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.
Friday, July 2, 2010
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.
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