Scenes from Silver Creek: The Dog Show

We had a variety of pets growing up. A black cat named Bishop. A parakeet named Maynard. Various guinea pigs and hamsters. But only one dog; a black, scruffy mutt named Caruso.

I honestly cannot recall where Caruso came from, whether we adopted him from the pound or found him as a stray; but come he did and he stayed. Caruso was one of the most ill trained dogs ever. Whenever we took him off the leash he would run away. He never learned to sit or fetch or do any of those dog tricks. But he was madly loveable and so ugly-cute that you couldn’t help but be charmed.

He had free reign of our back yard, and a long leash in the front. All the neighbors knew him and so too, luckily, did the mailman. For one time Caruso got loose and was gone for hours. I was frantic, until the mailman drove up with Caruso sitting proudly in the mail truck, tail waving, barking happily.

I suppose I was about 7 or 8 when a national dog food company sponsored a dog show in the parking lot of the supermarket. There was a cute dog category so, of course, I had to enter Caruso.

In spite of his protests I bathed and combed him until his scruffy hair was slightly less scruffy, put him on his leash, and headed downtown. There amid the purebred pups I strutted with him. Well, technically I pulled him and then he pulled me. While Mrs. Albreckson walked her annoying Pekingese like she was at Westminster, and the annoying Pekingese acted like she was one of the Queen’s corgis, I dragged poor Caruso in front of the town. Of course, being Caruso, he misbehaved. He stopped to pee. He barked at the crowd. When the judge walked by Caruso rolled over to have his tummy scratched. And he sniffed the crotch of the man next to me with a neurotic Poodle.

Since Caruso was well known in town, he had his fair share of admirers in the crowd. In fact the mailman was there, cheering him on. But, alas, he had no chance amongst his well-behaved, well-groomed brethren. But the judge, taking pity on either the clueless child or the careless dog, awarded us an Honorable Mention ribbon, which Caruso promptly tried to eat. I was so proud of that ribbon. It was the first thing I’d ever won, even if it was won by my dog.

Photo of the day: Floral Arrangement or Murder Weapon -- You Decide

No clue what these berries are. They look like something growing on a hedge in St. Mary Mead (Miss Marple's village) that she would immediately point out with some quaint name like "oh yes, that's known as the misstress killer. So called after Miriam Clethorne died must unexpectedly right after it became common knowledge that she'd been seen holding hands with Dr. Richardson."

I'd stay away from nibbling on this just in case you've been cheating on someone and have a Miss Marple around.

Photo of the day; My Smarter Cousin

He can do quantum physics in pencil on the back of a zoo program. He's lunched with Stephen Hawking. He can swear in 15 languages. I'm so proud.

Eavesdropping
Overheard at the shelter. For those of you not from around here there's a wildfire in a place called Bonny Doon, in the Santa Cruz mountains, not too far from here:
Guy 1: Have you heard about the fire in Bonny Doon?
Guy 2: No, what about it?
Guy 1: Um...well, that's it really. There's a fire in Bonny Doon.
Guy 2: (Obviously full of concern): Do you think I should grow a beard?

Photo of the day: Ground Cover

Oh the secrets scurrying amid the leaves and stones. Coffee-colored salamanders with zipper-fast speed moving too fast for a cheap camera to focus. Small mice chattering around mouths full of fallen berries. Tiny brown birds looking suspiciously inconspicuous poking amid the leavings for worms and other delicacies. One man's fallen brush is, to another, an afternoon buffet. Champagne extra, of course.

Snow White and the 7 Cats
There are currently seven cats in our backyard. I tried to photograph all of them but two are in the shade and I just couldn't get a good shot. But I did catch five of them, including all three brown tabbies.

Two brown tabbies and the Siamese-y one.

One of the orange tabbies and the third brown tabby.

Photo of the day: Under the Overpass

Because sometimes you just need to stop and smell the freeway. Or something like that...

The Talky Crew
I went to cat duty today. I never go on Tuesday and I think I now know why; it's the talky day. Very nice people who won't shut up. Volunteers, not customers, which is what made it so strange. All I wanted to do was hang with the kitties and give them extra love and it turned into Chatfest 2009.

There was the volunteer who kept asking me about Lola* (*All the cat names have been changed to protect the innocent.) Lola is a "red cat" who can be a real handful. She takes all your attention. So having some woman asking you, in one breath (take a big breath here and read this out loud): "How long have you been a volunteer? Do you work only with red cats? Have you worked with Lola before? How do you know what to expect? Do you shave or wax your bikini line?" (OK, I made the last one up.) But she wanted to know all about working with Lola. Which is fine....just not when I'm working withLola. Ask me later. But distracting me when I'm working with a cat known for biting the limbs off unsuspecting volunteers is not the way to endear yourself to me. To make matters worse, her constant chatter freaked out poor Lola, who then took it out on me. I had to cut the visit short, without taking her out of her cage, because she was getting so stressed from two people looking at her.

Then there was Mr. Nice Guy. Who really was nice but who also came into the rooms when I was doing one-on-one with the cats to give them some two-on-one, which sounds dirty but really wasn't. I'm not sure why he didn't just take his own cats out, but this volunteer apparently just wanted to hang and chat so he kept coming in where I was. Odd. Um, hello, there are dozens of cats that need attention so why are you ignoring them to be with me and the cat that I'm socializing? He came in when I was with Milo*, one of my favorite cats, and completely ruined my rhythm. With Milo there's a ritual. First play, then catnip, finally pets and combing. But when Mr. Nice Guy came in during catnip time Milo didn't know what to do? Do I go back to playing? Is it petting time? Who is this man and why is he here? I didn't want to be rude, but I was wondering why he didn't go get his own cat. (And before you think "hitting on you" he was about 70 and talked a lot about his wife.)

Finally there was the volunteer who told me WAY too much about herself. I mean sure, make polite small talk. Say hi. Discuss the cats. But for the love of cheese do not tell me about your divorce, your shoulder operation, your much younger boyfriend, your cat's digestive problems, and why you think your church choir director is having an affair. I mean I don't know your name and now I know how often Mr. Fluffy poops. Thanks, really needed to know that.

For me the oddest one of the day wasn't one of the volunteer's who kept trying to make conversation -- it was the looker. She kept looking through the windows of the room where I was socializing cats. When I went into one of the cat condos, she looked. When I was socializing a cat in her cage because all the rooms were busy, she looked. It was kind of freaking me out? Was my fly open? Did she think I was hot? Did she think I was going to try some weird voodoo experiment with a cat, a chicken, a black candle and some bastardized Latin?

I think I'll stick to my regular cat socializing days. Tuesdays are too weird.

Photos of the day: Cuteness X 2

Two charmers from the kitten nursery. These two won't be around long once they're up for adoption.

I'm skipping my radio show tonight so I can pull some extra cat duty today. The shelter is desperately short of cat TLC-ers right now (I think people are on vacation) and there are so many kitties who need the attention so I'm heading off to spend a few hours doing what I love.

Today in the Kitten Nursery

The usual suspects of cuteness. This guy was extra snuggly, in spite of the heat. More pictures on Flickr.

Photo of the day: Waiting for the Cemetery Bus

Uh, her, not I.

The Parade Continues
The neighborhood cats continue to confound and congregate in our yard. We recently discovered that the one brown tabby we kept seeing was actually two brown tabbies. I have just discovered that they are, in fact, three brown tabbies. I tried to take a photo of the three of them, but our own little brown tabby got in the way.

I have also found that the black cat is two black cats. That makes:
3 brown tabbies
2 black cats
2 orange cats
1 gray cat
2 calico cats
2 black and white cats
1 siamese-y looking cat

That regularly hang out in our yard. Apparently our yard smells like free tuna.

Scenes from Silver Creek: Johnnie’s

Johnnie’s was a family restaurant owned by a friend of my father. Johnnie Cannazaro and my dad grew up a few blocks away from each other; beat each other at baseball beat each other up over girls, eventually served in WWII together. They enlisted together, went to basic together and then ended up in different parts of the war. Afterwards there was some talk of going into business together, but they could never agree on what. My dad wanted to open a garage, but for Johnnie, there was only the idea of opening a restaurant and serving the recipes of his Italian grandmother.

Johnnie’s was the kind of place where you were served massive platters of antipasto before you even ordered, and where they actually had candles in old Chianti bottles. There was no menu, just a blackboard where Miriam, Johnnie’s wife, wrote the day’s offerings in pink chalk over drawings of misshapen bowls of soup and loaves of bread.

We didn’t often go out to dinner, as it was too expensive for our large family, but when we went, it was to Johnnie’s. As a child, I loved going there because I imagined it was what a celebrity felt like. We’d be greeted with hugs, shown to the best table, and generally fussed over. They’d bring me a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, which I hated but never said because I was afraid if I confessed my detestation for cherries the drinks would stop. And after dinner all us kids got free dessert, a scoop of vanilla ice cream or rainbow sherbet in a cold, silver cup.

It was at Johnnie’s where I first heard the phrase “your money is no good here.” We’d gone there for my mother’s birthday and when my dad went to pay, that’s what Johnnie said. As a kid, I was terrified. What was wrong with my dad’s money? Was it counterfeit? How would we pay for dinner? Would we be arrested? Hell, what did I know; I’d never gotten a free meal before and had no clue what he meant.

My brother Ronnie got a job there as a busboy for two summers in high school, and I remember Johnnie catering my sister Kathleen’s wedding. I also recall my mother sending me out on cold winter nights to pick up take-out containers of Johnnie’s minestrone to which he’s always add (to my immense pleasure) a warm, foil-wrapped plate of garlic bread.

Johnnie retired when I was in high school. He and Miriam had no children and, therefore, no one to leave the restaurant to. But after 30 years of feeding the town, the Cannizaro’s decided they wanted to relax. The last night at Johnnie’s party was full of great food and good memories, and my very first glass of wine. With a “don’t tell your mother” Johnnie passed me a plastic wine glass with Chianti in it and I lifted a toast with everyone else when my father said “to good times.”

I cried when it became a southern café that served pretty good fried chicken and pretty awful biscuits. And to this day I miss that minestrone and garlic bread.

Photo of the day: Pearls in the Distance

Because I don't own any diamonds.

Photo of the day: Do These Feathers Make Me Look Fat?

Umm...yeah, they kinda do.


Oh, but this is definitely your slim side.

Eavesdropping

Overheard at the grocery store
Mother to child: Potato chips are not a vegetable.

.....
Overheard at the shelter 1
Man 1 (in a hideous blue and red Hawaiian shirt): That cat keeps staring at me.
Man 2: Maybe he's afraid of your shirt.

.....
Overheard at the shelter 2
Little girl to father: Why can't I touch the kitties?
Father: Because they might bite you.
Girl (pointing to me): They aren't biting her.
Father: She works here.
Girl: Doesn't she taste good?

Reality
In the sheer joy that comes from being a volunteer at an animal shelter it is easy to forget the harsh reality that not all animals make it. I had a reminder of that yesterday and it upset me. It made for the only day where I didn't come home with a smile, but it caused me to wake up this morning more determined to keep doing what I'm doing.

I put in an extra hour today because there are just not enough volunteers to give the cats the time, attention, and love they deserve. Every time I told myself "OK, last cat of the day" I'd spy some new little face peering hopefully through the bars of their cage and I'd take him or her out for a play. I'm going to try doing longer shifts from now on because they need it so much. And, quite frankly, so do I.

Yesterday also reinforced my respect for everyone who works or volunteers with shelter animals throughout the world. These beautiful, needy, helpless animals need our care, love, and attention. They need people with big hearts (and open checkbooks) to make sure they are healthy and happy or to decide, sadly, that they are suffering and their pain should be ended.

When I walk through the shelter and see so many beautiful, loving critters who just want someone to love, it breaks my heart. And every time I see someone walking out the door with a happy dog on a leash, or a purring kitty in a box, it unbreaks my heart a little. Through no fault of their own these animals have come to us with no other resource, and we do our best to make sure their stay with us is full of love and care until they find their forever homes. My contribution to this is but a tiny part of the whole, and I live in admiration of those who do this day in and out, for years. They are my heroes and I want to be just like them.

This is, as I have said, the best thing I've ever done.

Photos of the day: Predator and Prey

This is the tiny cat who plans to leap from the safety of my lap to attack....

...the giant ball of doom

Scenes from Silver Creek: Games

Summertime in Silver Creek meant playing until the early evening; taking advantage of the late sunlight to play one more round of freeze tag or hide-and-seek. The telephone pole in front of the Carter’s house was always home base, no matter what the game, and anything past the Rubison’s house was out of bounds.

We actually had an ice cream truck that patrolled the neighborhood and we would happily break for fudgesicles or root beer popsicles. Occasionally Mrs. Murchison would call us all down to her house and she’d slice open a homegrown watermelon. She’d put it in a cooler in the afternoon, covered with ice. By the evening it was teeth-tingly cold and full of juice that ran in pink rivers down our chins.

Sometimes we’d sit on her porch and spit seeds onto a newspaper and she’d tell us stories about her travels around the world. Other days we’d gather at someone’s house, the windows and doors wide open, and we’d lie on our stomachs in front of the TV and watch Wild Wild West or the Wonderful World of Disney.

On really hot days we’d run through the sprinklers, shrieking as the cold water hit our pale, overheated skin, and all the kids and local dogs would turn up dripping wet at some poor mother’s house, begging for towels and juice.

Frequently we would make up games. Or, rather, I would. I was usually the instigator in the making up games game. The others were more the follow the rules type. But I liked coming up with my own fun. I think my favorite invented game was “Movie Star Tag.” If you were “it” you had to tag someone. They had 10 seconds to scream out the name of a favorite movie star. If they did, you were still “it.” If they didn’t, they became “it.” I loved that game but often got in trouble because I was the only one of the group who watched old movies. They’d tag me and I’d call out “Clark Gable” and there would be howls of protests that he wasn’t a famous movie star because they’d never heard of him.

We also had a mass war once, worthy of Tolstoy. It was Barbie vs. the world. All the girls got their Barbies and Kens and Midges and Barbie campers and such and would hold the hedge between the Carter’s house and the Hilliard’s place. All the boys, and I, mustered our G.I. Joes and little green army men and our armored division of Tonka trucks and attacked at the weak point, by the zinnias.

It was epic. Shannon Carey cried when her favorite Barbie became a casualty of war, having its head bit off by the McConnel’s dog, Barney. Our side took Valerie Bloch’s little brother, Terence, hostage. We were going to ransom him for brownies but gave him back when he told us he could throw up on demand and threatened to prove it on us. Mikey McConnel’s Tonka dump truck did some serious renovation to a Malibu Barbie beach house and I’m pretty sure a rogue Delta Force G.I. Joe molested someone’s Barbie.


We’d play until the sun went down or until someone’s mother yelled from the front porch to come home. The day of the great war it was a draw, with the official armistice declared by my mother who informed all of us it was past time we all went home and had a bath.

Photo of the day: Crucifixation VII

Exploring the ennui of atheism against a backdrop of phallo-centric fallacy.

I Didn't Just Knock Over My Food

I Didn't Just Knock Over My Food, originally uploaded by DeccasWorld.

Just an extra dose of cuteness as I stumble my way through the night.

My One Superstition
I am not a superstitious person.

I have walked under mirrors. I don't freak out if I spill salt. And, as i have noted in annoying detail, I love cats of all colors. So a black cat crossing my path makes me smile, not cringe.

But there is one superstition I will not break. I will not watch the movie Jaws. Because when I do, people die.

Not the hapless people in the movie, but real people. In my life.

I was watching Jaws when I found out my father had died. I was watching it at the exact moment my grandmother died. I tried to watch it again and received a phone call that a dear friend had AIDS. So I don't watch it no more. Nope. Never. I've learned my lesson the hard way. Now I get nervous if I even see an ad for it. If I'm channel surfing and land on it, even for a few seconds, I'm convinced someone I love will break a leg or catch pneumonia. I'm even a bit cautious around the Discovery Channel's annual Shark Week programming. It's this week and while I have watched one program I urge all those I love (you know who you are) to be extra careful this week.

Anybody else have any weird taboos or superstitions? Please tell me I'm not alone in my lunacy.

Photo of the day: Cherry Relief

Because sometimes you just need a cough drop that tastes like a Life Saver.

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Tuppervon Aunts

One Aunt, Claudette, sold Tupperware. Aunt Edith sold Avon. And you were expected to buy them every time you went to a party. Unfortunately everyone in town was friends with everyone else, so you typically got invited to about 3 parties a year for each product.

My mother would drag us girls with her, cementing the unfairness of gender roles in my family as my brothers would make snide gestures at us while happily shooting baskets in the driveway as we pulled away. Meanwhile I’m in a skirt for god’s sake and on my way to a house that always smells like hard boiled eggs to sit with a bunch of dull woman for a few hours while they fawn over plastic containers to hold their oatmeal. Oh, joy.

The Tuppervon Aunts were, at least, no actual relation to me. They were church aunts, women around your mother’s age that you call “aunt” or “aunty” because it’s easier than remembering everybody’s name….even though they think you do it because you have such good manners. These two were, however sisters, and worked together to make sure they planned their parties around each other’s and did their bit to help out with the arrangements and to conspicuously place a large order from the other when the sales books came out. But the parties had some key differences.

Tupperware parties were all about demonstrating how completely confusing and useless a kitchen is unless stocked with these miracle gadgets. So Aunt Claudette would cater her party herself, with perfect wedges of cheese displayed on the most perfect plastic cheese plate ever, complete with perfect plastic cover and matchingly perfect knife set. Or there would be a glorious cake, on a clear plastic stand with a snap-on lid to keep it from getting stale. Another cake would make the arduous journey from kitchen to dining room in a round carrier with a lid and snap-on carrying handle, perfect for bringing your contribution to any pot-luck dinner or church bake sale. To lighten moods made heavy by rhetorical questions such as “have you ever opened a box of cookies only to have them stale the very next day?” We would play weird food-related trivia games where Aunt Claudette asked questions such as “what nation invented the Gherkin pickle?” and the winners were rewarded with little Tupperware tchoshkes such as the orange peeler that I still have or the picnic toothpick carrier which our dog promptly ate.

Avon parties were a different breed. If Tupperware was all about Donna Reed as a suburban housewife then Avon was about Laura Petrie as a suburban housewife. Donna had perfect pearls, a perfect family, so of course she needed perfect storage systems for her cornflakes and bread. Laura, however, had Capri pants and pert breasts; both things have been known to draw attention away from a cake that tilted in the box or bit of flour spilled on the counter because she didn’t have the right kind of canister.

Laura didn’t want a deviled-egg plate. She wanted “Fiji Blue” eye shadow and “Sunset Shell” pink lipstick. She wanted face creams with fake French names like “Softique” and “Parisianne Crème.”

Which was all well and good for Laura Petrie, but the ladies of Silver Creek didn’t wear Capri pants and tended to limit their cosmetics to lipstick and a bit of powder “to keep the shine off.” I never did figure out why shiny was so bad. But this cultural diversity meant that Aunt Claudette’s Tupperware parties always did better than Aunt Edith’s attempts to be the Estee Lauder of Merton’s Drive. Oh she always managed to sell lipstick and nail polish, and did ok on things like bubble bath and hand cream. But the games at her parties tended to be more like “which celebrity has the better make up” and we had to decide between Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. She made it seems like there was a right or wrong answer, not a vote. And we never did figure out how she decided who would win the prize, but someone always did. In fact one year my mother, to her great mystery, found herself going home with a bottle of Lavender Bubble bath. She was so flustered by this largesse that she ended up buying about $50 worth of skin creams, lipsticks, soaps, and other luxury items.

She gave the bubble bath to me.

It gave me hives.

Photo of the day: Kittenshot

Sometimes I have nothing to offer but cute kitten photos. But you know, that's enough.

Photo of the day: Keys

Why can I never find my keys?

Photo of the day: Under the Cover

Where the magic happens.

And oh, by the way, I love this photo. Well done me.

Old is Better
I went to an antique store today. Mostly because my sister is out of town and I promised to look after my mom while she was gone. Wandering through an antique store seemed like a safe option for doing something she'd find interesting while doing the best to preserve my sanity.

Antique stores are my favorite stores of all. Even more than bookstores and music emporiums, I love exploring a good store full of treasures. I love things with a history and given a choice between brand-new or one-of-a-kind I will always go for the story. So for me antique stores are like heaven. A cross between a museum and a candy store. I can get lost for hours turning the pages of yellowed books, looking at cast-off photos of other people's long-dead ancestors.

This one particular store was full of wonderful items albeit a bit pricey, though I did buy a vintage bow tie for Husband. But it confirmed for me that when it comes to shopping I either want nothing or I covet the most expensive item in the store. There was not an item there under $300 that I wanted for myself. I saw some vintage postcards a friend would probably love, and a poster for the 1898 Cal vs. Stanford big game that my pal, the Lurker, would no doubt squeal over. But for me? Everything I wanted was way out of my range. The gorgeous restored 1930s radio microphone ($800). The beautiful roll top desk ($1200). The completely impractical French vase, gilded in silver (a mere $8000). I fell in love with a Navajo bracelet of silver and turquoise ($295) and an Art Deco chandelier ($1200).

I tend not to spend a lot of money on myself, at least I hope I don't. Especially now when I'm not working. My only extravagance these days is on toys and other tools for cat duty (catnip, treats, balls). And that is, very much, for me. But my expensive tastes means that when I get to shop for myself, I either want absolutely nothing or I want a pony.

Photo of the day: LionDogs

I suppose they're lions. But they also, kinda look like dogs. And they have big butts. I guess they're tails. Anyway, they look like the kind of thing you'd see on Antiques Roadshow where you say "who would buy that?" and then find out they're worth $50 grand.

I Love My "Job"
No pay. No benefits. But I love it.

OK, that's wrong. I get paid in purrs and head butts and the benefits bring more pleasure and satisfaction than I can express. I don't know why people don't have to pay to do what I do.

There are days when I miss money. And I do worry about the future. But on days like today, when a big orange tabby falls asleep in my lap; when a little grey kitten covers my face in kitten licks; when I give a cat who hasn't been out of his cage in days 30 minutes of freedom and love, it's the most wonderful gig in the world.

Every day when I go to the shelter I smile as I walk in. And by the time I walk out, I have a bigger smile. Oh, and in between coming and going, I'm smiling.

I feel guilty sometimes for not working. For making poor Husband earn all the money. For not pulling my share of the work in keeping us in rent and groceries. I feel like volunteering with the cats and kittens is the most selfish thing I've ever done. But right now, I'm also the happiest I can remember.

Sorry for gloating. But I love my "job."

Photo of the day: Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?

Does anybody really care?

Scenes from Silver Creek: Mrs. Murchison

Mrs. Murchison lived down the street from us in the only house I’ve ever known that was painted black. Contrary to this dismal impression, she was a sweet and friendly woman who knew, and actually liked, all the kids on the block. Hers was always the first house you went to on Halloween because she had full-sized Hershey bars for the kids on the block, not those little mini-bars everyone else gave out.

She lived alone and, to my knowledge, nobody had ever met Mr. Murchison. Her only companion was a fat orange tabby named Red. It wasn’t until I was in my late 20s that I realized what I thought was the longest-lived cat in history was, in fact, a series of look-alikes that she gave the same name. What can I say? I’m a little slow.

Mrs. Murchison had a showplace of a garden and could usually be found in her yard, in a faded white Gilligan hat and wearing purple gardening gloves. None of us could ever figure out where she got purple gloves, but she always had them. I remember as a child that she came to our Brownie meeting and taught us how to make “sit-upons.” This was something you sit upon while gardening. It was a stack of old newspaper tied with string and covered with a water-resistant fabric. All of us brainwashed Brownies dutifully made sit-upons for our poor mothers. I know for a fact that mine was never used as my mother’s idea of gardening was making sure the Christmas tree was taken down before New Year’s Eve.

But Mrs. Murchison, on her sit-upon, would spend hours in the garden, singing Beatles songs off-key to her Camilla bushes and calling her shrubs by name. She would often let us kids name her bushes and trees for her and I christened her dwarf lemon tree “Jerry.” “Jerry’s looking happy today,” she’d observe as she fastidiously checked for any harmful, wayward insect unlucky enough to cross her property line.

Mrs. Murchison would travel often, to far off places like Salt Lake City and Houston. She knew I loved postcards so she would frequently send me mail from her trips, always signed “Mrs. Murchison.”

Sadly, she died when I was in high school. Her house went to a distant nephew; it was sold and painted robin’s egg blue. And I heard the new people only gave out mini-sized candy at Halloween.

The odd thing about Mrs. Murchison is that nobody ever knew her first name.

Photo of the day: Stump

Yeah. Not much else to say, is there? It's a stump.

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Pool

There was no public pool in Silver Creek and I never know anybody who had one well enough to get invited to their house. We also lacked the old swimming hole, a nearby lake, or anyplace else to take a dip. Silver Creek had stopped being much of a creek long before there was any real town. But Tiny Muddy Gulch Out By the Burger King is a bad name for a town.

But there was a pool at the high school, just down the block from where we lived. We lived so close that I could be scrambling into clothes in my room, hear the 10 minute warning bell for first period, and still make it class on time. And on hot summer nights, when I slept with my window open, I could hear the boing-clunk of the high dive as someone braver than I climbed the fence and went for a swim.

There was a 15-high foot wall around the pool, topped with about another 6 feet of chain link fence. But the design of the wall had this diagonal pillars that were perfect for scrambling up, like walking up a tilted palm tree for the cocoanuts above. So you scrambled up on the side where the chain link met the side of the boy’s gym, crawled under the bit someone had cut out years ago, and hopped down onto to bleachers.

When I was a kid I would dream about that pool. Apparently I had very dull dreams as a child. But I invested it with all the glories of every poolside oasis you can imagine. Why I thought a high school pool had lounge chairs beach balls, I have no clue. But it my small-town mind it seemed so enticing. And so daring to sneak in.

Imagine my disappointment freshman year when I saw it was just an ugly L-shaped pool surrounded by cracked concrete and smelling highly of chlorine that always needed to be changed. The high dive, however, was infinitely higher in person. Terrifyingly high. Empire State Building High. It would be impossible for anyone to go off that thing and live. You’d have to be Evel Kinevel.

For four years of high school I endured freezing first period swims when the pool hadn’t been heated all weekend. I shivered in the lukewarm showers after. I ran to second period with wet hair, smelling all bleachy from the pool. And I never went off the high dive. Me? No way. In spite of rampaging hormones and my perpetual lack of a boyfriend, I didn’t have a death wish. Oh sure I’d seen people dive and live. But they were miraculous people. Cheerleaders. Football players. Girls with breasts. Boys without acne. The kind of kids who always run out of pages in their yearbooks for people to sign. The indestructibles.

But I was a fringe kid, and fringe kids are always delicate. We do not survive jumps off the high dive. I know, because my mother, the Queen of Doom, told me. “Don’t jump off the high dive, it’ll kill you.” Gee, thanks mom. Way to boost the confidence there.

Of course in my senior year, emboldened by a stole bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine and egged on by my best friends, I clambered up the slanted pillars, climbed under the fence, jumped onto the bleachers, walked with trembling legs to the high dive and started up the ladder. I climbed for a month and a half. And then I stood there for another month and a half. Babies were conceived in the time I stood there. We got a new mayor. I grew my hair out a full 2 inches. My friends went away to college and got majors.

You could see my house from up there, which made it worse. I knew it was too far to my mom to see any features on the fool kid about to drown herself. But with mom radar, I couldn’t be entire sure that she was’t aware. Stupidly, I waved. Like what? I thought th chimney might bow down and bless my last stupid act on the planet. I a\imagined the police and maybe a clergyperson or two coming to break the news. Mom clutching her apron and weeping into the Kleenex she always had up her sleeve; her paroxysms of grief lessened by her ability to add “I told her if she went off the high dive she’d die and I was right! Wasn’t I right? I’m right and she’s dead.” Great fun for her, no so much for everyone listening to. Meanwhile my dad would wander vaguely around the house, looking at family photos in the hopes of putting a face to this supposedly thoughtless dead daughter that he cannot quite, at this minute, picture.

But, alas, the joyous speculation about how my funreal goal (I really wanted a horse and carriage) I knew I had to do something and do it soon. Why? Because I really needed to pee and I was determined NOT to climb down that ladder,. That struck me as the nadir of loserville, climbing up Everest and then come slinking down the ladder of shame while your friends laugh and snap Polaroids that prove you wussied out.

So I stood for a couple of minutes more. Our country invaded some other country. My friends in college had already graduation and had two kids I’d hope one was name after me so that at least my would be remembered,

I took a my last huge lunful of sweet, well chlorieney, air walked with as much bravado as 17 year old can muster, and jumped.

And, what do you know? Mom was wrong.

Random Catchin Up Bits
--Harry Potter vs. Voldemort rap:
--American Cancer Society Cake
-- My new favorite time waster Totally Looks Like

Photo of the day: One Poppy, Two Bugs



I can identify the flora, but the fauna defeats me. I thought they were ants but they had a blue tint and tiny wings. And, ultimately, it's not important, is it? I mean it is to them. Me, I couldn't care less.

Photo of the day: In My Mother's Garden

In my mother's garden are lots of plants that freak me out. This doesn't. I love the color and it doesn't give me the screaming willies.

Photo of the day: Gardening Tools

In my mom's backyard. They've seen some action, over the years. I think the rake is older than I.

Photo of the day: Rocks and Trees

Trees and rocks.

Eavesdropping
Overheard at the shelter
Woman one (who was adopting two kittens): I'm going to name them Diego and Freda.
Woman two: You can't name them after lovers, they're brother and sister!

......
Not really eavesdropping as this woman at the shelter was talking to me
"I want to adopt a another cat because my kitty, Princess Maxine Pussyboots is lonely."

(Princess Maxine Pussyboots???!!!)

.....
Overheard at the grocery store
Man (on cell phone) in the wine aisle: I prefer red, she prefers white. So I think I'll get red. Besides, I think I'm going to break up with her anyway.

Scenes from Silver Creek: Keeper of the Keys

Back in the dim mists of time, some enterprising student at Silver Creek High found, stole, or otherwise acquired a set of master keys to the school. For many years most students thought this was just a legend designed to intrigue gullible freshmen. But these keys were not a legend they were real. And they were handed down from generation to generation (OK, from one outgoing senior to a suitable junior) throughout most of my memory.

The keys were never used maliciously, which was always amazing. No theft. No graffiti or vandalizing. Just practical jokes of varying degrees of imagination and daring. There was the year all the jars of pickled dead critters from the biology lab ended up in the girl’s locker room. The time all the chairs in the library were stacked on the tables in a series of impressively unstable pyramids. And the time when the floor of the cafeteria was covered with a giant Twister board.

In my freshman year, the pool was turned into a giant luau complete with tiki torches and a grass shack hut. A surfboard and a large inflatable shark bobbed around the deep end and there was an endless loop of Beach Boys and Sam and Dave music playing. In my sophomore year I was let in on the secret when a friend’s older brother was keeper of the keys and he needed help switching all the desks, bookcases, and posters from the English classroom with the furniture in the chemistry lab. It took a lot of stealth and two weekend days, but we did it. Shakespeare now presided over the rows of gas jets and steel sinks. And the walls were lined with Dickens, Hemingway, and Austen. While in the other classroom Madame Curie looked down with French inscrutability upon Bunsen burners, microscopes, and test tubes place on desks, rather than long tables, and presided over by a large Oscar Wilde quotation painted on the ceiling.

Oddly enough, the administration never did much. They’d give the usual serious announcement over the loudspeaker system and talk in stern tones about suspension and detention. But, in actual fact, they seemed as amused by the whole thing as the rest of us. All year long people would wait for the joke and speculate on who would be behind it and what it would be. I remember hearing several teachers laughing at the ingenuity of the joker who took everything out of the principal’s office and set it up in the main hallway.

The last week of my junior year I was stunned when Malcolm Headley told me I’d been chosen to be keeper of the keys. I couldn’t understand why, but I wasn’t about to refuse. All summer long I plotted who I would let in on the secret and what my contribution to local lore would be. Eventually I swore my two best friends, Carmen Martinez and Sean Logan, to secrecy and the three of us began to set into motion our version of the grand plan. It involved a lot of babysitting and minimum wage jobs to pay for all the needed props. Then it just required the right time. The week before the drama club produced “West Side Story” was our cue.

We went in after their last dress rehearsal and made the balcony look more Romeo than rumble. Then we hit the biology lab for Heckle and Jeckle, the two plastic skeletons that stood like naked sentries on either side of the blackboard. These we moved to the theatre and dressed them the closest we could find to Renaissance wear from the costume shop. Heckle, as Juliet, completely with long blond wig, we placed on the balcony, turning her, well, it really into a sort of “come hither my long-lost skeleton lover” stance.

Jeckle we got down on one knee, with the aid of some legos and rubber bands. He wore black tights we bought for a buck at the thrift store and some sort of brocade cloak thing and a big flowered hat. That hat we also got from the thrift store and it would cause some amusement as it had often been seen on the mousy head of Mrs. Caspitor, the choir mistress at St. Edith’s.

We then filled every seat in theatre with stuffed animals, potted plants, bits of sporting equipment, even a life size cardboard cutout of David Hasselhoff (in the front row, of course.) We put more animals on the stage and gave them violins and flutes to set the music. We tried for a tuba but discovered your average teddy bear is incapable of supporting a tuba.

And the final step was to sneak into the library for the classic recordings section for the recording of Orson Welles and Romeo with miss forgettable (and I’m sure she was famous, but it was a long time ago) doing the balcony scene. Sean figured out a way to using fishing line and some small electric gears to move the arms of the “actors”. So when everything, lights, the recording, the movements came together it was the freakiest thing I’d ever seen.

The reactions upon the next school day were universal. I actually heard about it before I left home, someone called to tell me the keeper of the keys had acted and I had to get my ass down to the theatre. The place was packed, four deep trying to get in, even the faculty had to push through. And it didn’t disappoint. It was surreal and imaginative, and quirky and kind of cute. I was damned proud of myself all day.

The only thing left to do was to pass of the keys to the next keeper…

Photo of the day: The Angel Does Not Approve

Is it just me or is this one disapproving cherubim? Did she not like the guy and is, therefore, unhappy that he's up there playing in the eternal floating crap game in the sky? She doesn't look sad, more disappointed. Maybe she wanted a better gig, standing over someone famous instead of some random dead Californian.

Cooper Goes Home
The only bad thing about volunteering at the shelter is that sometimes you become very attached to certain animals and you miss them when they're adopted.

Cooper was very special to me. I loved that cat and always made her my first visit of the day. I would look forward to her crawling into my lap, giving out with her rusty purr, and enjoy the cuddling. Well today she went to an off-site adoption event and found a home.

Of course I am thrilled. I am so happy to know she no longer has to live in a cage and that she can have a lap whenever she wants. Somebody got very lucky today and found that once-in-a-lifetime pet that will brighten their days and make their nights warmer.

But personally, I am sad. I shall lose all my cold, heartless bitch street cred when I admit that when I found out she'd been adopted, I cried. How much of a softie am I?

It's purely selfish, of course. I am going to miss her very much. I wanted to much to adopt her, but I know from sad experience that Cipher doesn't like to share. But I think she's one of those special cats I'll always remember.

I envy whoever got to take her home, and I hope everyone has a long and happy life together. But for me, it's a bittersweet celebration. She has finally found the forever home and the love she deserves, but it's going to be hard going into the shelter next week and know she won't come to the front of her cage to greet me as soon as she hears my voice.

Bye Cooper. Be happy, you deserve it. And thanks for all the lap time, I'll never forget you.

The Case of the Traveling Luggage Tag
Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) is a bit of a sneak thief. She's "a picker-up of unconsidered trifles." If it's in reach (and sometimes even if it's out of reach) and can fit in her mouth, she'll nab it. Pens. Power cords. Pieces of mail. Sometimes she just pulls them off a table, and then leaps back in surprise when they actually fall. Often she'll strut into the room with something in her mouth as if to say "look what I just stole because you were stupid enough to leave it where I could get to it."

We have a leather luggage tag that is currently making the rounds. It was on the floor of the closet in the music room. Then it was in the middle of the music room. Since then it's been circumnavigating the house, going on it's own world tour. A luggage tag traveling light, without luggage. It was by the bed yesterday. In the kitchen last night. And now it's sitting by my feed in the middle of the living room.

Unlike her other crimes, I've not actually seen the tag in her mouth. So perhaps I am maligning her unfairly. Maybe she is innocent and the tag is moving itself around the house, playing its own little game of freeze tag. But I have a feeling Cipher is behind it.

Right now she's sitting in her favorite perch, in the front window. Her back to me and the room; purposely ignoring the moveable tag. But I have a feeling when I come home from cat duty later today, the tag will have once again migrated to another room. And there Cipher will sit, all innocence, pretending she knows nothing about the case of the traveling luggage tag.

Photo of the day: Cuteness

He's brand new and not too sure about the whole sticking things in the mouth that taste like food thing.

Happy-making
Best wedding processional EVER. Guaranteed to make you smile!

Photo of the day: Dove in Stone

Rest is peace, little dove, because you're not going anywhere.

Red Means Gloves
Being a red cat volunteer is something of an education. Today I worked with three of them in varying degrees of mania. Cat number one was sweetness itself and should definitely not be a red. She spent 30 minutes curled into my lap, purring, nuzzling into my arm and generally stealing my heart.

Cat number two was all lollipops and light until he turned without warning and nipped me.

Cat number three was the stand-in for the shark in Jaws. She (I'll call her "Lulu") had no interest in anything other than having me for dinner. She didn't want to play. She didn't want the yummy cat snacks I carry with me. She didn't want to explore the room. She just wanted to swallow my hand.

I would back off to discourage this behavior, and then she'd wander over as nice as you please and try to put me between two slices of bread and spread mustard on me.

So out came the gloves. I hadn't had a reason to use them yet, but Lulu was a perfect illustration of why it was suggested I invest in a pair of leather gloves. I could have used chain mail, but they at least kept me from becoming a shredded, bleeding mess.

The weird thing is that Lulu looks very much like Cipher (The World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm) except that Cipher has never tried to digest any of my limbs.

Photo of the day: Fenced in by the Church

A not-at-all-subtle metaphor for my relationship with my Catholic upbringing.

Photo of the day: The Snugglers

I'm just going to sit back and let you wallow in cuteness.

Photo of the day: On the Shady Side of the Street

Moss on a tree in an area so heavily wooded that light rarely seems to creep through. In the underbrush, unseen critters skitter amid the dry leaves and cause amused speculation among the walkers. Snake or squirrel? We'll never know.

Scenes from Silver Creek: Jacques and Emilie

For my entire childhood the house across the street belonged to an old French couple named Jacques and Emilie. They never seemed to get older and, to my child’s eyes, were always about 120. I think they were probably in their 70s and 80s and were something like protective godparents to everyone who lived on the block.

Jacques would spend his entire day sitting in his garage with the door open. He had a white El Camino that was a favorite hiding spot for the neighborhood kids playing hide-and-seek. I don’t know why we always hid there because it was always one of the first places anyone looked, but someone was always there. He’d sit at an old chrome kitchen table with his radio tuned to either a baseball game (when there was one) or the 24-hours news station during the off-season. He’d putter in the garden, read four or five newspapers a day, make birdhouses that he’d give to every person on the street, and watch the world walk, skate, bite, and drive by.

My dad, who spoke some French thanks to his French mother and grandparents, would go over every evening after work and before dinner. He’d come home, change out of his suit and into his jeans and a faded blue work shirt, and walk across the street. There, like two old Basque farmers, they’d drink strong red wine out of water glasses and nibble on cheese and the sourdough bread that Emilie made from scratch three days a week.

The wine came in big gallon jugs that Jacques would pour over his shoulder in a fountain that never once missed the glass. It’s a maneuver that always impressed me. When I was a child I was equal measures terrified and fascinated by him. The trick with the wine seemed like magic. But his serious expression and strange accent intimidated the hell out of me. He was a small, compact, bull of a man and had too much the look of a garden gnome about him. I was then, and still am, scared of garden gnomes.

Emile, by contrast, was the kindly grandmother out of a fairly tale. She baked bread and cookies that made the whole street smell glorious. And for a child growing up on my mother’s dreadful cookie and cakes-from-a-box, the scent of homemade ginger snaps and the warm, yeasty aroma of fresh bread was enough to bring tears to the eye. Her house was always spotless and her vegetable garden was like Eden. I’d been raised on a steady diet of canned food, with the exception of salad and, for some god unknown reason, zucchini. But Emilie had rows of fresh corn and sweet orange carrots. Sweet beans that made a satisfying, candy-like snap and the wonder of warm from the sun tomatoes.

She sang old French songs that I tried, in my head, to imitate and, like Jacques, loved baseball. Her backyard was a veritable subdivision of her husband’s birdhouses. Every bird in town seemed to have a map to her yard where she’d leave small glass dishes of sunflower seeds and fresh fruit. They had two fat, sleepy cats that glared threateningly at the invaders but never had enough energy to actually attack. These cats, Miro and Lalu, hated everyone but Emilie. Her, they loved. They’d slink between her feet and fight for lap rights when she sat down in the evenings. They would tolerate no attention from anyone else, not even Jacques, though they would hang around the garage when my dad was over, hoping one of the men would drop some cheese or bread.

Photo of the day: Kilmer's Muse

Shot on Sawyer Camp Road.

As If We Needed Further Proof...
That the Japanese are weirder than we. I'm not sure if I'm appalled, offended, or just amused by this ad for milk.

Photo of the day: Don't Fence Me In

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Parade

Every spring Silver Creek celebrated it’s terminal small-townness with “The Pansy Parade.” Of course now it’s turned into much eye-rolling and references to gay pride, but back in the 60s it meant just flowers. It was a kids-only parade, with the exception of the high school marching band and Mr. Grovner’s antique fire engine that he pulled out on any occasion even remotely appropriate for such a vehicle. And a few occasions where the vehicle was highly inappropriate.

The Pansy Parade featured a bunch of mortified kids riding bikes of pulling smaller siblings in wagons, all covered in flowers. Sort of a juvenile Rose Parade. Mothers all over town would spend hours raiding their gardens and the local hillsides for colorful blooms to turn banana-seated Schwinns and dented Red Fliers into mini monuments to horticultural exaggeration.

And for some reason, us kids were always put into costume. These costumes rarely, if ever, had anything to do with what we were riding or pulling. Usually it was last Halloween’s costume, resurrected with the addition of a flower on the lapel of a clown suit or painted insanely onto the sheet of a small ghost. You’d see a cowboy riding a tricycle covered in pink roses or a black-clad witch, complete with pointed hat, wearing a garland of sweet pea blooms.

Really, the whole thing was ridiculous. But the parents loved it as much as the kids hated it. The only ones who didn’t seem to mind where the really small ones, often pulled in a wagon by mom or dad. They’d happily clap their pudgy hands, pausing occasionally to nap or to try and eat the décor. The dogs didn’t seem to mind either. Somehow it became part of the tradition to braid a collar of dandelions or put a crown of yellow dandelions on Fido’s head.

But anyone over the age of seven had to be forced at gunpoint to take part. The whole town would turn out with their Instamatics to sip watery lemonade and line Union Street, waving tiny American flags and cheering like they were watching the Super Bowl. On the street, boys hung their heads in shame at being draped in daisies; the only consolation being that every other boy was being similarly debased.

Any girl who wasn’t a girly-girl hated this. And any girl who hated flowers, or had allergies, had it worst of all. Sign me up for all three. I loathed being forced to pretend to be a princess when I would have preferred to be dressed as G.I. Joe. And mom would take my bike and, with masking tape applied with such thoroughness that it looked like mummy wrapping, would cover it with these hideous little flowers that were not only creepy, but also made me sneeze incessantly. So there I’d be, in one of my older sister’s hand-me-down dresses and a Cinderella hat made from sheet of construction paper, trying to ride my overloaded bike down a street clogged with miserable kids; my nose as red as a carnation and my mind filled with images of revenge. One day, I told myself, I’d force my parents to cover themselves in leaves and pine needles, dress up like total freaks, and walk slowly down Union Street while all the kids in town snapped photographs and laughed.

Stephen King has nothing on the demon mind of a child forced to do something against her will.

Why Bother?
Why bother trying to sleep when I have to get up at 4:45 anyway and it's now 2 am. It'll take me at least two hours, if not longer, to fall asleep if I can. So there seems little point in trying just to get 45 minutes of sleep. So I shall pull an all-nighter, which is usual for me, but not nearly as easy to manage as when I was in my 20s.

All-nighters are also easier when there's a goal. Studying for finals. Finishing a paper. Talking for 8 hours, lost in time, with a good friend or a new crush. But staying up all night watching movies because you know you're not going to sleep makes the time creep on. Perhaps I should write a paper just to give myself a task. "Examine the role of the voiceless woman in the novels and Dickens and discuss how the actions of his female characters either advance or hinder his plots."

Or not.

I read an article last week that said Michael Jackson took up to 10 Xanax a night. During this recent phase of insomnia and my comment how I had run out of Ambien, I heard from no fewer than 3 of my friends who were concerned to learn that I take sleeping pills and were worried about my becoming addicted. I take one pill every 2 or 3 days so that I can count on a few good night's sleep a week and my wonderful friends are worried about me. I love that. Didn't MJ had friends who watched out for him? Personally, I'm touched that they care enough to poke into my life and say "are you OK?" It gives me a total warm, fuzzy feeling. It doesn't alter the fact that I'm exhausted and cranky, but it does make me all warm and fuzzy.

I have the best friends in the world. Oh, and the most wonderful husband as well.

Photo of the Day: Not Too Sure

Again, not a great photo but so cute. This little guy is new to the kitten nursery and a bit unsure of the whole thing. But after a few syringes of food, a good tummy rub, and a nice snuggle in a soft blanket he soon came over to the cozy side.

Photo of the day: The Bubble

Right before it burst...

Scenes from Silver Creek: A Tale of Two Churches

My family was a two-church household. Mom (four-time President of St. Edith’s Women’s Club) is a die-hard Episcopal. Dad (Monday night Bingo caller for six years) was an equally die-hard Catholic. When they had kids they made a rule, they would alternate children, each parent claiming children to raise in their faith. My eldest sister, Kathleen was raised in mom’s church. My eldest brother, Ronnie went with dad. Diane came next and was claimed by mom. Peter went with dad. Then came me.

That was their big mistake; they had an odd number of children. The supreme and eternal question of my soul was decided on a coin flip. Dad won. I lost. My other sisters seem far better adjusted than I, having been raised on a diet of God lite and good will. I, however, had “Christ died for YOUR sins” ingrained in me from such an early age that to this day I feel guilty for everything from telling a little white lie to the oppression of slavery.

Every Sunday the other females in the family would turn left at the drive and walk down a tree-shaded street towards St. Edith’s. I, in a symbolism too hilarious to be ignored, would turn left with the men in my family and walk past Spender’s Mortuary, the Dead End Bar and Grill, and the sign for the city dump on our way towards the frigid bulk of Our Lady of Angels.

Where St. Edith’s was light, bright, and cozy with padded benches and happy hymns; OLA was dark, uncomfortable, and had two temperatures: cold and freezing. And it was filled with rows of hard wooden benches guaranteed to numb any butt within 10 minutes. No matter how often the church ladies changed the roses and carnations the place always smelled of rotten flowers and the hideous realism of the Stations of the Cross I swear look like sketches I’ve seen done by prisoners at Auschwitz.

When I was growing up, the iron, Irish hand of Father Patrick Sheehy, ran OLA with all the benevolence of the IRS. He was a big, grouchy bear of a man. And if you’re waiting for me to add the expected “with a heart of gold” you won’t get it. He was cranky, judgmental, cold, and absolutely the worst person to instill the warmth of God’s love in heart of a shy child. He was also, quite inconveniently, deaf as a stump. This affliction made confession a veritable cavalcade of embarrassment as, by the end, you were basically screaming out all your petty sins for the entire congregation to hear. It’s how Mr. Hopgood found out about Mrs. Hopgood’s tryst with his brother, and how my brothers found out it was I who told our parents about their flirtation with cigarettes.

Father Sheehy’s one concession to seeming human was the fact that he kept birds. He conscripted the boys club and had them build a huge aviary out behind the rectory and there he could often be found surrounded by his beloved finches, parakeets, and doves. Later on he badgered some of the fathers to build separate area where he could care for wounded pigeons and other wild birds. He even had a parrot for a few years, a large taxidermied-looking creature that dropped feathers out of its tail on a regular basis and yet never seemed to run out of them. This horrid creature made a noise like the unholy dead whenever anyone but Father Sheehy got too close and it was widely rumored that noise was responsible for Mrs. Luckweather’s final heart attack.

Photo of the day: Bury Me With My Dog

I cannot explain the iconography of this memorial. A man who looks like a miner and his faithful sidekick. Is it St. Francis, patron saint of animals? Is it King the Wonder Dog? In any case, it's at Holy Cross, the Catholic Cemetery in Colma. Not too far from where my father is buried.

Scenes from Silver Creek: Summertime Jam

Every summer the ladies of Silver Creek went into a frenzy of jam making. I remember being roped into the berry picking as a child. Fat bushes of blackberry and delicate beds of strawberry. Apricots warm from the summer sun and baskets of wormy apples. For weeks every kitchen would be too hot to enter as the heat of the day competed with the steam rising from ancient, vast stoves as to which was more uncomfortable.

My mother, sadly, made the worst jam in town and it was always a disappointment to me to see such delicious fruit and know it would be ruined by mom’s hammer touch. The blackberry jam would have tiny bits of branches in it that you would find, all unexpected, smeared on your January toast. The strawberry jam would be so sweet that it was almost painful to eat. Tasteless apple butter. I used to love to go to the homes of my aunts and taste their wonderful jars of summer glory. Why? I would ask, did my mother and only my mother miss the cooking gene in the family?

But every year she would tie on her sunshine yellow apron and rope in the family to work. The boys would haul cardboard boxes of empty jars from the basement and then be free to be free. The girls, unfortunately, were tied by antique gender roles into washing and sterilizing jars, slicing fruit, and handing mom ingredients like surgical nurses during a fruit appendectomy. When my sisters got married and moved out it fell to me, the baby of the family, to do the work that three of us used to share. And we did it, knowing full well that all of this sweat would result in gleaming jars of crap.

Even my father, who worshipped my mother, wasn’t up to the task of pretending her jam was anything other than awful. He even developed a “berry allergy” that got him out of having to put the thin, purple substance that mom called grape jelly onto his morning toast. When all of us kids tried to claim we’d inherited the same allergy, she refused to believe us. She took me, as the smallest, and sat me on the chrome and red-leather step stool in the kitchen and force fed me spoonfuls of grape jelly then watched me like a hawk to see if I came out in a rash. I didn’t and, to her mind, that made all of her kids immune from dad’s affliction. To this day my brother Ronnie blames me for not being a better actress. I tried to tell him that Katharine Hepburn couldn’t produce hives on cue, but there is no reasoning with a man who was daily forced to eat the much-feared cranberry-orange relish.

Each year at the Christmas boutique benefiting St. Edith’s, housewives all over Silver Creek would proudly produce the fruits of their summer labors for sale. Large wicker baskets would be decorated with red and green ribbon or sprigs of fake holly and filled with homemade goods. The tables of the church hall would groan under the weight of golden loaves of pound cake and plates full of sugar-dusted cookies. There was an unspoken competition to be first through the door and then make a beeline for Mrs. Hudson’s basket with glistening jars of strawberry jam, packets of sweet macaroons, eye-wateringly dill pickles, and a little pottery crock of clover honey.

Unfortunately for mom, her ineptitude in the kitchen was well known and nobody ever wanted her basket. After one year when it was the last basket left, dad took to making a great show of buying hers first “before anyone else beat him to it."

Photo of the day: Madeline

It's Bastille Day and I wanted to photograph something French. But aside from French's mustard and stacks of French music, there's not much around here that fits. So you get a refrigerator magnet. Sorry.

It's all part of my shameless plug, anyway. Tonight from 6-9 pm (Pacific time) I'll be playing an all-French special on my radio show. Vive la Revolution features such historic figures of French music as Charles Trenet, Yves Montand, Edith Piaf, and Maurice Chevalier. Plus current stars such as Sanseverino, Paris Combo, Arthur H, and Francis Cabrel. I'll also be playing music from French-speaking countries and French-speaking artists in Canada and elsewhere. Tune in to 90.1 FM in the bay area or over the internet at KZSU live. Or you can listen via iTunes radio; Radio -> College-> KZSU.

Vive la France!

Scenes from Silver Creek. The Funeral.

When Aunt Lenore finally wound down, at age 94, the whole town turned out for the funeral. The family bought five uniforms for the high school marching band and had them lead a New Orleans style parade down Union Street from St. Edith’s church to the cemetery out behind the softball field. It lacked some authenticity, as the band didn’t know how to play “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.” The best we could do was “Joy to the World” (the Creedence version, not the Christmas Carol). Since Aunt Camilla was already “appalled, disgusted, and sickened” by what she called “The Spectacle,” the bullfrog was just one more detail to offend her delicate sensibilities. She’d tried to put her dainty, size 5 foot down on the horseshoe wreath Aunt L had explicitly requested and her request to be buried in jeans and her beloved “I Love Dachshunds” sweatshirt. We outnumbered Aunt Camilla who washed her hands of the whole thing, and did as Aunt L wanted. (As a child I always thought Aunt Camilla must have the cleanest hands in Silver Creek as she was always washing them of something.)

The Reverend Polehouse delivered a lovely sermon about “loving thy neighbor” which, considering Aunt L’s many love affairs, seemed to be full of double entrendres that kept me just this side of giggles the entire time. Then we all stood and sang, “There is a Green Hill” and went outside to join the parade. All except Aunt Camilla, of course, who demanded to be driven the ¾ of a mile to the cemetery in a decent manner. We played rock/paper/scissors to see who had to drive her. My cousin, Daniel lost and helped Aunt Camilla into his pickup, which she regarded with horror, as if being asked to purposely step in manure.

After the graveside service (the solemnity of which was marred somewhat by the intrusion of a large and muddy sheepdog that came out of nowhere with a repulsive tennis ball in his mouth and a hopeful look on his face and who would not be dissuaded from bumping into us until someone, I think it was Mr. Jeevers from the hardware store, threw it for him.) we all headed to the Foreign Legion hall for casseroles and condolences and some much-needed, heavily-spiked Hawaiian Punch.

The day was hot and all the ladies were attired in light dresses. They were so heavily talcum powdered that when they went to hug you, small clouds of white rose like tiny dust storms from their bosoms and my sedate black dress soon had a grey tinge to it.

The men loosened their ties and took off their jackets, retreating into male groups to discuss sports and business. Across the street, the children were terrorizing the elementary school playground, their excited shrieks accompanied by the frenzied barks of the sheepdog that had followed the procession to the hall.

Inside the hall it seemed oddly dark after the brightness of the day. Amid the photos of old veterans shaking hands with Bob Hope there were displays of Aunt L. Pictures of her as a child, hugging a dumb looking sheep. As a bobbed-haired teenager with overalls and an arm slung around a girl that nobody could identify. On her first wedding day, and all the subsequent wedding days (four in all), in dresses of varying degrees of laughability and with husband of varying degrees of suitability. The only one any of us had ever liked was husband number three, Otto. A man of stunning plainness who obviously worshipped Aunt L and always went around looking slightly confused that such a force of nature had chosen him. When he died of a heart attack on an Over 40 Club bus trip to Branson, Aunt L went into the only period of depression I’d ever seen her experience.

Photo of the day: Orange Tree. Blue Sky.

The orange tree in our back yard has very dramatic branches against the blue of a summer sky.

Despite my best intentions of a photo safari, I had forgotten I'd be spending all day at the adopt-a-thon and, consequently, had to spend most of today recovering due to lots of sore muscles. In the good news department, however, my Ambien refill we be processed this week. On Wednesday. It'll take a few days to get here, but I can look forward to sleep sometime next week.

Photo of the day: Egypt or Colma?

Colma, of course. Where all the cool dead people hang out.