since I had never told him my first reaction to our meeting.

“You don’t know the whole story,” he said with a chuckle.

Apparently, when we hung up after my initial interview request, he had called my boss.

“What’s the matter, Don? Am I slipping? You or a senior editor have always reviewed my work before, and today I just got a call from some associate editor.”

“You want to meet this girl,” my editor-in-chief replied. “Don’t you have a restaurant you designed up there somewhere? You should take her to lunch.”

“What?! I’ve never had to take my editor out to lunch before!” now-hubby protested.

“You aren’t listening to me!” my editor replied, “You need to meet this girl.”

Don Canty. My crusty old editor-in-chief. A romantic, and I never knew it. How I wish I had learned the whole story before he had died. I would have written him to thank him for steering me into a relationship with the love of my life and into a very happy marriage, now in it’s 23rd year.

I Flip for You

this is an essay I recently submitted for a contest about meeting my first 'kid,' I adopted as an adult...

I was 21 and living more than 1400 miles from home when I decided to adopt a cat. I had always lived with cats growing up, and was wildly lonely for their companionship. Arriving at the Humane Society on a mild winter’s day I was led by an attendant down a cinderblock hallway into the cattery. Then she left, closing the door behind her, and I was the only person in the room. Two banks of cages were stacked from floor to almost-ceiling on either side of the room, like kitty-condos. The animals were separated by sexual orientation.

Motivated by the fact males were five dollars cheaper to adopt than females, and money was tight, I stepped over to the boy’s side of the room. As I began peering inside cages I grew disappointed. There wasn’t much movement. Most dozed in tight fur-balls; others gazed into the distance, morose and avoiding eye contact. Some appeared so miserable I feared they were ill. My heart sank as I wondered if this had been a good idea, after all. I grew more depressed thinking about the fate of most of these sweet innocents. I tried talking gently to them and put my hands on the wire cages so they could smell my scent. None seemed interested.

By contrast the female side of the room was a beehive of activity. Some slept, but many others paced their compartments, watching their neighbors with interest. Kittens played as mother cats dozed nearby. As I continued to glance across the room one small cat in particular caught my eye. She stared at me fixedly. When I stared back she appeared to smile. She had the longest, curliest whiskers I’ve ever seen, and as we held each other’s gaze she seemed to beam like the Cheshire cat in the Alice in Wonderland book. 

And then she began to do something I never thought I would ever see a cat do -- something that confounds me to this day and causes people to shake their heads in wonder and skepticism when I tell them this story -- she started performing backflips against the door of her cage.

As I’ve said, I’ve lived with cats all my life, and I know they are quite acrobatic. But this was a new one on me. I hadn’t even seen kittens perform this feat. Entranced, I walked over until I stood before the cage, which was about five feet off the floor. After about four flips the cat stopped her performance, and we sized each other up. The sign on her cage said she was 12 weeks old and had come alone to the shelter. It didn’t say how long she had been there or what the circumstances had been.  

Now she sat quietly, an alert, seemingly pleased expression on her face. She was gorgeous --  I couldn’t believe anyone could give her up. One side of her face was orange and the other black, separated by a blaze of white down her nose. Huge green eyes stared into mine with a bemused expression. She was a tortoiseshell and her long, fine hair was a swirl of black, tan, orange, and brown. Aside from the nose blaze, the only white on her was a ruff of thick hair around her neck, white ‘gloves’ on her front paws, and ‘gogo’ boots on her hind legs. She appeared to have some Maine Coon in her, too, with her thick wicked hair and tufts of hair between her toe pads. 

We must have stared at one another several minutes before I realized the other cats around us, formally so active and vocal, had grown very quiet. There must have been 40 cats in that room, and there wasn’t a sound.

Feeling a touch apprehensive at the prospect of opening the cage, I hesitated. There was no telling what this cat would do! I introduced myself and asked if she would like to get out. She stretched in response and looked expectantly at the door. The room remained uncharacteristically quiet. I felt I wasn’t the only one holding my breath; the little cat, on the other hand, seemed utterly unconcerned. 

Once on the floor, after a cursory sniff of my clothes and shoes, she immediately began exploring her surrounds. She had obviously been curious about her fellow in-mates. I watched as she walked from cage to cage. After several minutes as she continued her exploration, ignoring me completely, I scooped her back in my arms. “Okay kitty. You need to go back in the cage. I’ve got a decision to make,” I said, placing her back inside the container. She replied by giving me a look of utter horror and betrayal, as if I had backed out of an agreement long since made. Then she started meowing. Loudly.

 As soon as she began to cry, all the other cats joined in. The room was suddenly such a cacophony of strident howls, I was afraid the shelter workers would run in and haul me away, convinced I was torturing a cat. “Okay, Okay! I’m sorry,” I said, hastily re-opening the door.

The instant I took her in my arms again all cries stopped instantly. I was stunned. And then she snuggled into my sweater and placed her soft furry face against my cheek. Both front paws wrapped around my neck in an embrace. We had found each other.

---

GoGo was my best friend for 17 years. We moved across the country twice and weathered six shorter moves, as well as marriage, divorce, re-marriage, and my chronic illness and subsequent 14 surgeries. That memorable adoption day was the beginning of a remarkable friendship I cherish and continue to miss to this day.

Thanks--giving

Since my last post --and all within 8 weeks -- after experiencing both parents diagnosed with cancer, wrecking a 2-day-old new car after the newly installed hand controls malfunctioned -- a car I still don't have back from the shop after 4 weeks and that is supposed to take two more weeks, incidentally -- tests for pain to determine whether or not the transplant was injured (it wasn't), a 1200 deposit not credited to my checking account, resulting in over-draft fees all week that had me tearing my hair out, two friends who died within a week, and not to mention 'mundane' concerns, such as financing a 1000 loan every month for the sanctuary to keep the mustang band intact -- I was beginning to lose it.

Believe me when I tell you you did not want to hear from me. Even I didn't want to hear from me. I alternated between wanting to burrow under the covers and wish sundown would hurry up so I could go back to bed, and selling my worldly goods on Ebay and loading up the cats and driving off into the sunset.

I'd be a bad daughter to leave now, as tempting as it is to consider. Or a wimp. Since I'm neither, I have had to wait until my innate positive attitude adjustment finally re-surfaced and I have begun to regain equilibrium again. No one's living an easy life these days (who I know, anyway). When suckiness piles on and you consider a name change to 'Job,' and wonder WTF the Universe has in mind, where do you go? What do you do?

I am focusing for the moment on simple pleasures of the now. Sometimes it feels like all I can process anyway. Cups of hot, properly brewed tea. A good book. Conversations with close friends. Dark chocolate. Cats. Exercise. Good food. Movies. (Yeah, escapism is definitely necessary).

This roller coaster will eventually flatten and the ride will ease up. And I'm tired of spending energy railing and grabbing for the rail bars in a panic. It's time to regain control over my actions and direct my energy to what positive emotions and pursuits I can.

Here are some wonderful things that have happened we have or are rejoicing in: Three sets of partners are now married in civil ceremonies ranging from New Mexico, New York,  and Vermont, with receptions to honor those commitments here at home; I won another essay to be published in December; all the animals are doing well; and I am hosting a baby shower for a young mom-to-be who became pregnant with twins on her first round of IVF...

Best wishes to everyone for a holiday of Thanksgiving, wherever you are and wherever you are on your journey. I look forward to watching the Macy's parade, as I do annually, LOL. With a lump in my throat. Blessings…….

LIFE. The four-letter word

I seem to have been in a mental fugue state the last part of this summer. I think it's slowly lifting. A dear  friend once noted this seems to coincide with my August birthday; not so much a cause for celebration, as a date with 'payment upon demand' notices, underlining just what I haven't gotten around to that I thought would surely have been addressed by now...Not that I mind getting older. I'm rather pleased about that.

I am regaining ground on the health-front. Getting the monthly infusions in the home state is a huge relief. The side-effects of the transplant that were the most unpleasant, to say the least, are easing, and a recent trip back east to NIH* last week proved to be a positive one (those pesky brain and spine tumors are behaving themselves).

The head of urology at NIH has become somewhat of a friend over the years. Since he was responsible for the loss of my right kidney in 2009 (it sucks to be a pioneer and a guinea pig for science at times), he was more than amenable when I asked if he would consider making a donation to my nonprofit kidney account, since I am going to be paying for these expensive transplant drugs for the rest of my life. Maybe he actually will.

Since June we have been trying to figure out how to save the sanctuary land and the mustangs (our partner decided she wanted to sell out, so we are scrambling to find ways to can buy her out and keep the horses together on the land they are used to -- all of which involves putting the house on the market -- something we planned to do anyway, just not under the gun like this). We have suffered through one real-estate company and agent, and are about to go through the trial of finding another to re-list the house. We are working through bank loans. Not sure any of this will work, or work in time, anyway. I am finding there is a reason so many jokes disparage bankers, lawyers, and agents...apologies to readers of any of these professions. I am willing to listen.

Both parents have had significant medial dramas this summer  -- the kinds that will continue...now I am firmly a bonafide member of the dreaded 'sandwich' generation (seriously, could we not have made up a better name? Plain stupid. But the people instigating the title are stressed and tired; I get it). I am lucky beyond measure they are both still in my life, and there isn't much I wouldn't do for them. I just wish there were more I could do that would make a difference. And that they wouldn't resist the things that would be make every-day things/life easier. This flip-flopping of traditional roles is as wearisome and tedious and predictable as everyone has talked and written about.

To counter all the stress I am turning more and more into myself. On the days I am lucky enough to spend at home, most days exercise, reading, and writing comprise the majority of the day. And at night after chores we settle down to a classic movie taped off TCM. Yes, it's a rut. After living through what we have and dealing with what we are, a rut sounds pretty good right now. There's a lot to be said for fantasy, and I am working on some fiction, something new to me, since my forte has always been non-fiction and personal essay. A few more essays have or are about to be published, and I am writing a memoir of sorts. What will be done, if anything, with any of that is anyone's guess,. But I find it necessary and cathartic.

This is also the time of year much of the wild-life move on. The beaver took off months ago, looking for more willowy green pastures (or murky-blue watery ones). He will be back to trim the shoots around the pond back this spring. The geese are busy taking the goslings out on practice runs and practicing take-offs and landings on the pond. The domestic ducks are getting upset they will be left behind. Somehow this summer another domestic duck showed up on the pond. Since they can't fly, we guess someone dumped him, much like they dump their dogs and cats on the mountain for someone else to take responsibility. I wish our three ducks were nicer to him, but they insist on making him feel an interloper, even though he's clearly here for the duration.

The fox family has gone. The six baby 'coons are almost as big as their momma now. Their rough-housing on the skylight  and gamboling on the terrace has become a thing of the past as they press on with more mature 'coon responsibilities, such as digging up the plants and gouging holes in the screen. Excy's favorite is a bold little guy who tries to enter the house when the door opens and likes to hang upside down on the screen or eye-level so he can fully beg to best advantage. I keep reminding Excy no new owner will be as enamored of 'coon pets and it won't be fair to them or the 'coons to let them continue to sponge off us. (Though if people move out here they had better like the country -- and wild -- life). My philosophy has been that once the 'coons are older than three months and mom isn't nursing, I cut off the gravy train so they can get used to no more hand-outs while it's still pleasant and the young ones can be totally self-sufficient before the cold months set in.

The cabin is finally finished but for re-daubing the exterior and landscaping, and although it's furnished, I will slowly be furnishing it and fixing it up nice enough for short-term rental. It's an awesome spot and people have told me they want to stay in it and gaze over the pond and watch the horses roam. I hope we don't have to sell it off and start all over again. It's taken a long time to see these things settle and fall into place.


*flying to National airport in DC (I can't call it Reagan Nat'l; it was difficult enough living there  thorough the Reagan years. Seems we left just when things were getting interesting with Clinton moving in the WH),  the day of the Navy yard shooting was interesting, to say the least. We also were at NIH the week after 9/11. Seeing tragedies up close compounds the horror.