I have a new goal for my blog: write every Sunday after lunch with Mom. I think I can do this. I really do. Here I am today doing it after making the decision this morning. That's a promising beginning, eh?
I have had the most enlightening couple of weeks. Last Thursday, when I woke up early already deep in thought...Well, let me qualify that. The thoughts were not deep, I was just tangled up in them like hot sweaty sheets. Except that it wasn't hot. Gotta love fall. I do at least; it's my favorite season. Anyway, instead of lying there allowing said shallow...well, not so much shallow as not deep...thoughts torture me, I got up, made a pot of coffee and went to work on my article/video on Marbled Bengal patterns. About three in the afternoon, realizing what I had could only be called an "article" with tons of editing but would be okay as a blog one day AND that I hadn't had lunch yet, I was flattened by an epiphany. I got up at 6:30 in the morning and wrote, ergo, I can write in the morning.
Huh. And all this time, I thought I had to write at night because I've always been somewhat of a night owl and not a morning person at all.
Seriously. Not at all. Talk to me before I've had my coffee, and you take your life in your hands. At the very least, I could make you cry. There was that time I was camping at Bow Willow in Anza Borrego with my brother and sister-in-law. Luella wakes up talking. Make that chattering. I tried to hint with no effect at all. Waiting with little patience for the percolator on the Coleman stove to perk, I flat out said, "Luella, please don't talk to me until after I've had my coffee." The silence lasted just long enough to take the edge off my nerves before she again launched into her narrative of her life. "Erich," I let loose in my crankiest voice, "do you have any duct tape?"
So, conversation and morning are definitely out. And unless your name is Joyce Meyer and you're on my television, I'm not interested in your monologue, either.
The thought that I might be able to write in the morning never even occurred to me. But there it was that day. I had. So on Friday, I tried it out and started a novel.
Okay, so "started" might not be precisely what I did, since I started the thing eleven years ago, but the point is I got up, made my coffee and worked on it for four hours. Really and truly worked on it. I was so darned proud of myself, I had to tell Mom all about it. And post it on Facebook and tell all my friends after they already had read it on Facebook. I told Mom, "I have a new schedule."
And she replied, "Don't bother you until noon because you're writing."
I beamed with double pleasure. That was about the most supportive thing Mom has ever said about my writing.
And I've kept to my new schedule every day I've been home since the epiphany with somewhat varying degrees of success. As some FB friends may have deduced, what I'm writing currently involves billiards, since I keep playing "Pool Master" and calling it research. I don't want to say too much to give it way, but I will tell y'all that the main character is a speed freak. So, in the interest of research....
I made TWO pots of coffee this morning. Living on the edge.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Shit Happens
I was going to spray the vineyard with fungicide. I got on the lawn mower to drive it to the sprayer in the shed. It went ten feet and quit. I checked the gas tank. It had over a half-tank of fuel sloshing around. I started it again and went two feet. It started and died without moving. Crap. I went into the house to report to Mom that the spraying wouldn't happen today, either.
"This has been a frustrating couple of days mechanically," I told Mom.
"Well, let's face it," she said, "it has been a frustrating couple of weeks or three."
I waved my hand at her. "Yeah, but that's you. We're talking about me now."
She snorted and waved her hand, "Oh, okay, that's just me."
"Focus, Mom. It's all about me right now." Hands were waving, fingers were pointing to me. "Focus."
"Okay," she breathed, recovering from laughing and wiping her tears. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned forward. "I'm focused. Go."
Mom got the Reader's Digest synopsis. Not here.
First I had trouble getting the spear off the tractor. It's a nifty little 3-speared jousting device (weighing way more than I can pick up) that is attached to the tractor's bucket with a bolt and nut through a hole. The spear stabs those big round hay bales so you can move them. My nephew puts it on because he is a strong young man, and he usually takes it off for me so I can use the tractor. He had left it on the night before because they needed to get to his nephew's soccer game. No biggy as long as it's just finger tightened. I can get it off. Usually.
The trickiest part is figuring out lefty-loosey with a wrench on an upside-down nut you can't see. You can't see it because the bucket is low enough that it won't accidentally fall on your head. This is important for me. I know that there are some people who think all those mishaps over the married years were because of the drinking, you know: the concussion in the bathtub, the trip over the cat and through the sliding glass door, the death-by-toilet episode, the cell-phone debacle. But I have proven over the past six months of sobriety that this is actually a finely honed talent of mine. Who else can get a concussion while feeding a cat? I think the step of keeping the spear low is vital for me.
So I would figure out lefty-loosey with my hands (my fingers know) and then try to duplicate it with the wrenches. There are two wrenches: one for the nut and one for the bolt. The wrench on the bolt kept slipping. I switched wrenches, letting the shorter handled monkey-wrench wedge itself against the bucket, and concentrating on the nut I can't see. This takes a bit of positioning of the body between the spears to reach it. The wrench on the nut fell to the ground. I un-positioned myself and scooted it out from under the tractor with the other wrench. Then I repositioned the monkey wrench, figured out lefty-loosey with my fingers, and tried again. (Have I mentioned that my nephew is a strong young man?) The wrench clattered to the ground.
"This is unacceptable!" I yelled, throwing in a few cuss words that I very seldom use anymore. I stomped to the tractor, climbed up, turned it on, and raised the bucket. I would just leave the tractor running which would decrease the chance of hydraulic failure and death by tractor-spear. I didn't even need my fingers to figure out lefty-loosey: I could see it. One good tug to counter the super-strength of my nephew, and the nut was free to spin, and the bolt was removed. I marched to the seat, lowered the bucket, and left that spear in the dust.
I entered the vineyard in triumph, lowered the shredder to a nice low height, and turned it on. Within 10 feet, I had snagged a roll of wire hidden in the grass (it was in front of the bigger roll of wire that I could see and so went around). I turned off the shredder. Cuss, cuss, cuss. People just leave things lying all over this ranch, and by golly, why can't they pick them up? I'm going to pick up every darned stray object on this ranch all at once on purpose so I don't continue picking them up one at a time accidentally with the shredder. By golly. Cuss, cuss.
I backed the tractor up and the wire nearly came loose. Hmmm. Maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought; the wire didn't seem to be wrapped tightly around the blades. I got down and tugged on it. No movement. Back on the tractor I went forward, and the wire moved. I backed up, went forward, backed up, went forward. I got down and tugged. No movement. I bent over, ass in the air, head by my knees, trying to see under the shredder. I knelt down and tried again to look under the shredder. I'd have to get it out of the grass so I could see. I left the vineyard and drove back to the shed where the tools are, dragging that wire all the way. On the driveway to the barn, I could see that the bundle was stuck on the bent corner of the shredder's frame by just one wire. I got wire cutters even though I know that I can't cut fence wire with wire cutters, but the bolt cutters were in Robert's truck last I knew. I got a hammer and tried pounding it down. I went to put the hammer away, and TADA!!!! There, hanging on hooks in all their vibrant red glory were the bolt cutters. I grabbed them.
As I turned around, I saw dog shit on the floor of the shed with a distinctive Teva print smooshed through it. Some dog (obviously not my dog, because she is a good girl) had shit in the shed. Naturally I stepped in it. I sighed and went about the business of snipping the wire and tossing the smashed-up bundle in the bucket to put in the trash trailer. I wiped my foot on the grass, got on the tractor, dumped the wire and shredded the darned vineyard. Without further incident. Except for the rebar from the removed row 13 which is now lying next to row 12 which caused a ruckus but didn't get caught.
"Okay," I said to Mom, "I'm done. That's it. This fall I'm picking up all the crap around the ranch. But first I have to go move the lawn mower because it's sitting behind your van."
"Okay," she said.
I left the room, but turned and came right back. She put her head down on the desk. "What now?"
I told her about my Facebook status. I thought it would make a dandy t-shirt, or an awesome first line for a novel, but I used it on Facebook: "Shit happens. I just never see it until after I step in it."
I'm going to go shred now. Wish me luck.
"This has been a frustrating couple of days mechanically," I told Mom.
"Well, let's face it," she said, "it has been a frustrating couple of weeks or three."
I waved my hand at her. "Yeah, but that's you. We're talking about me now."
She snorted and waved her hand, "Oh, okay, that's just me."
"Focus, Mom. It's all about me right now." Hands were waving, fingers were pointing to me. "Focus."
"Okay," she breathed, recovering from laughing and wiping her tears. She tucked her hands between her knees and leaned forward. "I'm focused. Go."
Mom got the Reader's Digest synopsis. Not here.
First I had trouble getting the spear off the tractor. It's a nifty little 3-speared jousting device (weighing way more than I can pick up) that is attached to the tractor's bucket with a bolt and nut through a hole. The spear stabs those big round hay bales so you can move them. My nephew puts it on because he is a strong young man, and he usually takes it off for me so I can use the tractor. He had left it on the night before because they needed to get to his nephew's soccer game. No biggy as long as it's just finger tightened. I can get it off. Usually.
The trickiest part is figuring out lefty-loosey with a wrench on an upside-down nut you can't see. You can't see it because the bucket is low enough that it won't accidentally fall on your head. This is important for me. I know that there are some people who think all those mishaps over the married years were because of the drinking, you know: the concussion in the bathtub, the trip over the cat and through the sliding glass door, the death-by-toilet episode, the cell-phone debacle. But I have proven over the past six months of sobriety that this is actually a finely honed talent of mine. Who else can get a concussion while feeding a cat? I think the step of keeping the spear low is vital for me.
So I would figure out lefty-loosey with my hands (my fingers know) and then try to duplicate it with the wrenches. There are two wrenches: one for the nut and one for the bolt. The wrench on the bolt kept slipping. I switched wrenches, letting the shorter handled monkey-wrench wedge itself against the bucket, and concentrating on the nut I can't see. This takes a bit of positioning of the body between the spears to reach it. The wrench on the nut fell to the ground. I un-positioned myself and scooted it out from under the tractor with the other wrench. Then I repositioned the monkey wrench, figured out lefty-loosey with my fingers, and tried again. (Have I mentioned that my nephew is a strong young man?) The wrench clattered to the ground.
"This is unacceptable!" I yelled, throwing in a few cuss words that I very seldom use anymore. I stomped to the tractor, climbed up, turned it on, and raised the bucket. I would just leave the tractor running which would decrease the chance of hydraulic failure and death by tractor-spear. I didn't even need my fingers to figure out lefty-loosey: I could see it. One good tug to counter the super-strength of my nephew, and the nut was free to spin, and the bolt was removed. I marched to the seat, lowered the bucket, and left that spear in the dust.
I entered the vineyard in triumph, lowered the shredder to a nice low height, and turned it on. Within 10 feet, I had snagged a roll of wire hidden in the grass (it was in front of the bigger roll of wire that I could see and so went around). I turned off the shredder. Cuss, cuss, cuss. People just leave things lying all over this ranch, and by golly, why can't they pick them up? I'm going to pick up every darned stray object on this ranch all at once on purpose so I don't continue picking them up one at a time accidentally with the shredder. By golly. Cuss, cuss.
I backed the tractor up and the wire nearly came loose. Hmmm. Maybe this wasn't as bad as I thought; the wire didn't seem to be wrapped tightly around the blades. I got down and tugged on it. No movement. Back on the tractor I went forward, and the wire moved. I backed up, went forward, backed up, went forward. I got down and tugged. No movement. I bent over, ass in the air, head by my knees, trying to see under the shredder. I knelt down and tried again to look under the shredder. I'd have to get it out of the grass so I could see. I left the vineyard and drove back to the shed where the tools are, dragging that wire all the way. On the driveway to the barn, I could see that the bundle was stuck on the bent corner of the shredder's frame by just one wire. I got wire cutters even though I know that I can't cut fence wire with wire cutters, but the bolt cutters were in Robert's truck last I knew. I got a hammer and tried pounding it down. I went to put the hammer away, and TADA!!!! There, hanging on hooks in all their vibrant red glory were the bolt cutters. I grabbed them.
As I turned around, I saw dog shit on the floor of the shed with a distinctive Teva print smooshed through it. Some dog (obviously not my dog, because she is a good girl) had shit in the shed. Naturally I stepped in it. I sighed and went about the business of snipping the wire and tossing the smashed-up bundle in the bucket to put in the trash trailer. I wiped my foot on the grass, got on the tractor, dumped the wire and shredded the darned vineyard. Without further incident. Except for the rebar from the removed row 13 which is now lying next to row 12 which caused a ruckus but didn't get caught.
"Okay," I said to Mom, "I'm done. That's it. This fall I'm picking up all the crap around the ranch. But first I have to go move the lawn mower because it's sitting behind your van."
"Okay," she said.
I left the room, but turned and came right back. She put her head down on the desk. "What now?"
I told her about my Facebook status. I thought it would make a dandy t-shirt, or an awesome first line for a novel, but I used it on Facebook: "Shit happens. I just never see it until after I step in it."
I'm going to go shred now. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Harvest
Glossary of Vineyard Tending Terms:
bird netting: a net which is placed over the grapevines in a continuous feed without cutting it to fit the rows (penalty for cutting: the Wrath of Mom) for the purpose of trapping birds for the cats and border collie to chase and catch. (Incidental benefit is that the netting prevents the birds from eating 3/4 of the grape.)
hedging: a) daily stroll up and down the aisles dressed in Easter finery and strappy high heels, waving hedge trimmers at the vines (source: commercial for Saks--or was it Macy's?) b) drudge work of trimming back rampant grapevines which seek daily to recreate that gut-wrenching final hand-holding scene in the old black and white film "Last of the Mohicans" across the aisles.
netting platform: a metal contraption that attaches to the back of the tractor with a flat place for standing, a hoop to hold the bag containing the bird netting, and a boom or arm with two hoops for feeding the netting out over the rows of grapevines. Along with netting for one acre of vineyard, the platform costs the equivalent of two years' profit.
verizon: when the grapes start turning purple indicating that "The Birds" are about to do a Hitchcock on the vineyard.
So what They said about bird netting was that once it was on, you were done with everything except spraying and praying until harvest. A few weeks of relief from the daily grind during the height of summer. Hallelujah. That's what they said, and by golly, that's what Mom and I were determined to believe.
While we were finishing the hedging so we could get the net on, I said, "That net's going to be tough to get off."
Mom said, "The vines stopped growing sooner last year."
"What?" I was confounded. Cabernet vines stop growing? Maybe in October. Mom and Dad planted the damned cabernet because they were a "vigorous" vine. The reason the no work in the vineyard from verizon to harvest sounded so good to me was because of the vigor of those vines. Vigorous is now one of my favorite cuss words meaning something akin to "royal pain in the ass."
"They always slow down after verizon, and we stop hedging in early August."
"We stop hedging when they harvest, Mom."
"At least it will give us a break."
Putting up the netting was a snap. (Ha.) It only took four of us: me to drive the tractor, Victoria to stand on the platform and feed the netting out of the bag and through the loops on the boom and Susan and Robert to walk behind, spreading the net out and draping it over the vines. Snap. Four hours of snap, and I was doubly determined to be done until harvest, when we'd take the net off the day before the pickers came.
A week later, Susan told Mom, "The wind blew the netting off the vineyard."
Mom looked out the window and said, "No. The vines are just growing through it."
"Oh. That's going to be fun to take off."
Every day, I walked by the vineyard on the way to help Mom take care of Dad, and thought, "Oh, that's going to be a bitch."
So what did we do about it? Mom sprayed. We prayed. That's what they said to do. I was praying that the vines really would stop growing. Soon. Before it was impossible to take the net off.
Grape harvest always, always, always takes place in August, usually the same weekend as the TICA South Central Regional Show and Banquet. I usually miss the show because of the harvest. When the Regional was in Austin, I did both harvest and banquet! This year I actually planned to miss the harvest and go to the Regional in LaFayette, Louisiana. Well, the grapes couldn't have me missing it, so harvest was about 2 weeks late.
When I got home from Louisiana, Mom told me that now They said that we were supposed to go through the vineyard daily fluffing up the netting so the vines didn't grow through the holes and entangle the net. She would pay me $10 an hour (my going rate for shredding the fields) to help trim the vines off the top of the net before harvest for three or four hours a day. Mind you, one hour in the vineyard is plenty of work for me, let alone for my 75 year old mother with her bad knees. But we did the time.
"Why do I always make mistakes?" Mom said. "I make new ones every year, but there's always something. In another twenty years, I should have this down."
"Oh, I can just see us out here in twenty years, Mom. I'll be the one in my seventies needing a walker. You'll be 95."
We finished with a day to spare. Well, of course we just thought it was a spare day. Turned out to be the day we should have put the platform on the tractor because naturally that fifteen minute job took over an hour.
Even though Mom and I had put in the grueling hours it took to get it ready, taking the netting off was still not a snap. I have decided that the only snap around here would be if we changed the name of the place from River Ridge Ranch and Vineyard to Murphy's Law Happens. Now that would be a snap. Snap.
It took five of us this time, with Victoria's boyfriend Patrick helping on the platform to pull the netting through the hoops. We were supposed to have the netting off the day before harvest, but Susan's husband had an auction (Charlie is an auctioneer) on Saturday, and their projected arrival time of 3:00 to help with the netting turned into twice later than the usual two hour tardniess. By the time the shredder was off the tractor and the platform was on, we had about a half hour of daylight left.
We worked through dusk. "Do you want flashlights?" I hinted to Susan.
"Do you have one?" She asked with a definite note of hope in her voice.
"Yeah, they're in the house."
"Oh." We worked through full dark. Susan and Robert had to stop about every five feet to untangle the net from the rebar ties. I could see because the tractor had lights, but they couldn't. So I went to the house and got flashlights. We were going so slow that we quit after another two rows, hoping that we could keep ahead of the pickers in the morning.
That didn't happen either. Harvest time was set for 6:30 in the morning, when the earliest hint of light allows limited vision. The pickers showed up at five. They were only a row behind by the time we got back to it, and they caught up with us, and passed us. They lifted the net and draped it on the top of the vines to pick underneath. This made it a heck of a lot easier to take the netting off--definitely the reason we finished at the same time as the pickers (as opposed to an hour later). Susan said, "Next year, we're taking the net off after they pick."
The harvest is in. The grapes are done. Until it all starts over again.
bird netting: a net which is placed over the grapevines in a continuous feed without cutting it to fit the rows (penalty for cutting: the Wrath of Mom) for the purpose of trapping birds for the cats and border collie to chase and catch. (Incidental benefit is that the netting prevents the birds from eating 3/4 of the grape.)
hedging: a) daily stroll up and down the aisles dressed in Easter finery and strappy high heels, waving hedge trimmers at the vines (source: commercial for Saks--or was it Macy's?) b) drudge work of trimming back rampant grapevines which seek daily to recreate that gut-wrenching final hand-holding scene in the old black and white film "Last of the Mohicans" across the aisles.
actual attire with live grasshopper (not jewelry)
verizon: when the grapes start turning purple indicating that "The Birds" are about to do a Hitchcock on the vineyard.
 |
| verizon |
So what They said about bird netting was that once it was on, you were done with everything except spraying and praying until harvest. A few weeks of relief from the daily grind during the height of summer. Hallelujah. That's what they said, and by golly, that's what Mom and I were determined to believe.
While we were finishing the hedging so we could get the net on, I said, "That net's going to be tough to get off."
Mom said, "The vines stopped growing sooner last year."
"What?" I was confounded. Cabernet vines stop growing? Maybe in October. Mom and Dad planted the damned cabernet because they were a "vigorous" vine. The reason the no work in the vineyard from verizon to harvest sounded so good to me was because of the vigor of those vines. Vigorous is now one of my favorite cuss words meaning something akin to "royal pain in the ass."
"They always slow down after verizon, and we stop hedging in early August."
"We stop hedging when they harvest, Mom."
"At least it will give us a break."
Putting up the netting was a snap. (Ha.) It only took four of us: me to drive the tractor, Victoria to stand on the platform and feed the netting out of the bag and through the loops on the boom and Susan and Robert to walk behind, spreading the net out and draping it over the vines. Snap. Four hours of snap, and I was doubly determined to be done until harvest, when we'd take the net off the day before the pickers came.
Mom looked out the window and said, "No. The vines are just growing through it."
"Oh. That's going to be fun to take off."
Every day, I walked by the vineyard on the way to help Mom take care of Dad, and thought, "Oh, that's going to be a bitch."
So what did we do about it? Mom sprayed. We prayed. That's what they said to do. I was praying that the vines really would stop growing. Soon. Before it was impossible to take the net off.
 |
| Robert |
 |
| Susan |
"Why do I always make mistakes?" Mom said. "I make new ones every year, but there's always something. In another twenty years, I should have this down."
"Oh, I can just see us out here in twenty years, Mom. I'll be the one in my seventies needing a walker. You'll be 95."
We finished with a day to spare. Well, of course we just thought it was a spare day. Turned out to be the day we should have put the platform on the tractor because naturally that fifteen minute job took over an hour.
Even though Mom and I had put in the grueling hours it took to get it ready, taking the netting off was still not a snap. I have decided that the only snap around here would be if we changed the name of the place from River Ridge Ranch and Vineyard to Murphy's Law Happens. Now that would be a snap. Snap.
Below, the bored tractor driver tries to entertain herself which draws a chorus of objection from the rest of the crew: "No texting while driving!" She replies, "I'm not texting! I'm posting on FaceBook."
 |
| Next year's warning label: "Do not read warning labels while operating tractor." |
 |
| Patrick |
We worked through dusk. "Do you want flashlights?" I hinted to Susan.
"Do you have one?" She asked with a definite note of hope in her voice.
"Yeah, they're in the house."
 |
| Victoria |
That didn't happen either. Harvest time was set for 6:30 in the morning, when the earliest hint of light allows limited vision. The pickers showed up at five. They were only a row behind by the time we got back to it, and they caught up with us, and passed us. They lifted the net and draped it on the top of the vines to pick underneath. This made it a heck of a lot easier to take the netting off--definitely the reason we finished at the same time as the pickers (as opposed to an hour later). Susan said, "Next year, we're taking the net off after they pick."
The harvest is in. The grapes are done. Until it all starts over again.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Achey-Breaky Tractor of Tears
At Uptown Blanco’s Sunday brunch in July, I was walking back from the buffet with my omelet, and our waitress Bonnie asked, “Are you shrinking?”
“Yes, I am,” I beamed. “I’ve lost over 200 pounds.”
“No!”
“Yep. My husband and some off of me, too.” (My family loves that joke. I surely didn’t invent it, but I have made good use of it, beginning at my birthday brunch one week after the Divorce announcement. On that day, I sighed contentedly over my last Mimosas, and said, “Marriage is fattening. I’ve already lost 175 pounds.”)
She laughed. “Well it all looks good on you!”
Everyone comments on how good I look, how happy I look. I do look happy. I am happier. I like my life better these days. I like the energy and sheer joyfulness of being sober. I like being able to get things done. (If you feel a “but” coming on, you may know me well.)
With all the rain this spring, the wildflowers and weeds are rampant. Wildflowers are the heart and soul of my favorite form of gardening, and I made good use of them in my yard this year. Weeds are wildflowers where Mom doesn’t want them. I’ve been working on round three of field shredding, and the beggar lice plants are already four feet high in the lower eastern pasture. Before I could get back to it, I had to finish the coastal field. In the process of shredding the coastal field, I developed an aversion to the tractor.
It wasn’t the heat or the dust that had me looking for any little spit of water from the sky as an excuse not to shred. “Oh, darn; it’s raining. Can’t shred.” I mean, granted it’s hot as heck out there, and after three hours of being coated with dust, I resemble a golem, a very itchy golem in dire need of a shower, but that wasn’t the aversion. It was more of an emotional nature.
When I work on the tractor, I wear noise-cancelling ear buds attached to my i-Pod Nano and listen to books. Otherwise, the sheer boredom would pretty much guarantee that Mom would have to hire someone else to shred, and I would lose the little income I actually have to spend on frivolities like paint for the porch, food, birthday presents and, well, books to listen to on the tractor.
The other day, I’d only been out there for an hour when my book ended. Without the enchantment of a narrative pumped directly into my brain, I was left alone with my own thoughts.
And the first thought was, “I don’t remember marrying an asshole.”
Relatively harmless thought, eh? I could easily take that in a humorous direction. Yep. I don’t remember saying, “Hey, this guy’s a jerk; I think I’ll marry him.” Wahaha.
But no! I guess I’ve had it too easy lately, wrapped up in the sheer joy of being unchained, free from daily degradation and hang-overs. I got hit instead with a wallop of melancholy at thought number two. “I remember marrying a kind, thoughtful, funny guy who seemed to give a shit about me.” Within seconds, my face was covered in muddy rivulets as I went from feeling like I’d won the lotto to realizing that this was Divorce, that the man I’d thought was my best friend wasn’t a friend at all, that my heart has been blown to smithereens. Ouch.
Okay, so I didn’t marry an asshole, but by golly I’m divorcing one, thank God. I came to terms with these thoughts and was able to reclaim my emotional equilibrium within a few hours. It took two days to recover from the swelling of all that eye-leaking. I am too old to cry without severe poofing of the eyelids.
The next time I went out on the tractor, I was well-armed with seven hours of book and a back-up. Fat lot of good it did me. I kept having to rewind the book as my own thoughts pirated my brain. Within moments, I was bowed down by the weight of the loss and crying again. The loss of my babies, the loss of my sobriety, the loss of my spiritual life, the loss of my teaching career, the loss of ten years of my life. By the time I made it to the shower that day, I had renamed the John Deere my “Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears.”
It was with intense trepidation that I returned to the pasture the next day. Most of the beggar lice was down, but I had a good six hours of shredding left. The swollen folds of skin around my eyes still resembled bruised bloodhound eyes. I didn’t think I could take another round of tractor therapy, so I was hoping that Alice Hoffman would have my undivided attention. For the most part, she did.
That part of my attention that wandered was caught up in the daily glories of living on a ranch. The weather was a little cooler (Texas summer cold front: high in the mid nineties), a little less humid. Yummy whipped cumulous clouds floated across a vivid blue sky. I was able to avoid most of the dust as a cool breeze wafted across the river and up the slope to my side. Dragonflies flew beside the tractor, and purple martins swooped around me feasting on grasshoppers. A fox bounded out of the weeds in front of me to escape in the abundant greenery lining the banks of the tank.
Thank God for a day of reprieve from the grief. I want so much to be able to just build a bridge and get over this, to not have to go through it. I know better, I really do. So thank God, also, for that Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears. At least I’m not breaking down in the middle of the bank or grocery store.
“Yes, I am,” I beamed. “I’ve lost over 200 pounds.”
“No!”
“Yep. My husband and some off of me, too.” (My family loves that joke. I surely didn’t invent it, but I have made good use of it, beginning at my birthday brunch one week after the Divorce announcement. On that day, I sighed contentedly over my last Mimosas, and said, “Marriage is fattening. I’ve already lost 175 pounds.”)
She laughed. “Well it all looks good on you!”
Everyone comments on how good I look, how happy I look. I do look happy. I am happier. I like my life better these days. I like the energy and sheer joyfulness of being sober. I like being able to get things done. (If you feel a “but” coming on, you may know me well.)
With all the rain this spring, the wildflowers and weeds are rampant. Wildflowers are the heart and soul of my favorite form of gardening, and I made good use of them in my yard this year. Weeds are wildflowers where Mom doesn’t want them. I’ve been working on round three of field shredding, and the beggar lice plants are already four feet high in the lower eastern pasture. Before I could get back to it, I had to finish the coastal field. In the process of shredding the coastal field, I developed an aversion to the tractor.
It wasn’t the heat or the dust that had me looking for any little spit of water from the sky as an excuse not to shred. “Oh, darn; it’s raining. Can’t shred.” I mean, granted it’s hot as heck out there, and after three hours of being coated with dust, I resemble a golem, a very itchy golem in dire need of a shower, but that wasn’t the aversion. It was more of an emotional nature.
When I work on the tractor, I wear noise-cancelling ear buds attached to my i-Pod Nano and listen to books. Otherwise, the sheer boredom would pretty much guarantee that Mom would have to hire someone else to shred, and I would lose the little income I actually have to spend on frivolities like paint for the porch, food, birthday presents and, well, books to listen to on the tractor.
The other day, I’d only been out there for an hour when my book ended. Without the enchantment of a narrative pumped directly into my brain, I was left alone with my own thoughts.
And the first thought was, “I don’t remember marrying an asshole.”
Relatively harmless thought, eh? I could easily take that in a humorous direction. Yep. I don’t remember saying, “Hey, this guy’s a jerk; I think I’ll marry him.” Wahaha.
But no! I guess I’ve had it too easy lately, wrapped up in the sheer joy of being unchained, free from daily degradation and hang-overs. I got hit instead with a wallop of melancholy at thought number two. “I remember marrying a kind, thoughtful, funny guy who seemed to give a shit about me.” Within seconds, my face was covered in muddy rivulets as I went from feeling like I’d won the lotto to realizing that this was Divorce, that the man I’d thought was my best friend wasn’t a friend at all, that my heart has been blown to smithereens. Ouch.
Okay, so I didn’t marry an asshole, but by golly I’m divorcing one, thank God. I came to terms with these thoughts and was able to reclaim my emotional equilibrium within a few hours. It took two days to recover from the swelling of all that eye-leaking. I am too old to cry without severe poofing of the eyelids.
The next time I went out on the tractor, I was well-armed with seven hours of book and a back-up. Fat lot of good it did me. I kept having to rewind the book as my own thoughts pirated my brain. Within moments, I was bowed down by the weight of the loss and crying again. The loss of my babies, the loss of my sobriety, the loss of my spiritual life, the loss of my teaching career, the loss of ten years of my life. By the time I made it to the shower that day, I had renamed the John Deere my “Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears.”
It was with intense trepidation that I returned to the pasture the next day. Most of the beggar lice was down, but I had a good six hours of shredding left. The swollen folds of skin around my eyes still resembled bruised bloodhound eyes. I didn’t think I could take another round of tractor therapy, so I was hoping that Alice Hoffman would have my undivided attention. For the most part, she did.
That part of my attention that wandered was caught up in the daily glories of living on a ranch. The weather was a little cooler (Texas summer cold front: high in the mid nineties), a little less humid. Yummy whipped cumulous clouds floated across a vivid blue sky. I was able to avoid most of the dust as a cool breeze wafted across the river and up the slope to my side. Dragonflies flew beside the tractor, and purple martins swooped around me feasting on grasshoppers. A fox bounded out of the weeds in front of me to escape in the abundant greenery lining the banks of the tank.
Thank God for a day of reprieve from the grief. I want so much to be able to just build a bridge and get over this, to not have to go through it. I know better, I really do. So thank God, also, for that Achy-Breaky Tractor of Tears. At least I’m not breaking down in the middle of the bank or grocery store.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Emotional Tiggers
One Saturday morning in late May, I had a few quick errands to run on the northern outskirts of San Antonio. Borrowing Mom's van was not an option since one of those errands was picking up the 5' x 8' trailer I'd bought for Mom yesterday from Tractor Supply. With a forecasted high around 95, I had to plan a suitable strategy for surviving the trip in my '95 Jeep Wrangler sans air-conditioning.
First I would hit HEB Plus, the Disneyland of grocery stores, where I could leave the windows down; an empty Heap, oh, I mean Jeep, meant no temptation. From there, I would head over to PetSmart for a rapid dash to swoop up cat litter and food. Such a quick errand would allow me to leave the windows open, fragile groceries chilling in blue insulated grocery bags. Tractor Supply would be next. The trailer was already paid for, the title done, so it would be all ready for me to slap on the Jeep and head for home. I could be home by noon. It could happen.
Saturday is not my day of choice for running any errands, let alone wading through the crowds of a popular grocery store. My agoraphobia may be mild, but shopping is one of the main triggers. At least it's not a mall. At least I've been there before with my sister. I was bolstering my already mopey self with heavy walls of Zen denial and lists of "at leasts," when the first notes of Paul Simon's "Kodachrome" played on the stereo. With an eager grin, walls shed, I cranked it up and belted it out. Oh yeah. I do indeed "got a Nikon camera." Two in fact: one D-80 for the digital world and one N-90S for Kodachrome. That's right. I am a photographer, a poet, a mighty woman worthy of great things. Oh yeah. "Mama don't take my Kodachrome away!"
Still grinning, I parked my beloved at the back of the parking lot, grabbed my canvas bags, put them in a cart and trekked off to the store. I calmly navigated through oodles of produce picking humanity, intent on my list. Weaving through home goods to pick up the ever important toilet paper and baggies led me to the far side of the cavernous grocery park for some health and beauty. Dad needed bed pads. I needed body powder. Body powder. He didn't like my body powder. Bleak thoughts threatened to pull my mood back down.
I passed two women, mother and daughter, examining sun screens. "I don't know," the mother said, "I just don't believe it could be 100%." I caught myself mumbling, "That's not what it means." Shit howdy. What was I doing? I stopped my cart, backed up and said, "Excuse me, but it's doesn't mean 100%. The SPF number means you can stay out in the sun that much longer than without sunscreen." Of course, there is debate as to whether anything over 15 is worth it and the whole broad spectrum issue to consider, but at least I could share a little bit of knowledge. I knew the product they were considering protected against both UVA and UVB rays, because I'd already checked. I gave an apologetic shrug and smile. "Sorry. I was passing, and I just overheard."
"Oh, no," they replied, "thank you. You look like you would know." We laughed. Yeah. I'm a fair skinned farming fool, and I do wear the SPF 100. And a hat. The sunglasses that protect my ultra sensitive blue eyes still work better than any sunscreen, turning me into an anti-raccoon.
Good mood restored by a very minor good deed, I continued shopping. I was almost done when I saw OFF! still on my list. I had brought my laptop out to the porch the evening before only to be chased back to my office by mosquitoes. I scanned the aisle signs and decided to check by insecticides. Bingo! There they were right by another perplexed shopper. I reached for my favorite compromise to 100% DEET (which melts nylon and may not be that great for your skin but is a camping must-have, especially in Canada where the mosquito is the national bird): Deep Woods Off! The lady asked me, "Is that good? Does it work? My dad was mowing the lawn last night, and he was eaten up by mosquitoes."
"It works well enough. It has more DEET than the regular one, and DEET is the active ingredient." When she thanked me, I laughed, and joked "Maybe I could have a new career helping people shop." I felt pretty good. I was interacting like I thought a normal person would; a person not crippled with fear and self-doubt. Huh. Come to think about it, I've been doing that a lot lately: actually interacting with strangers and smiling. I guess that's one of the benefits of not facing daily scorn and disdain.
PetSmart and TSC were also positive people experiences, even though picking up the trailer was not as quick as it should have been because the ball on my Jeep was too big for the hitch. An hour later, after much discussion and fumbling, (I said, "Is the ball too big?" He said, "No, the spare tire is in the way." Off came the spare--a real chore--to reveal that the ball was too big.), I was finally on my way home, reflecting on my morning.
They say that when one door closes, another opens. I tend to stay in that room until God gives me a good swift kick through the other door, like I stayed in my marriage because I made those vows and meant them. I am going through a divorce not of my choosing, so my days are filled with emotional triggers that can pull me back down. Even a simple task like washing the dishes or scooping a litterbox brings back his voice in my head, telling me that I don't do it right, that I'm not good enough. Sometimes I just need to tell that voice to "Shut the fuck up" and let me enjoy a bubble bath! I need those little emotional triggers that help to build me back up with bubbling, buoyant happiness, like a great song on the radio or a small act of kindness that remind me that life is wonderful and getting better every day. Emotional Tiggers.
First I would hit HEB Plus, the Disneyland of grocery stores, where I could leave the windows down; an empty Heap, oh, I mean Jeep, meant no temptation. From there, I would head over to PetSmart for a rapid dash to swoop up cat litter and food. Such a quick errand would allow me to leave the windows open, fragile groceries chilling in blue insulated grocery bags. Tractor Supply would be next. The trailer was already paid for, the title done, so it would be all ready for me to slap on the Jeep and head for home. I could be home by noon. It could happen.
Saturday is not my day of choice for running any errands, let alone wading through the crowds of a popular grocery store. My agoraphobia may be mild, but shopping is one of the main triggers. At least it's not a mall. At least I've been there before with my sister. I was bolstering my already mopey self with heavy walls of Zen denial and lists of "at leasts," when the first notes of Paul Simon's "Kodachrome" played on the stereo. With an eager grin, walls shed, I cranked it up and belted it out. Oh yeah. I do indeed "got a Nikon camera." Two in fact: one D-80 for the digital world and one N-90S for Kodachrome. That's right. I am a photographer, a poet, a mighty woman worthy of great things. Oh yeah. "Mama don't take my Kodachrome away!"
Still grinning, I parked my beloved at the back of the parking lot, grabbed my canvas bags, put them in a cart and trekked off to the store. I calmly navigated through oodles of produce picking humanity, intent on my list. Weaving through home goods to pick up the ever important toilet paper and baggies led me to the far side of the cavernous grocery park for some health and beauty. Dad needed bed pads. I needed body powder. Body powder. He didn't like my body powder. Bleak thoughts threatened to pull my mood back down.
I passed two women, mother and daughter, examining sun screens. "I don't know," the mother said, "I just don't believe it could be 100%." I caught myself mumbling, "That's not what it means." Shit howdy. What was I doing? I stopped my cart, backed up and said, "Excuse me, but it's doesn't mean 100%. The SPF number means you can stay out in the sun that much longer than without sunscreen." Of course, there is debate as to whether anything over 15 is worth it and the whole broad spectrum issue to consider, but at least I could share a little bit of knowledge. I knew the product they were considering protected against both UVA and UVB rays, because I'd already checked. I gave an apologetic shrug and smile. "Sorry. I was passing, and I just overheard."
"Oh, no," they replied, "thank you. You look like you would know." We laughed. Yeah. I'm a fair skinned farming fool, and I do wear the SPF 100. And a hat. The sunglasses that protect my ultra sensitive blue eyes still work better than any sunscreen, turning me into an anti-raccoon.
Good mood restored by a very minor good deed, I continued shopping. I was almost done when I saw OFF! still on my list. I had brought my laptop out to the porch the evening before only to be chased back to my office by mosquitoes. I scanned the aisle signs and decided to check by insecticides. Bingo! There they were right by another perplexed shopper. I reached for my favorite compromise to 100% DEET (which melts nylon and may not be that great for your skin but is a camping must-have, especially in Canada where the mosquito is the national bird): Deep Woods Off! The lady asked me, "Is that good? Does it work? My dad was mowing the lawn last night, and he was eaten up by mosquitoes."
"It works well enough. It has more DEET than the regular one, and DEET is the active ingredient." When she thanked me, I laughed, and joked "Maybe I could have a new career helping people shop." I felt pretty good. I was interacting like I thought a normal person would; a person not crippled with fear and self-doubt. Huh. Come to think about it, I've been doing that a lot lately: actually interacting with strangers and smiling. I guess that's one of the benefits of not facing daily scorn and disdain.
PetSmart and TSC were also positive people experiences, even though picking up the trailer was not as quick as it should have been because the ball on my Jeep was too big for the hitch. An hour later, after much discussion and fumbling, (I said, "Is the ball too big?" He said, "No, the spare tire is in the way." Off came the spare--a real chore--to reveal that the ball was too big.), I was finally on my way home, reflecting on my morning.
They say that when one door closes, another opens. I tend to stay in that room until God gives me a good swift kick through the other door, like I stayed in my marriage because I made those vows and meant them. I am going through a divorce not of my choosing, so my days are filled with emotional triggers that can pull me back down. Even a simple task like washing the dishes or scooping a litterbox brings back his voice in my head, telling me that I don't do it right, that I'm not good enough. Sometimes I just need to tell that voice to "Shut the fuck up" and let me enjoy a bubble bath! I need those little emotional triggers that help to build me back up with bubbling, buoyant happiness, like a great song on the radio or a small act of kindness that remind me that life is wonderful and getting better every day. Emotional Tiggers.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Ten Years in a Box
I have books! The majority of my books have spent the last ten years in boxes. They are now free, proudly displayed on my lovely mission style bookshelves. Unpacking the books was a process of rediscovery, each book a treasure and a clue to who I am. Step by step, I am reclaiming myself and building a new, unrepressed life.
Penny in Seguin
October 2005
It must be difficult to be the actual Center of the Universe and not make it to a single ring, not win a single rosette. For pictures of my "traumatized" kitten, we thank Julie Mosley, who got the shots of the nervous kitty on her cell-phone. (Yes, I left the Nikon at home--I figured that with showing 2 HHPK and Kuma by myself, I had enough to do. I am spoiled.)
Kuma got a rosette.
Kenny got 10 rosettes.
Pima la Femme Barbe'e got 11 rosettes (including the Becknell award).
Penny got...well, Penny got all the OTHER attention.
She served as a perfect example of a non-rufoused brown spotted tabby. Many people think rufoused means "red," and while it does indeed mean a reddening, it is not just red. As Libbie Kerr once explained, picture a bottle of yellow food coloring. In the bottle, in high concentration, it appears red. When diluted, it's yellow; rufousing is all those rich buttery colors and apricot and red. So Penny was more than able to hold her cool-colored self up to rufoused kitties for the comparison. She is truly one cool kitty. I mean, people asked me if she was a (tarnished) silver.
She's cool in other ways, too. We walked around the show hall and she took it all in. When I stopped talking to chat, she would get impatient with me. As I left a group to walk with her as she began to squirm, I confessed, "She's a bit spoiled."
Mark guffawed. "What? You?!? Spoil a cat? Noooo!"
Hmmm...maybe I need to try some tough love to get Kuma out of turtle mode. Maybe I do coddle them a bit. But Penny plays Airplane-Kitty, too. Zip, zip through the air, never knowing which way we'll twist her next.
Penny's a tiny bit famous now since her mom can't seem to stop writing about her, so many people were thrilled to meet the little princess they had read about. Since we'll be doing the photography for the TIFS Deer Park show (my first professional cat gig--all I've dealt with before are rock bands in California), I hired Jesse to agent our cats.
"Which cats?" he asked.
I pointed, "Kuma, Pima, and," I whipped her limp form out for dramatic effect, "Penny."
I can't even type the cacophony of disbelief that came from the circle of my dear friends at that announcement. I believe it was Mark, Jesse's dad, who quipped, "For that honor, YOU should pay HER."
I don't know. I'm thinking maybe showing the Center of the Universe will not be a walk in the park.
Penny in Seguin
October 2005
Kuma got a rosette.
Kenny got 10 rosettes.
Pima la Femme Barbe'e got 11 rosettes (including the Becknell award).
Penny got...well, Penny got all the OTHER attention.
She served as a perfect example of a non-rufoused brown spotted tabby. Many people think rufoused means "red," and while it does indeed mean a reddening, it is not just red. As Libbie Kerr once explained, picture a bottle of yellow food coloring. In the bottle, in high concentration, it appears red. When diluted, it's yellow; rufousing is all those rich buttery colors and apricot and red. So Penny was more than able to hold her cool-colored self up to rufoused kitties for the comparison. She is truly one cool kitty. I mean, people asked me if she was a (tarnished) silver.
She's cool in other ways, too. We walked around the show hall and she took it all in. When I stopped talking to chat, she would get impatient with me. As I left a group to walk with her as she began to squirm, I confessed, "She's a bit spoiled."
Mark guffawed. "What? You?!? Spoil a cat? Noooo!"
Hmmm...maybe I need to try some tough love to get Kuma out of turtle mode. Maybe I do coddle them a bit. But Penny plays Airplane-Kitty, too. Zip, zip through the air, never knowing which way we'll twist her next.
Penny's a tiny bit famous now since her mom can't seem to stop writing about her, so many people were thrilled to meet the little princess they had read about. Since we'll be doing the photography for the TIFS Deer Park show (my first professional cat gig--all I've dealt with before are rock bands in California), I hired Jesse to agent our cats.
"Which cats?" he asked.
I pointed, "Kuma, Pima, and," I whipped her limp form out for dramatic effect, "Penny."
I don't know. I'm thinking maybe showing the Center of the Universe will not be a walk in the park.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Hi Ho Hi Ho
My morning puttering is done, so it's time to commute to work. Let me define those terms. Commute: The tractor is parked at my house. I drive it to the field. After work, I drive it back to my house and park it. Work: In the field, I drive the tractor around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around and around . Don't interupt; I'm channeling my inner Gertrude Stein.
Surprizingly enough, this work is exhausting, so I will post a Penny story before going to work.
Penny and the Band
October 2005
Last weekend was another adventure filled weekend for us. As usual, we were supposed to be in two places at once: the hurricane relief show in Brenham and my mom and dad's vineyard to help clear out the lost cabernet crop. Guess who won? No question. Mom comes first. The Brenham show still gets our entry fee donation, but Mom won our actual presence.
Mom has hired the local high school band to come pick her grapes every year for the past three years. Personally, I think this qualifies Mom for Mensa and sainthood! It used to take our family two days to harvest the grapes, with the help of the local monks. The high school band has it done by noon. The band likes it, too. This is how the new kids who show up pay for their uniforms. Usually, this takes place in August. Unfortunately, after promising a five year contract, Mom's new winery rejected her grapes at 21 bricks (that's sugar content) at harvest time.
(Now, just so you know, Mom's old winery--Texas Hills--did an exclusive run on their vineyard's grapes at 21 bricks, aged the vintage in oak and came up with about the best red wine I have ever tasted. I wouldn't just say that because it's my mom. Heck, I wish I could find this wine somewhere else, because I adore a good red wine, and there are less than two cases left in the world.)
But the new winery wouldn't accept the harvest (it appears that the vineyard/winery world is kind of like the cat breeder/buyer world: When they're happy, they're ecstatic, and when they're pissed, it's someone else's fault. Unfortunately, Mom was in a pick or die situation because of a fungus. She knows better than to pick bad grapes...hmmm...must be in the genes. When the
winery rejected her crop, the fungus won. So the band had to wait until October1 to harvest the mummies. Mom will eradicate the fungus this winter.
Penny. Ah yes, Penny. This is about Penny. On Friday, she had finally fulfilled her duties as queen of the day. When the first graders left, she crashed. When we got home, and I started
packing, she crashed again. She crashed in the Jeep as well, and she slept all night at Grandma & Grandpa's after our 1:00 a.m. arrival. The next morning she was ready for the band.
The band arrived in a school bus at 8:00 a.m. I found this out afterward. Spencer woke me up at 8:30. There were scattered pick-ups in the front. The bus was gone. I heard voices. I got up, got dressed, and went out to find my mom. Shortly afterward, she said to me, "You and Susan are in charge. Make sure they're working."
I don't like to be in charge, but Mom had to take care of Daddy who had a stroke 3 years ago. I immediately yelled to my little sister, "Susan, you're in charge!" (My new principal has taught me all about delegation.)
Mom was worried that work wasn't getting done because she kept seeing band members walking around the vineyard and laughing, squirting each other with water from the water bucket, etc. I went in to find Penny, and slipped on her leash/harness.
(Have I mentioned her leash training? It goes like this: Thursday night I put it on; she was trained.)
We went out to the vineyard to supervise. I set her down, and she cavorted amongst the grass, chasing butterflies and other smaller insects. We were immediately mobbed by gushing high schoolers around the water trailer. She is a kitten, still, yes indeed, a mere 11 weeks old--so tiny to them, so growing up to me. They marveled at the kitten on the leash. They wanted to hold her. I figured, heck yes, the more strangers handling her, the better. :) I also hovered like a nervous mama, ready to snatch her back. When they identified her as looking "like a leopard," I beamed.
Finally, the mob subsided, and Penny and I were able to walk up and down the rows, inspecting. She's as happy in my arm stretched out with her hand on my palm as she is walking on her own. We marched up and down many completely grape mummy denuded rows before she insisted that she wanted to play in the grass again. When we were finished, I rushed from the vineyard into the backyard.
"Susan!" I hollered to my sister who was chatting with a band mom, "We need to start cooking! They're almost done!"
It was ten in the morning, and we needed to cook lunch for the high school band. Normally, this would simply involve barbequed hot dogs, buns, condiments and sodas. But since I had to boil chicken before Hurricane Rita, and Spencer had bought 80 non-perishable tortillas before Rita, the band got a treat. Chicken fajita tacos. My job. While I was frantically changing boiled chicken into tasty fajitas, several girls came in to use the restroom and to play with Penny. Some just wanted to play with Penny, but one poor red-faced youngster locked herself in the bathroom and had to be rescued. This is a common hazard with the oldsliding door, and I assured her upon her release that we had all been there.
Lunch (or in this case, brunch) is a picnic in Mom & Dad's backyard under theshade of the ancient bodark tree. Benches, chairs and steps are available. Blankets are spread for the lounging pleasure of high schoolers at a Romanesque feast. I brought Penny back out on her leash. She again leapt over the grass, chasing grasshoppers, butterflies, her leash and nothing.
"Aunt Bobbi Jean," a voice chimed, and I turned to realize in shock that my little niece, my baby girl, Victoria, was one of those high schoolers lounging on the blanket nearest me. "Bengals come from leopards, don't they?"
Ah, I could tell by her tone that I had been called in as an authority to settle a debate. I told them, "They originated as a cross between a domestic cat and an Asian leopard cat, which is a like a very small leopard. Penny is about six generations away from the ALC."
One of her companions, a lovely young blonde lady, asked to walk Penny, then inquired, "Where can I find that toy she likes?"
Ahh...one who came inside to play with her. I relinquished the leash and went to find the Princess Penny's scepter. I handed it over with all intention of hovering, but Mom called me away to be the Official Photographer to click the handing over of the check from River Ridge Vineyard to the Blanco High School Band. I left Victoria in charge of her cousin, Penny. (Victoria is thrilled to have two cousins now: Rubah and Penny.)
In all fairness, I must mention that Rubah, Penny's best friend, was there, too. It was a windy day, so he didn't want to be outside much, but I overheard my nephew, Robert, tell a sophomore, "I'm a dog person, but I love THAT cat." He was talking, of course, about Rubah.
"I want one," the sophomore replied.
"Oh, sure," a freshman girl snipped, "got $800? Those are expensive cats"
Despite my worries, Penny was fine. In fact, she ran that blonde around in circles so much, the
girl fell over. :)
Soon afterward, the school bus drove up my parents 1/4 mile driveway and the band departed.
Surprizingly enough, this work is exhausting, so I will post a Penny story before going to work.
Penny and the Band
October 2005
Last weekend was another adventure filled weekend for us. As usual, we were supposed to be in two places at once: the hurricane relief show in Brenham and my mom and dad's vineyard to help clear out the lost cabernet crop. Guess who won? No question. Mom comes first. The Brenham show still gets our entry fee donation, but Mom won our actual presence.
Mom has hired the local high school band to come pick her grapes every year for the past three years. Personally, I think this qualifies Mom for Mensa and sainthood! It used to take our family two days to harvest the grapes, with the help of the local monks. The high school band has it done by noon. The band likes it, too. This is how the new kids who show up pay for their uniforms. Usually, this takes place in August. Unfortunately, after promising a five year contract, Mom's new winery rejected her grapes at 21 bricks (that's sugar content) at harvest time.
(Now, just so you know, Mom's old winery--Texas Hills--did an exclusive run on their vineyard's grapes at 21 bricks, aged the vintage in oak and came up with about the best red wine I have ever tasted. I wouldn't just say that because it's my mom. Heck, I wish I could find this wine somewhere else, because I adore a good red wine, and there are less than two cases left in the world.)
But the new winery wouldn't accept the harvest (it appears that the vineyard/winery world is kind of like the cat breeder/buyer world: When they're happy, they're ecstatic, and when they're pissed, it's someone else's fault. Unfortunately, Mom was in a pick or die situation because of a fungus. She knows better than to pick bad grapes...hmmm...must be in the genes. When the
winery rejected her crop, the fungus won. So the band had to wait until October1 to harvest the mummies. Mom will eradicate the fungus this winter.
Penny. Ah yes, Penny. This is about Penny. On Friday, she had finally fulfilled her duties as queen of the day. When the first graders left, she crashed. When we got home, and I started
packing, she crashed again. She crashed in the Jeep as well, and she slept all night at Grandma & Grandpa's after our 1:00 a.m. arrival. The next morning she was ready for the band.
The band arrived in a school bus at 8:00 a.m. I found this out afterward. Spencer woke me up at 8:30. There were scattered pick-ups in the front. The bus was gone. I heard voices. I got up, got dressed, and went out to find my mom. Shortly afterward, she said to me, "You and Susan are in charge. Make sure they're working."
I don't like to be in charge, but Mom had to take care of Daddy who had a stroke 3 years ago. I immediately yelled to my little sister, "Susan, you're in charge!" (My new principal has taught me all about delegation.)
Mom was worried that work wasn't getting done because she kept seeing band members walking around the vineyard and laughing, squirting each other with water from the water bucket, etc. I went in to find Penny, and slipped on her leash/harness.
(Have I mentioned her leash training? It goes like this: Thursday night I put it on; she was trained.)
We went out to the vineyard to supervise. I set her down, and she cavorted amongst the grass, chasing butterflies and other smaller insects. We were immediately mobbed by gushing high schoolers around the water trailer. She is a kitten, still, yes indeed, a mere 11 weeks old--so tiny to them, so growing up to me. They marveled at the kitten on the leash. They wanted to hold her. I figured, heck yes, the more strangers handling her, the better. :) I also hovered like a nervous mama, ready to snatch her back. When they identified her as looking "like a leopard," I beamed.
Finally, the mob subsided, and Penny and I were able to walk up and down the rows, inspecting. She's as happy in my arm stretched out with her hand on my palm as she is walking on her own. We marched up and down many completely grape mummy denuded rows before she insisted that she wanted to play in the grass again. When we were finished, I rushed from the vineyard into the backyard.
"Susan!" I hollered to my sister who was chatting with a band mom, "We need to start cooking! They're almost done!"
It was ten in the morning, and we needed to cook lunch for the high school band. Normally, this would simply involve barbequed hot dogs, buns, condiments and sodas. But since I had to boil chicken before Hurricane Rita, and Spencer had bought 80 non-perishable tortillas before Rita, the band got a treat. Chicken fajita tacos. My job. While I was frantically changing boiled chicken into tasty fajitas, several girls came in to use the restroom and to play with Penny. Some just wanted to play with Penny, but one poor red-faced youngster locked herself in the bathroom and had to be rescued. This is a common hazard with the oldsliding door, and I assured her upon her release that we had all been there.
Lunch (or in this case, brunch) is a picnic in Mom & Dad's backyard under theshade of the ancient bodark tree. Benches, chairs and steps are available. Blankets are spread for the lounging pleasure of high schoolers at a Romanesque feast. I brought Penny back out on her leash. She again leapt over the grass, chasing grasshoppers, butterflies, her leash and nothing.
"Aunt Bobbi Jean," a voice chimed, and I turned to realize in shock that my little niece, my baby girl, Victoria, was one of those high schoolers lounging on the blanket nearest me. "Bengals come from leopards, don't they?"
Ah, I could tell by her tone that I had been called in as an authority to settle a debate. I told them, "They originated as a cross between a domestic cat and an Asian leopard cat, which is a like a very small leopard. Penny is about six generations away from the ALC."
One of her companions, a lovely young blonde lady, asked to walk Penny, then inquired, "Where can I find that toy she likes?"
Ahh...one who came inside to play with her. I relinquished the leash and went to find the Princess Penny's scepter. I handed it over with all intention of hovering, but Mom called me away to be the Official Photographer to click the handing over of the check from River Ridge Vineyard to the Blanco High School Band. I left Victoria in charge of her cousin, Penny. (Victoria is thrilled to have two cousins now: Rubah and Penny.)
In all fairness, I must mention that Rubah, Penny's best friend, was there, too. It was a windy day, so he didn't want to be outside much, but I overheard my nephew, Robert, tell a sophomore, "I'm a dog person, but I love THAT cat." He was talking, of course, about Rubah.
"I want one," the sophomore replied.
"Oh, sure," a freshman girl snipped, "got $800? Those are expensive cats"
Despite my worries, Penny was fine. In fact, she ran that blonde around in circles so much, the
girl fell over. :)
Soon afterward, the school bus drove up my parents 1/4 mile driveway and the band departed. Penny immediately collapsed, and I handed her off to her grandma so Spencer and I could trek off to Ace in the Hills hardware store for plumbing supplies to hook up the outdoor sink to actual water (Mom's birthday present).
I have never seen a happier nor more replete sleeper than little miss Penny,Queen of Zackaire, on completion of her royal tour of the River Ridge Vineyard.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Queen of the Day
Finally.
Penny was scheduled for her royal stint on Thursday, September 22. Remember that? That was the day after a level 5 hurricane was aimed at Houston and our schools in Conroe were closed. In fact, when I announced the school closure to my first graders, I said, "I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"
These kids may not be so much ready for school, but they're ready for life. They chorused: "Bad news!"
"Okay, the bad news is that Penny cannot be Queen of the Day tomorrow."
Moans, groans, whines and whimpers ensued. "But why not."
"Because of the good news: no school tomorrow or Friday." We returned to school in the face of rolling blackouts last Wednesday; should we lose power, we would be having school in a stifling hot, dark building. Five of my students were absent. I chose not to bring Penny into those potential circumstances.
Many students had bought coupons for "5 minutes with Penny" with their Zackbucks at the monthly Store. We started Centers early to accommodate everyone. Penny was gracious. She played with first graders one after another in the corner behind my desk. She quickly chose her favorite toy, a rattle ball with Mylar sparkles resembling a scepter. Some students were content to kneel and play with her. Da'Quan had to train her to jump up on my chair. She had a break
while we went to lunch and recess, during which I assumed she slept. When we returned, she was ready for more play. Towards the end of Center time, she finally got bored with that corner of the room and trotted off to inspect the Legos.
We came together for the "Queen of the Day" interview and shared writing as our last classroom activity. I reminded them that they might want to think of different questions than they ask each other.
"How will she answer us?" Dalynne inquired.
"She'll tell me, and I'll translate."
"Nooo, Ms. Pratt!" she protested. "Animals only talk in stories."
Silly me. "Okay, then, how about I just answer because I'm her mom, and I know her?"
That was okay. It turned out to be a good plan, too, because shortly after batting her crown to the floor, Penny jumped off of my lap and discovered the beanbags and critter pillows under the table by us. She kneaded away at the frog as if to nurse with aplomb, then curled up and instantly fell into a deep queenly sleep.
Some of the questions were too silly to answer: "What's her favorite color?"
"Next question, please."
"What's her favorite ice cream?" Jessica asked.
"She has never had ice cream."
"Did you bake her a cake for her birthday?" Joyce wanted to know.
"That birthday was the day she was born. She hasn't had another birthday yet."
"How many people are in her family?" Michael inquired.
"Lots."
Some of the other questions resulted in Penny's paragraph which is now posted outside my classroom with everyone else's along with their pictures.
"Penny's birthday is July 15th. She likes to go for a walk on her leash in the evenings. Penny likes to sleep in Mrs. Pratt's arms. Her favorite food is chicken."
Penny was pleased with her reign at school, and she looks forward to her return when EVERYONE in the class keeps their clips on green all day long for enough days to spell "P-E-N-N-Y." The first graders cheered madly when they heard about that!
Friday, April 23, 2010
Rambling on Perspective
September 2005
I'm not sure if it engendered my love of photography or anthropology or both, but I have always been fascinated with perspective. I sometimes think that humanity's greatest failing--original sin, if you will--is refusal to see from another's perspective. In the largest sense, many people see as The Greatest Evil what many others view as Great Righteousness. Then we get wars and all that crap. But daily conflicts are also often about empathy for perspective.
This weekend brought me some jolts that gathered this fascination back into the foremost of my mind. On Wednesday night, when we were still expecting a Category 5 hurricane (which looked more like a non-existent 6 to me), I wrote:
"Da'Quan is one of my first grade students. He is a precious child who is cruel not out of malicious intent but out of what he has learned. I love Da'Quan with all my heart. I am thinking of all my kids. Oh my goodness. Where will they go??? Tomorrow, Penny was supposed to be the Queen of the Day in our class. These kids have been looking forward to this for weeks. These kids learned to subtract because they knew how many days/kings/queens there were until Penny would return to school.
And then there is Da'Quan. He cares only about pit bulls. And Penny. At home, he has grown up amongst the fighting dogs and the fighting children. That's what he knows. It's a home where he saw his mother shot and murdered. It's a home where pit bull means just that. But he ran his finger so sweetly on Penny's head as he cradled her in his arms. He loved the little kitten. And he has been leaning against me lately, craving love, wanting to know when Penny will come back. I see so much potential in this child. If I could just teach him to read, he could be a great writer, because already at 7 years old, he is filled with stories to tell.
I pray that we will all come back on Monday. I pray that all my babies will make it through the storm. I pray that I can run my hand over DaQuan's head again."
We won't make it back to school today. Our schools are closed until Wednesday. It surely seems more of a holiday than last Thursday and Friday as we all prepared for disaster that never struck, but I have to also keep in mind that this means some of our schools were hurt, likely mine, and therefore the homes of my students. So many of them live in mobile homes and hundred year old shacks. We were JUST east of the hurricane line; they were likely within it.
I was just commenting to Mark that I was disappointed in my experience of my first hurricane. We were sooo prepared for that big storm, and we had only 1/4 inch of rain (we needed more desperately) and winds that reminded me of California's milder Santa Ana winds. I must confess that Spencer and I are both thunderstorm groupies. We love a big storm. If we were younger (and stupider), we would have headed for the eye. (A mere 6 years ago, I was leading him up a canyon in a thunderstorm to photograph flash flooding when our budding elderly
wisdom took hold and we turned back.) So, my category 5 turned into someone else's category 3, and in my selfish humanity, a very small but vital part of me felt gypped.
Then I read DeLynne's e-mail on the TICA list. She just returned to her condo which was devastated in Katrina a few days ago to start cleaning it out. While we were taping windows and sawing tree limbs over the house, she was wading through gunk to clean out her home. While I sit here in my own petty misery due to a sinus infection from mold spores blown in through the open windows when we were without power, DeLynne is suffering from pneumonia because of the mold. While I clean the debris in my yard and move everything back into place, DeLynne is cleaning goop and mold and gunk from her belongings, many of which are destroyed.
And so my perspective had to shift from disappointment to gratitude.
I am thankful that on this hottest day of the year, we have power and air-conditioning. I am grateful that even if we lacked power, the fur-kids and I could hang out in the boys' kennels where the misters would cool the 115 degree heat index by 10 to 20 degrees. I am thankful that we have water for the misters.
I am grateful that I have this time off from school to give in to my sinus infection, take meds and sleep, and have time to piddle around cleaning things up. I am thankful that we did not have to evacuate because three of our cats never would have made the trip. I am thankful that I had ALL of my cats inside with us for the storm and that the kennels were tied down so well that the boys had a place to return to yesterday evening--even the garage boys. (Our kennels are on raised decking--it's a jungle thing.) I am grateful that we were so prepared that some corollary of Murphy's Law was in effect. I am thankful that our dear friends Sharron and Tom were able to help friends from Orange and Beaumont in their evacuation.
But most of all, I am grateful that all of our friends and family still have their lives, and that no more lives were lost to Rita. I am thankful for Spencer, the furbabies and human babies that give me purpose and comfort in the best and worst of times.
I'm not sure if it engendered my love of photography or anthropology or both, but I have always been fascinated with perspective. I sometimes think that humanity's greatest failing--original sin, if you will--is refusal to see from another's perspective. In the largest sense, many people see as The Greatest Evil what many others view as Great Righteousness. Then we get wars and all that crap. But daily conflicts are also often about empathy for perspective.
This weekend brought me some jolts that gathered this fascination back into the foremost of my mind. On Wednesday night, when we were still expecting a Category 5 hurricane (which looked more like a non-existent 6 to me), I wrote:
"Da'Quan is one of my first grade students. He is a precious child who is cruel not out of malicious intent but out of what he has learned. I love Da'Quan with all my heart. I am thinking of all my kids. Oh my goodness. Where will they go??? Tomorrow, Penny was supposed to be the Queen of the Day in our class. These kids have been looking forward to this for weeks. These kids learned to subtract because they knew how many days/kings/queens there were until Penny would return to school.
And then there is Da'Quan. He cares only about pit bulls. And Penny. At home, he has grown up amongst the fighting dogs and the fighting children. That's what he knows. It's a home where he saw his mother shot and murdered. It's a home where pit bull means just that. But he ran his finger so sweetly on Penny's head as he cradled her in his arms. He loved the little kitten. And he has been leaning against me lately, craving love, wanting to know when Penny will come back. I see so much potential in this child. If I could just teach him to read, he could be a great writer, because already at 7 years old, he is filled with stories to tell.
I pray that we will all come back on Monday. I pray that all my babies will make it through the storm. I pray that I can run my hand over DaQuan's head again."
We won't make it back to school today. Our schools are closed until Wednesday. It surely seems more of a holiday than last Thursday and Friday as we all prepared for disaster that never struck, but I have to also keep in mind that this means some of our schools were hurt, likely mine, and therefore the homes of my students. So many of them live in mobile homes and hundred year old shacks. We were JUST east of the hurricane line; they were likely within it.
I was just commenting to Mark that I was disappointed in my experience of my first hurricane. We were sooo prepared for that big storm, and we had only 1/4 inch of rain (we needed more desperately) and winds that reminded me of California's milder Santa Ana winds. I must confess that Spencer and I are both thunderstorm groupies. We love a big storm. If we were younger (and stupider), we would have headed for the eye. (A mere 6 years ago, I was leading him up a canyon in a thunderstorm to photograph flash flooding when our budding elderly
wisdom took hold and we turned back.) So, my category 5 turned into someone else's category 3, and in my selfish humanity, a very small but vital part of me felt gypped.
Then I read DeLynne's e-mail on the TICA list. She just returned to her condo which was devastated in Katrina a few days ago to start cleaning it out. While we were taping windows and sawing tree limbs over the house, she was wading through gunk to clean out her home. While I sit here in my own petty misery due to a sinus infection from mold spores blown in through the open windows when we were without power, DeLynne is suffering from pneumonia because of the mold. While I clean the debris in my yard and move everything back into place, DeLynne is cleaning goop and mold and gunk from her belongings, many of which are destroyed.
And so my perspective had to shift from disappointment to gratitude.
I am thankful that on this hottest day of the year, we have power and air-conditioning. I am grateful that even if we lacked power, the fur-kids and I could hang out in the boys' kennels where the misters would cool the 115 degree heat index by 10 to 20 degrees. I am thankful that we have water for the misters.
I am grateful that I have this time off from school to give in to my sinus infection, take meds and sleep, and have time to piddle around cleaning things up. I am thankful that we did not have to evacuate because three of our cats never would have made the trip. I am thankful that I had ALL of my cats inside with us for the storm and that the kennels were tied down so well that the boys had a place to return to yesterday evening--even the garage boys. (Our kennels are on raised decking--it's a jungle thing.) I am grateful that we were so prepared that some corollary of Murphy's Law was in effect. I am thankful that our dear friends Sharron and Tom were able to help friends from Orange and Beaumont in their evacuation.
But most of all, I am grateful that all of our friends and family still have their lives, and that no more lives were lost to Rita. I am thankful for Spencer, the furbabies and human babies that give me purpose and comfort in the best and worst of times.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Joy in The Evening
A Penny Story
September 2005
Teaching is a demanding profession. Either one is exhausted mentally, physically or both by the end of the day. A moment of quiet is a precious thing. I do love teaching; these are my kids--the only human kids I'll ever have. (Now, that reminds me of another story: When he was three, my nephew was wise enough to ask me: "Aunt Bobbi Jean, do you have any people sons?" I guess he was anxious for a non-cat, not-rat cousin to play with.)
Anyway, I so look forward to coming home in the evening. No matter how many litter boxes there are to clean, how many objects on the floor to replace, how many cats to feed or catfood to make, I still crave the peace that a hug from a kitten can bring. There is no greater joy than being met at the door by that sinuous sea of intertwining spots and swirls or handling newborn kittens.
I just called, "Penny! Penny, Penny, Penny!" in my sing-song call, and here she came, bounding in ferret leaps from another room to be scooped up and loved. Now she is off on another kitten adventure, but for that moment, my heart was elated.
Akashi has delivered another litter of gorgeous Marbleous kittens. I swear Akashi is the best mom on the planet. My heart swells as I watch her with her babies and watch her watch me with her babies as I weigh and love each one.
I am so blessed to come home to my Bengals for these moments of peace. And then Spencer gets home, too. :)
What a wonderful life!
I wish everyone as much love and joy as I have here, and we welcome our friends who are already being evacuated because of Rita into our household of furry love.
September 2005
Teaching is a demanding profession. Either one is exhausted mentally, physically or both by the end of the day. A moment of quiet is a precious thing. I do love teaching; these are my kids--the only human kids I'll ever have. (Now, that reminds me of another story: When he was three, my nephew was wise enough to ask me: "Aunt Bobbi Jean, do you have any people sons?" I guess he was anxious for a non-cat, not-rat cousin to play with.)
Anyway, I so look forward to coming home in the evening. No matter how many litter boxes there are to clean, how many objects on the floor to replace, how many cats to feed or catfood to make, I still crave the peace that a hug from a kitten can bring. There is no greater joy than being met at the door by that sinuous sea of intertwining spots and swirls or handling newborn kittens.
I just called, "Penny! Penny, Penny, Penny!" in my sing-song call, and here she came, bounding in ferret leaps from another room to be scooped up and loved. Now she is off on another kitten adventure, but for that moment, my heart was elated.
Akashi has delivered another litter of gorgeous Marbleous kittens. I swear Akashi is the best mom on the planet. My heart swells as I watch her with her babies and watch her watch me with her babies as I weigh and love each one.
I am so blessed to come home to my Bengals for these moments of peace. And then Spencer gets home, too. :)
What a wonderful life!
I wish everyone as much love and joy as I have here, and we welcome our friends who are already being evacuated because of Rita into our household of furry love.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Houston Saga
I was still a bit fuzzy headed when I went to Joe’s ring to whisper to the clerk that my cat wasn’t ready for the ring. I thought maybe I would be able to slink back to my kitties, regroup and get them ready. No. Nope. Not going to happen.
My dear Bengal friends had to rag on me. I think it was Mark who started it, but my hand had given me a concussion, so I’m not really clear on the details at that point.
“I have to ask,” he said with that wicked Mark grin, “How?”
How indeed. I was compelled to demonstrate. “I was reaching for my i-Phone…”
In the first place, I really, really did not want to get out of bed that morning. So I didn’t. (*raspberry) Oak season has begun. I felt like crap and still had a ton of stuff to do to get to the show. I stayed in bed and thought about all the excuses I could come up with for not going. Next time, my excuse will be: “Remember what happened last time.”
It’s not that I didn’t want to be at the show. I wanted to be at the show. I’d been looking forward to it for months. I just didn’t want to do what it took to get there. Like get out of bed.
Finally, I got up. I was at that point running an hour late from my 1:30 arrival goal to set up the kissing booth and everything. The Booman’s kissing booth was already in the back of my nephew’s 15 year old F-150. The night before, I had a half hour lecture on how to treat his truck (they are the same age). I was trading my Jeep for the truck. He asked if I had any instructions for him. “Love of my life before Uncle Spencer. Don’t break it.” (Ohhh…I appreciate my little Jeep soo much now!)
I got everything packed, including Spudly, and went to find the Booman. He had been helping me pack, crawling all over the back of the truck, until the moment I needed to put him in that box. He knew. He hates the box.
So I got on the road with an estimated arrival time of 2:50. And you know what? I made it. No. Really. I did. I got off the freeway at the appropriate time and was following the Westin Galleria’s directions and was going to be there almost in time. The directions sucked. I was running out of fuel in this diesel truck the same age as my nephew. Spencer called me. I was trying to pay attention to the directions and talk to him. I do not talk on the phone and drive at the same time, except when I have to. I told him I had to drive and we hung up. After I’d followed the Westin Galleria’s directions and wound up at the gym by Spec’s, I called him back to tell him I was lost. We had an unproductive conversation full of confusion. “What?” I would say. “I’m nowhere near there. That was five minutes ago.” I was becoming frustrated. Becoming? Hmmm. I do have a long fuse, but watch out when I blow.
I finally found my way to the hotel and passed it. No way I was going to pull up to the hotel valet in a 15 year old mud covered truck sporting a bumper sticker that said “Support Beef: Run Over a Chicken.” I was circling around the block to return to the parking garage when I ran out of fuel at a stop light. The tears welled up. Oh great. Oh crap.
There I sat at a major intersection in the Houston Galleria area with no way to move. Out of fuel.
We are saved at the moment we need it most. I saw the front/rear switch, remembered there were two tanks and flipped it. Several tries later, just after the light turned green, the engine started. Woohoo! I was on Westheimer, so I just had to turn back onto Sage and circle back to Alabama and the hotel. I decided to call Spencer and tell him that I still hate Houston.
That was the karma catalyst, I’m sure.
The phone was not in my bag. After it had fallen behind the seat earlier in the day, and I’d retrieved it, I’d been sure to put it in my bag. After the last frustrated call, I guess I didn’t. So, sitting at the corner of Westheimer and Sage waiting on the left hand turn signal, I reached for my phone. That’s normally no big deal. There is a good gap between the seat and the back in this bench seat. A nice hole in the conjunction that accommodates the largest hand.
I couldn’t feel the phone. Lots of empty pop bottles. No phone. I reached farther back and thought I felt it. I stretched a bit more. No phone. So I pulled back. Well, make that I tried to pull back. I could not move my wrist. The light was still red. I took a breath and pulled harder. No movement; just pain.
“Oh shit! Oh crap!” The tears spilled. Only I could do this. I knew I had to get my hand out of there before it swelled and there was no way to retrieve it. I pulled again. I had flashbacks to being stuck under the sliding glass door poised like a guillotine on my neck. This was not fun, either.
The signal changed. I had to drive. So I did. One hand on the steering wheel and one twisted behind me. I saw buildings and a parking lot on the right and thought, “I need to park and get it out before it swells so much it never will.” I also thought about going to the Westin, but if I wasn’t going to pull in just because of the truck, you can bet there was no way in hell I was going to the valets with my hand stuck in the seat. So I pulled into a parking lot and parked in the middle. I reached for the seat middle console thingy to put it down so I could ease my hand out, but just reaching for it caused excruciating pain. I tried to reach for my seat belt: same result. I tried everything I could think of to no good end.
By this time, I was doing the hysterics thing. I started honking the horn and yelling. People looked. No one came to help.
Hmmm. What a surprise. A hysterical woman in an old pick-up truck screaming and honking in the middle of Houston’s Galleria area. Yeah. I’d run right up and help. Wouldn’t you? No. Scary.
Around this time, I realized that if I didn’t get my hand out soon, I’d lose it. My hand. I knew there was no circulation and just like frostbite, I could lose it. Faster than frostbite, maybe. Heck of a lot faster.
I saw cars parked closer to the buildings and decided to seek help there. I drove around the parking lot and saw an unfortunate woman getting into her SUV. I stopped behind her so she couldn’t move her vehicle and pleaded “Can you help me please?”
I saw her mind: you didn’t have to be psychic for that. Crazy woman in an old truck asking for money.
“Please,” I pleaded. “My hand is stuck.” (Say all that while having an asthma attack; I dare you!) I had to repeat several times.
I watched her think about it. “I can go get someone to help you,” she said, and she went back into the spa she’d come out of. So much for her relaxation. A lady in a white coat and a Middle Eastern gentleman came out to see what was going on. They tried to help. She tried. I pulled into several parking spaces so the nice lady who got me some help could leave. I think she needs a new spa treatment soon.
The spa lady in the white coat set Boo’s carrier on the ground, but she could not get my arm out. The gentleman called the fire department. I looked at his phone and thought about Spencer.
“Could you call my husband?” I asked. “He’s at the Westin.”
So Spencer and all the folks who were waiting to give me directions to the hotel I could see if I would just pick up my phone found out that I was stuck. Not as in ran out of gas, but really and truly stuck. I don’t know what I told him, but Spencer jogged over to me.
In the mean time, the fire department showed up. You have no idea what a relief it is to hear sirens until you know they are coming to save you.
I thought they were very friendly, grinning from ear to ear. The Captain rode along and spoke to me. Such sweet firemen. Not as serious as the Conroe crew who freed me from the sliding glass door. Very jovial, this crew. They did manage to get my dented arm free without dismantling my nephew’s truck by doing what I thought of trying in the first place but was too stuck to do.
The Captain, still grinning, asked, “Is there anything else we can do for you, Ma’am?”
What is a person supposed to say to that? “Pose for my personal calendar?”
“Thank you, no,” I mumbled. “Don’t I get a bill?” (I got a big bill for the head through the sliding glass door.)
“No,” he grinned. “No charge.”
Considering everything they have to deal with, I’m thinking now that I was quite the treat. So about the time they were leaving, Spencer jogged up. I handed him the keys. We made it, just missing two rings in the end. No biggie. We made it. And I can type.
So I thought that was the end of the fun.
No. My name is Bobbi Jean Fickle, and I am here to make you laugh. My cats even cooperate.
Got my kitties together, got myself somewhat together, and later we wound up in Ring Five with John who claimed that at his age “nothing flames.” Hmmm. Nothing except my cat. I could not believe it. He was licking himself. Well, cats do that. What cats normally do not share with people is an ejaculation. I hid my face. OMG. My cat masturbated to fruition in a show ring. Did anyone see it? Yep. Everyone except Mark and the judge.
There was a videographer in the hall at that ring. His camera was not on. He said, “Thank goodness. We don’t want any kitty porn.” And his friends said, “What are you talking about? America’s Funniest Animals.” He came to our next ring and set his camera on the tripod aiming at my cat.
Someone told him, “You should come get this cat over here; it’s really cute.”
“No,” he said, “I’m doing 208.”
I told him, “He’s already had his cigarette.” Sure enough, no repeat on film.
The next day when I wondered why everyone was watching my cat, Janet said, “It was hard to miss. We thought he was having a seizure.”
And then Spudster did it again. Same ring, same cage. In the next ring, we were laughing, and Sharron said, “What happens in ring five stays in ring five.” Apparently not. Harley said, “Oh yeah, I heard about that at dinner last night.”
Oh Sunday, he was in the same ring, same cage. I’m not sure if anyone paid much attention to the judge’s table.
My dear Bengal friends had to rag on me. I think it was Mark who started it, but my hand had given me a concussion, so I’m not really clear on the details at that point.
“I have to ask,” he said with that wicked Mark grin, “How?”
How indeed. I was compelled to demonstrate. “I was reaching for my i-Phone…”
In the first place, I really, really did not want to get out of bed that morning. So I didn’t. (*raspberry) Oak season has begun. I felt like crap and still had a ton of stuff to do to get to the show. I stayed in bed and thought about all the excuses I could come up with for not going. Next time, my excuse will be: “Remember what happened last time.”
It’s not that I didn’t want to be at the show. I wanted to be at the show. I’d been looking forward to it for months. I just didn’t want to do what it took to get there. Like get out of bed.
Finally, I got up. I was at that point running an hour late from my 1:30 arrival goal to set up the kissing booth and everything. The Booman’s kissing booth was already in the back of my nephew’s 15 year old F-150. The night before, I had a half hour lecture on how to treat his truck (they are the same age). I was trading my Jeep for the truck. He asked if I had any instructions for him. “Love of my life before Uncle Spencer. Don’t break it.” (Ohhh…I appreciate my little Jeep soo much now!)
I got everything packed, including Spudly, and went to find the Booman. He had been helping me pack, crawling all over the back of the truck, until the moment I needed to put him in that box. He knew. He hates the box.
So I got on the road with an estimated arrival time of 2:50. And you know what? I made it. No. Really. I did. I got off the freeway at the appropriate time and was following the Westin Galleria’s directions and was going to be there almost in time. The directions sucked. I was running out of fuel in this diesel truck the same age as my nephew. Spencer called me. I was trying to pay attention to the directions and talk to him. I do not talk on the phone and drive at the same time, except when I have to. I told him I had to drive and we hung up. After I’d followed the Westin Galleria’s directions and wound up at the gym by Spec’s, I called him back to tell him I was lost. We had an unproductive conversation full of confusion. “What?” I would say. “I’m nowhere near there. That was five minutes ago.” I was becoming frustrated. Becoming? Hmmm. I do have a long fuse, but watch out when I blow.
I finally found my way to the hotel and passed it. No way I was going to pull up to the hotel valet in a 15 year old mud covered truck sporting a bumper sticker that said “Support Beef: Run Over a Chicken.” I was circling around the block to return to the parking garage when I ran out of fuel at a stop light. The tears welled up. Oh great. Oh crap.
There I sat at a major intersection in the Houston Galleria area with no way to move. Out of fuel.
We are saved at the moment we need it most. I saw the front/rear switch, remembered there were two tanks and flipped it. Several tries later, just after the light turned green, the engine started. Woohoo! I was on Westheimer, so I just had to turn back onto Sage and circle back to Alabama and the hotel. I decided to call Spencer and tell him that I still hate Houston.
That was the karma catalyst, I’m sure.
The phone was not in my bag. After it had fallen behind the seat earlier in the day, and I’d retrieved it, I’d been sure to put it in my bag. After the last frustrated call, I guess I didn’t. So, sitting at the corner of Westheimer and Sage waiting on the left hand turn signal, I reached for my phone. That’s normally no big deal. There is a good gap between the seat and the back in this bench seat. A nice hole in the conjunction that accommodates the largest hand.
I couldn’t feel the phone. Lots of empty pop bottles. No phone. I reached farther back and thought I felt it. I stretched a bit more. No phone. So I pulled back. Well, make that I tried to pull back. I could not move my wrist. The light was still red. I took a breath and pulled harder. No movement; just pain.
“Oh shit! Oh crap!” The tears spilled. Only I could do this. I knew I had to get my hand out of there before it swelled and there was no way to retrieve it. I pulled again. I had flashbacks to being stuck under the sliding glass door poised like a guillotine on my neck. This was not fun, either.
The signal changed. I had to drive. So I did. One hand on the steering wheel and one twisted behind me. I saw buildings and a parking lot on the right and thought, “I need to park and get it out before it swells so much it never will.” I also thought about going to the Westin, but if I wasn’t going to pull in just because of the truck, you can bet there was no way in hell I was going to the valets with my hand stuck in the seat. So I pulled into a parking lot and parked in the middle. I reached for the seat middle console thingy to put it down so I could ease my hand out, but just reaching for it caused excruciating pain. I tried to reach for my seat belt: same result. I tried everything I could think of to no good end.
By this time, I was doing the hysterics thing. I started honking the horn and yelling. People looked. No one came to help.
Hmmm. What a surprise. A hysterical woman in an old pick-up truck screaming and honking in the middle of Houston’s Galleria area. Yeah. I’d run right up and help. Wouldn’t you? No. Scary.
Around this time, I realized that if I didn’t get my hand out soon, I’d lose it. My hand. I knew there was no circulation and just like frostbite, I could lose it. Faster than frostbite, maybe. Heck of a lot faster.
I saw cars parked closer to the buildings and decided to seek help there. I drove around the parking lot and saw an unfortunate woman getting into her SUV. I stopped behind her so she couldn’t move her vehicle and pleaded “Can you help me please?”
I saw her mind: you didn’t have to be psychic for that. Crazy woman in an old truck asking for money.
“Please,” I pleaded. “My hand is stuck.” (Say all that while having an asthma attack; I dare you!) I had to repeat several times.
I watched her think about it. “I can go get someone to help you,” she said, and she went back into the spa she’d come out of. So much for her relaxation. A lady in a white coat and a Middle Eastern gentleman came out to see what was going on. They tried to help. She tried. I pulled into several parking spaces so the nice lady who got me some help could leave. I think she needs a new spa treatment soon.
The spa lady in the white coat set Boo’s carrier on the ground, but she could not get my arm out. The gentleman called the fire department. I looked at his phone and thought about Spencer.
“Could you call my husband?” I asked. “He’s at the Westin.”
So Spencer and all the folks who were waiting to give me directions to the hotel I could see if I would just pick up my phone found out that I was stuck. Not as in ran out of gas, but really and truly stuck. I don’t know what I told him, but Spencer jogged over to me.
In the mean time, the fire department showed up. You have no idea what a relief it is to hear sirens until you know they are coming to save you.
I thought they were very friendly, grinning from ear to ear. The Captain rode along and spoke to me. Such sweet firemen. Not as serious as the Conroe crew who freed me from the sliding glass door. Very jovial, this crew. They did manage to get my dented arm free without dismantling my nephew’s truck by doing what I thought of trying in the first place but was too stuck to do.
The Captain, still grinning, asked, “Is there anything else we can do for you, Ma’am?”
What is a person supposed to say to that? “Pose for my personal calendar?”
“Thank you, no,” I mumbled. “Don’t I get a bill?” (I got a big bill for the head through the sliding glass door.)
“No,” he grinned. “No charge.”
Considering everything they have to deal with, I’m thinking now that I was quite the treat. So about the time they were leaving, Spencer jogged up. I handed him the keys. We made it, just missing two rings in the end. No biggie. We made it. And I can type.
So I thought that was the end of the fun.
No. My name is Bobbi Jean Fickle, and I am here to make you laugh. My cats even cooperate.
Got my kitties together, got myself somewhat together, and later we wound up in Ring Five with John who claimed that at his age “nothing flames.” Hmmm. Nothing except my cat. I could not believe it. He was licking himself. Well, cats do that. What cats normally do not share with people is an ejaculation. I hid my face. OMG. My cat masturbated to fruition in a show ring. Did anyone see it? Yep. Everyone except Mark and the judge.
There was a videographer in the hall at that ring. His camera was not on. He said, “Thank goodness. We don’t want any kitty porn.” And his friends said, “What are you talking about? America’s Funniest Animals.” He came to our next ring and set his camera on the tripod aiming at my cat.
Someone told him, “You should come get this cat over here; it’s really cute.”
“No,” he said, “I’m doing 208.”
I told him, “He’s already had his cigarette.” Sure enough, no repeat on film.
The next day when I wondered why everyone was watching my cat, Janet said, “It was hard to miss. We thought he was having a seizure.”
And then Spudster did it again. Same ring, same cage. In the next ring, we were laughing, and Sharron said, “What happens in ring five stays in ring five.” Apparently not. Harley said, “Oh yeah, I heard about that at dinner last night.”
Oh Sunday, he was in the same ring, same cage. I’m not sure if anyone paid much attention to the judge’s table.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Happy Birthday Bye Bye
Don't panic. I'm not going anywhere. That's how Daddy sings "Happy Birthday" since his stroke. My day started with a bit of kitten time and a flood of well-wishes on Facebook. Mom and Dad sang "Happy Birthday" when I got to their house. The family had brunch at the Uptown Blanco Restaurant. I took a nap. Susan, Robert, Victoria and Patrick all helped me clear room to set up my photo table. We went back to Mom & Dad's to barbeque. A mellow day.
So whose birthday is this? Mine. At some point the mellow has to end. Mom would prefer I don't tell the world her furniture is falling apart. Hmmm. It's not shoddy furniture. It's 80 years old.
I was scooting my chair closer to the table and suddenly found myself on the ground, a human question mark wedged between the now vertical chair seat and the wall with a broken chair around me. My family swarmed around me crying, "Are you okay?" What's a girl to do when you are lying there like that with your head at a dangerous angle?
I started singing. "Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me."
We laughed, and I slowly rolled to the right and uncurled myself. My sister was beside me. "But are you okay?" she insisted.
I looked up and whispered, "I have to change my pants." Then I instructed the rest with a circular wave of my hand to turn around so I could stand and make a graceful exit out the sliding glass door. My sister followed me and asked again, "Are you hurt?"
"I don't know. Is my back bleeding?" She lifted my shirt to check. Some scratches and a big purple bruise already. On the walk between houses, little aches started chiming in: my ankle, my elbow, my neck.
We returned to the parents' house to see that the chair had been cleaned up and replaced with a nice safe folding aluminum chair. They had found a loose screw in the antique. Chuckles and comments popped in sporadically throughout dinner whenever someone's chair creaked. Time for new glue all around.
Susan reminded me to make a wish when I cut the cake. I paused with the knife hovering over the cake. "Oh, yeah a wish. I forgot all about the wish thing with the candles." I gave it a few moments' thought and shrugged, "Whatever." They laughed. "That was my wish: whatever."
Susan wished for me, "Please let me be able to move tomorrow."
During cake, the family had me recount the Houston saga for Patrick. When we all finally sat back, replete with laughter and wiping the last tears away, Robert said, "Thank you for being here, Aunt Bobbi Jean. It would be so boring without you!"
The Penny stories will return on another day. I'm enjoying my last ever champagne and calling it a night.
So whose birthday is this? Mine. At some point the mellow has to end. Mom would prefer I don't tell the world her furniture is falling apart. Hmmm. It's not shoddy furniture. It's 80 years old.
I was scooting my chair closer to the table and suddenly found myself on the ground, a human question mark wedged between the now vertical chair seat and the wall with a broken chair around me. My family swarmed around me crying, "Are you okay?" What's a girl to do when you are lying there like that with your head at a dangerous angle?
I started singing. "Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me."
We laughed, and I slowly rolled to the right and uncurled myself. My sister was beside me. "But are you okay?" she insisted.
I looked up and whispered, "I have to change my pants." Then I instructed the rest with a circular wave of my hand to turn around so I could stand and make a graceful exit out the sliding glass door. My sister followed me and asked again, "Are you hurt?"
"I don't know. Is my back bleeding?" She lifted my shirt to check. Some scratches and a big purple bruise already. On the walk between houses, little aches started chiming in: my ankle, my elbow, my neck.
We returned to the parents' house to see that the chair had been cleaned up and replaced with a nice safe folding aluminum chair. They had found a loose screw in the antique. Chuckles and comments popped in sporadically throughout dinner whenever someone's chair creaked. Time for new glue all around.
Susan reminded me to make a wish when I cut the cake. I paused with the knife hovering over the cake. "Oh, yeah a wish. I forgot all about the wish thing with the candles." I gave it a few moments' thought and shrugged, "Whatever." They laughed. "That was my wish: whatever."
Susan wished for me, "Please let me be able to move tomorrow."
During cake, the family had me recount the Houston saga for Patrick. When we all finally sat back, replete with laughter and wiping the last tears away, Robert said, "Thank you for being here, Aunt Bobbi Jean. It would be so boring without you!"
The Penny stories will return on another day. I'm enjoying my last ever champagne and calling it a night.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The Best Part of the Day
Clare Bear, Bella and Liffey play Queen of the Mountain during an attempt to get pics for the website. I really need to set up my photo studio! Susan and Robert said they would help for my birthday tomorrow (as long as no nannies needed help birthing).
On the ranch, we had more rain. Well, it rained all over the Hill Country, not just on our ranch. No tractor work for me. Bummer. On the brighter side of things, Dad took a shower! It's difficult to get him to stay up that long anymore. He just wants us to get him up and change his shirt. But this shower today is guaranteed to make Mom happy for two days.
Penny and the First Graders
August 2005
For a week and a half, my life has been a teacher's nightmare.
No, really.
You know--waking up in night sweats and all, only it's real life, and the blood pressure medicine just isn't working.
It's right up there with missing one or more article of clothing on the first day or being at the wrong school or having high school students when you were expecting kindergartners or being at the California Anderson while Spencer is in Texas and somehow we didn't get married (okay, maybe I'm the only one who has that nightmare).
All teachers have these nightmares. We just don't have to have them in real life. Usually. The day before school started, my principal called me into her office to tell me that since she had overbooked 4th grade teachers by placing the math coach in 4th grade at the end of the year, one of us had to go, and that one was me--the last non-bilingual 4th grade teacher hired by our school district. (I was excommunicated from the bilingual faculty last year when our district did away with ESL services, but that's another story.) I still have a hard time NOT taking this personally. For three days I was no longer a "teacher of record" but merely an "extra unit"on our campus as our administrators begged central office to keep me at our school. First grade was crowded, so we all prayed for more first graders.
On Friday, at 11:30, I became a first grade teacher in anticipation of a class. My absolute angel of a husband, Spencer, came to school for the second Saturday in a row to set up my computers, this time in my new room first grade room. He also lowered 16 desks from 4th grade height to first grade height since the district moving crew thought that was easier (for them). The letters went home to parents about their first graders switching classes on Monday.
The first concerned phone call came at 3:42 on Monday afternoon. By Tuesday morning, there were two refusals and lots of tears. It doesn't take long for six year olds to fall in love with their teachers.
The first concerned phone call came at 3:42 on Monday afternoon. By Tuesday morning, there were two refusals and lots of tears. It doesn't take long for six year olds to fall in love with their teachers.
Naturally, I called in the heavy artillery in the form of six week old Penny. After lunch, we visited the 3 very crowded first grade classes from which my students had been chosen. Miss L's class was first. They sat in a wobbly elliptical shape that first grade teachers refer to as a "circle" and asked questions about my cats as Penny was passed gingerly from person to person. Penny was a perfect angel. When she was handed back to me, though, she promptly chomped on my cheek. Hard.
We went on to Mrs. G's more structured setting to show Penny to the students sitting quietly in their seats. A few students got to come up and pet Penny, but since I could not navigate through the maze of desks, computers, pond and supplies, it was mostly my own kids who had already been shuffled off to the side.
Then Penny and I entered Disneyland, otherwise known as Ms. G's class. Most parent complaints had come from my very good friend's class. For five years, I tried to get her to decorate my fourth grade classroom to no avail. Currently it's a Curious George/Beach Party theme in there. Palm trees at every table, beach chairs, a tub full of pillows. I just knew that the new Cosmic Blue paint on my bookshelves was nothing compared to Ms. G's classroom.
Penny did the trick, though. Ms. G has one of my "special" Bengals at home--Anakin who is blind in one eye due to a vet (not mine) pealing his cornea off while he was under the care of another breeder. Carla loves our Bengals and knows what awesome cats they are. Her class asked questions, and then one by one came up to gently stroke Penny on the head with one finger.
Penny did the trick, though. Ms. G has one of my "special" Bengals at home--Anakin who is blind in one eye due to a vet (not mine) pealing his cornea off while he was under the care of another breeder. Carla loves our Bengals and knows what awesome cats they are. Her class asked questions, and then one by one came up to gently stroke Penny on the head with one finger.
Penny and I returned to my new room. I went to work setting things up while she romped around in typical Bengal kitten fashion...Halloweening at nothing, scampering, stalking and pouncing on a paperclip...
My principal (new last year--we're still getting to know her, but do know she's pretty rigid in many ways) came to talk to me. My heart rate increased."It's not about you as a teacher," she blurted out, "but there have been parent phone calls about the students crying, and..." Penny darted out from under a cabinet to pounce on her shoes and sniff her feet. Mrs. P jumped back and screamed. I guess someone might think Penny were a rat by her color and ferret-like movements.
"It's okay," I reassured her. "Penny and I took care of it. We visited all the first graders, and they ALL want to be in my class now."
Mrs. P left my room and went straight to Ms. G's room.
"Have your kids met the kitten?" she asked.
"Yes."
Mrs. P called the kids out one by one to ask them if they were excited about moving to my class. "Oh, yes!" was the unanimous response.
"Well," she said, "tell your parents."
The first thing my mom taught me about teaching is that it is easier to get forgiveness than permission. I never asked to be able to bring Penny to school, but she has been there since the teacher's first day back. Penny LOVES school. She gets oodles of attention. She bounces around the room and scurries up the hallways. She falls asleep curled on my left shoulder and cupped in my left hand as I try to go about my business. She is in heaven.
Penny came to school again today to be with my new first grade class. I set up a portable kennel for her, and after the kids and I had our meeting about how to treat her, she came out for that travel around the jumbly elliptical circle thing. Throughout the day, students who finished their work got to come play with Penny. Oh, they worked so well today!
At the end of the day, we sat in our "circle" again as I brought Penny around to each child for a goodbye. My babies were so sweet as they each kissed Penny good-bye on the cheek. They knew that today was a very special day, and that they would not see Penny for a very long time.
I'm not sure who will miss it most.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Karma Payback is a Bitch so We Don't Have to Be
Yesterday was a good day for moping and wallowing with the rain all day: the kind of day when it takes ten minutes to stand in front of the refrigerator staring blankly at the white door before finally remembering to open it. I did my best to go through the motions. I set up this blog. Some laundry was done. A few dishes. I ate soup. The kittens were cuddled and played with, but even they couldn't bring me to smile.
I want to say today was better. I really want to. I think better has to come in small moments for now. It was still raining when I woke up at 5 a.m. to see yesterday's bad news confirmed at the bank. Not the best motivator, to be sure, finding out that your supposed best friend and life's love is intent on screwing you over.
But I had things to do, so I just plugged away doing them.
The kittens' pen was cleaned, swept & mopped. I took out the sheets they had been sleeping on when not on the kitten tree. I had noticed they were peeing on one corner, so yesterday I washed an old bed for them. They are loving their new bed!
Delynn at the bank called me to be sure I knew the bad news and the other bad news "I'm looking at it right now. I saw it at 5 this morning."
"Oh, my." We talked a bit more and she said, "Well, I just wanted to be sure it wasn't something that was important to you to get paid."
"Normally, it would be. Then again, normally it wouldn't be bouncing."
Mom coaxed me over for lunch. I realized that I was indeed hungry. Well, I'd forgotten all about eating. That could lead to hunger. After taking care of Daddy, it was time to run errands. Pharmacy and grocery store for me, Home Depot for Mom. I put in Mom's new toilet seat and finally figured out the directions. Sheesh. Recommendation: Never try to install a toilet seat when totally frustrated at your spouse for ignoring it for three or four weekends. Anger and home improvement are best done separately. Ours is broken and only half-assed installed. Worth the $13 dollars, I think, for me to get another one and do it right.
When I made it back home, my toe was aching (the one with which I had kicked his solid oak humidor on Monday). I fed the kennel kitties and then went to get my ice bag from the freezer. I guess its condensation had frozen to his lovely martini glass, the fancy blue one that we had picked out together, because it fell to the floor and broke.
"Oh. Oops. Bummer." I smiled a really gleeful grin for the first time in two days.
And now, for the next Penny Story. August, 2005
Happy Birthday, Penny
Today, Penny is 4 weeks old. To celebrate, she had her first real bath--a Bengal Baptism--in the bathroom sink, nice and warm and pleasant. Now she is also warm and pleasant, with ad elightful Pantene aroma. Sure, she got a bath every time she ate and pooped, but cotton eye pads and warmwater are no substitute for a mama cat's tongue. And even if I had a rough tongue, I'd still draw the line there. No lickin' butts.
Penny had a wonderful pre-birthday celebration at my parents' ranch in the Hill Country of Texas, where I spent the last three days helping to neuter and spay my mom's barn cats. My nephew Robert asked, "Does this mean I have two cousins?" (Rubah being the first.) Penny's Grandma and Aunt Susan made that abundantly clear. The only time I got to give Penny a bottle was in the middle of the night. They cuddled her up in her towel and laughed at the way she bats frantically at the bottle before settling in to nurse.
There are no indoor cats at my parent's ranch, so Penny got to wander all over the house. She sat on Grandma's and Grandpa's feet, and smelled all the wonderfully aromatic socks. She cuddled in the curve of Grandpa's good left armand gave him kisses. (My dad had a stroke 3 years ago and is confined to a wheelchair.) She bounced and waddled and played a bit. I am amazed and delighted every time she acts like a kitten. :)
I want to say today was better. I really want to. I think better has to come in small moments for now. It was still raining when I woke up at 5 a.m. to see yesterday's bad news confirmed at the bank. Not the best motivator, to be sure, finding out that your supposed best friend and life's love is intent on screwing you over.
But I had things to do, so I just plugged away doing them.
The kittens' pen was cleaned, swept & mopped. I took out the sheets they had been sleeping on when not on the kitten tree. I had noticed they were peeing on one corner, so yesterday I washed an old bed for them. They are loving their new bed!Delynn at the bank called me to be sure I knew the bad news and the other bad news "I'm looking at it right now. I saw it at 5 this morning."
"Oh, my." We talked a bit more and she said, "Well, I just wanted to be sure it wasn't something that was important to you to get paid."
"Normally, it would be. Then again, normally it wouldn't be bouncing."
Mom coaxed me over for lunch. I realized that I was indeed hungry. Well, I'd forgotten all about eating. That could lead to hunger. After taking care of Daddy, it was time to run errands. Pharmacy and grocery store for me, Home Depot for Mom. I put in Mom's new toilet seat and finally figured out the directions. Sheesh. Recommendation: Never try to install a toilet seat when totally frustrated at your spouse for ignoring it for three or four weekends. Anger and home improvement are best done separately. Ours is broken and only half-assed installed. Worth the $13 dollars, I think, for me to get another one and do it right.
When I made it back home, my toe was aching (the one with which I had kicked his solid oak humidor on Monday). I fed the kennel kitties and then went to get my ice bag from the freezer. I guess its condensation had frozen to his lovely martini glass, the fancy blue one that we had picked out together, because it fell to the floor and broke.
"Oh. Oops. Bummer." I smiled a really gleeful grin for the first time in two days.
And now, for the next Penny Story. August, 2005
Happy Birthday, Penny
Today, Penny is 4 weeks old. To celebrate, she had her first real bath--a Bengal Baptism--in the bathroom sink, nice and warm and pleasant. Now she is also warm and pleasant, with ad elightful Pantene aroma. Sure, she got a bath every time she ate and pooped, but cotton eye pads and warmwater are no substitute for a mama cat's tongue. And even if I had a rough tongue, I'd still draw the line there. No lickin' butts.
There are no indoor cats at my parent's ranch, so Penny got to wander all over the house. She sat on Grandma's and Grandpa's feet, and smelled all the wonderfully aromatic socks. She cuddled in the curve of Grandpa's good left armand gave him kisses. (My dad had a stroke 3 years ago and is confined to a wheelchair.) She bounced and waddled and played a bit. I am amazed and delighted every time she acts like a kitten. :)
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Day Four
I asked for an i-Pad for my birthday. Instead, he's giving me a divorce.
Today I am finding it difficult to move, let alone do anything. I started the day right. It's a rainy day, can't do anything on the ranch, so the first thing I did was take the five week old kittens out of the pen and play with them on the bed. In just a few minutes, I am going to repeat that process. When I told Mom that I was playing with kittens in bed, she said, "Why don't you do something profitable?"
I snorted and replied, "Mom, this is as profitable as it gets right now."
"Oh, right. Okay something more like work."
Does this count? I set up this blog, then felt too much like a blob to blog so decided to start by posting the Penny stories. So I started reading them. I am NOT crying. That would take too much effort. These are from July 2005.
The Beginning (Excerpts from Bengals-L)
Jim wrote: "Also, I would keep mom away from the other kitties...way away,and keep the> baby with her. She may start feeding it. The other cats are messing with> her instincts."
Well, Flo is a bit squirrelly to begin with. She has done this since her second litter of kittens; she never wants the little squeakers at first. She wants the big furry kittens of the mom next door. She settles down after a day or two when there are two or three kittens. This is the second time she has had only one, and that first kitten died while I was at work. This time I was watching very closely, and I would sit with her so she would nurse. She kept trying to get rid of the little squeaker (just like last time), and I kept finding it abandoned in various places in the bedroom. Spencer named the baby Penny (as in "Find a penny, pick it up"). By the time Flo snuck out to find better kittens, the baby was weakening. She had only gained 1/4 of an ounce in 3 days. It was time for me to at least supplement her feeding anyway. At this moment, Penny is flourishing. She's gaining weight (1/2 ounce per day--normal so far), pees and poops for me when I rub her bottom with a warm washcloth, snuggles with her warm leopard friend (a stuffed toy--the warmth comes from the reptile heater under her towel), and gets lots of love and snuggling from me.
Another Penny Question
What do I do about a chapped, sore butt?
Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question
Let me rephrase that to include a KITTEN'S chapped, sore butt.
Subject: Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question (from Brian)
( please hear uproarious laughter ) Bobbi Jean, ya had me there girl....... I was thinkin " Now I have met this Gal and she is quite a lady.... so whassup wit dis" ( I had to use ebonics on this one ). No clue about the kitten......I am still ROFLMBAO! Bobbie Jean you are priceless!Later, Brian P.S. Deb, where are you girl.... I just KNEW you'd be all over this one:~)
Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question (From Deb)
HAHAHA Well honey...I knew you would give Bobbi Jean a run for her money...so I let you have at it, LOLOh...and Bobbi Jean? That was pricelessDeb
Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question (My reply)
Thank you, Brian. *hugs And thanks to all the jokesters out there. Guess it was just darn time for a giggle on Bengals-L. All it took was one private e-mail for me to realize my point of reference was too obscure. Penny is my baby...notice she's now MY baby...a week old Bengal kitten for whom I am the only mom.
Penny’s Big Weekend
You know, no matter how chaotic or crowded or hot or cold things get, I always have fun at cat shows. There are always situations. We always live through them. This weekend's South Central Regional was no exception. A huge Thank You from Spencer and me to the Maine Coon Connection for the show, and for providing a place for little Penny to "be there" without being there in the showhall.
It was pointed out to me that folks were beginning to wonder why I was leading so many people out that back door by ring one. Hmmm...illicit substances? Nope, just my little two week old baby, Penny. Everyone wanted to see her. Okay, okay, I'm a mom like some people are grandmas. I wanted everyone to see her!
She sure did enjoy meeting everyone. Really. Because I picked her up and loved on her every time I brought someone else to the back hall, and she loves that! Thanks to y'all for refraining from touching her (I know it was hard). I apologize to those I'd promised a tube feeding lesson. She went on the bottle when her eyes opened on Friday.
You know, I didn't have to ask or anything. Everyone just refrained from touching her. They had all been handling other cats. My own hands are chapped and raw from the cleansing I do before I handle Penny. I've had to remove a ring from my right hand (and still sport the scar) because of it. It's just common sense. This is a baby without shots. We protect her as well as we can, and I really do sincerely appreciate the intentions of my fellow South Central Bengal (and other breed) folks for knowing that this baby needed protection. I also appreciate Christie Montgomery and the MCC for allowing us the space to protect our darling Penny so that we could attend our Regional show and banquet.
The staff at the La Quinta enjoyed her, too. They oohed and ahed everytime I went back to see her. Penny has an interesting method of approaching the bottle. Picture a cat sneezing and wiping at its nose simultaneously. She bats at the bottle frantically, swiping it right out of her mouth. One young man watched me feed her. He commented, "Oh, she's feisty! She is so feisty. That's one feisty kitten." Yep, she is. Feisty, strong, and uppity. Just like every woman should be.We do a lot of cleaning when she's done feeding. Eventually, she settles down and holds it with both paws as she suckles. I just love watching her little ears wiggle.
Today I am finding it difficult to move, let alone do anything. I started the day right. It's a rainy day, can't do anything on the ranch, so the first thing I did was take the five week old kittens out of the pen and play with them on the bed. In just a few minutes, I am going to repeat that process. When I told Mom that I was playing with kittens in bed, she said, "Why don't you do something profitable?"
I snorted and replied, "Mom, this is as profitable as it gets right now."
"Oh, right. Okay something more like work."
Does this count? I set up this blog, then felt too much like a blob to blog so decided to start by posting the Penny stories. So I started reading them. I am NOT crying. That would take too much effort. These are from July 2005.
The Beginning (Excerpts from Bengals-L)
Jim wrote: "Also, I would keep mom away from the other kitties...way away,and keep the> baby with her. She may start feeding it. The other cats are messing with> her instincts."
Well, Flo is a bit squirrelly to begin with. She has done this since her second litter of kittens; she never wants the little squeakers at first. She wants the big furry kittens of the mom next door. She settles down after a day or two when there are two or three kittens. This is the second time she has had only one, and that first kitten died while I was at work. This time I was watching very closely, and I would sit with her so she would nurse. She kept trying to get rid of the little squeaker (just like last time), and I kept finding it abandoned in various places in the bedroom. Spencer named the baby Penny (as in "Find a penny, pick it up"). By the time Flo snuck out to find better kittens, the baby was weakening. She had only gained 1/4 of an ounce in 3 days. It was time for me to at least supplement her feeding anyway. At this moment, Penny is flourishing. She's gaining weight (1/2 ounce per day--normal so far), pees and poops for me when I rub her bottom with a warm washcloth, snuggles with her warm leopard friend (a stuffed toy--the warmth comes from the reptile heater under her towel), and gets lots of love and snuggling from me.
Another Penny Question
What do I do about a chapped, sore butt?
Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question
Let me rephrase that to include a KITTEN'S chapped, sore butt.
Subject: Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question (from Brian)
( please hear uproarious laughter ) Bobbi Jean, ya had me there girl....... I was thinkin " Now I have met this Gal and she is quite a lady.... so whassup wit dis" ( I had to use ebonics on this one ). No clue about the kitten......I am still ROFLMBAO! Bobbie Jean you are priceless!Later, Brian P.S. Deb, where are you girl.... I just KNEW you'd be all over this one:~)
Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question (From Deb)
HAHAHA Well honey...I knew you would give Bobbi Jean a run for her money...so I let you have at it, LOLOh...and Bobbi Jean? That was priceless
Re: [Bengals-L] Another Penny Question (My reply)
Thank you, Brian. *hugs And thanks to all the jokesters out there. Guess it was just darn time for a giggle on Bengals-L. All it took was one private e-mail for me to realize my point of reference was too obscure. Penny is my baby...notice she's now MY baby...a week old Bengal kitten for whom I am the only mom.
Penny’s Big Weekend
You know, no matter how chaotic or crowded or hot or cold things get, I always have fun at cat shows. There are always situations. We always live through them. This weekend's South Central Regional was no exception. A huge Thank You from Spencer and me to the Maine Coon Connection for the show, and for providing a place for little Penny to "be there" without being there in the showhall.
It was pointed out to me that folks were beginning to wonder why I was leading so many people out that back door by ring one. Hmmm...illicit substances? Nope, just my little two week old baby, Penny. Everyone wanted to see her. Okay, okay, I'm a mom like some people are grandmas. I wanted everyone to see her!
She sure did enjoy meeting everyone. Really. Because I picked her up and loved on her every time I brought someone else to the back hall, and she loves that! Thanks to y'all for refraining from touching her (I know it was hard). I apologize to those I'd promised a tube feeding lesson. She went on the bottle when her eyes opened on Friday.
You know, I didn't have to ask or anything. Everyone just refrained from touching her. They had all been handling other cats. My own hands are chapped and raw from the cleansing I do before I handle Penny. I've had to remove a ring from my right hand (and still sport the scar) because of it. It's just common sense. This is a baby without shots. We protect her as well as we can, and I really do sincerely appreciate the intentions of my fellow South Central Bengal (and other breed) folks for knowing that this baby needed protection. I also appreciate Christie Montgomery and the MCC for allowing us the space to protect our darling Penny so that we could attend our Regional show and banquet.
The staff at the La Quinta enjoyed her, too. They oohed and ahed everytime I went back to see her. Penny has an interesting method of approaching the bottle. Picture a cat sneezing and wiping at its nose simultaneously. She bats at the bottle frantically, swiping it right out of her mouth. One young man watched me feed her. He commented, "Oh, she's feisty! She is so feisty. That's one feisty kitten." Yep, she is. Feisty, strong, and uppity. Just like every woman should be.We do a lot of cleaning when she's done feeding. Eventually, she settles down and holds it with both paws as she suckles. I just love watching her little ears wiggle.
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