Photo of the day: Vigilance

She never gets tired of keeping watch. She stands firm in the rain and withers not in with the baking sun. She carries your name, announcing your identity when you can no longer announce for yourself. And through it all, she pays no attention to the flowers growing around her lifeless feet and over your sightless eyes.

Updates from the Shelter
It's been another busy week in the world of cat caretaking. 29 kittens in the nursery. Countless cats in the adoption area. I worked with many new faces this week, plus some old favorites. It's weirdly hot and humid today, so many of the cats were grumpy....especially the ones outside. I worked with two red cats today and had my most successful session ever with one of the guys who gives me trouble.

"Joe" tends to get hissy, swatty, and bitey and I haven't been able to figure out his triggers. Today I was extra watchful of his body language and noticed this tiny ear twitch that he gives before he turns. Because of that I was able to stop petting him before he got over stimulated. Everything was fine until I picked him up to bring him back and he became hissing, yowling cat from hell. Luckily one of the other volunteers was nearby so she opened doors for me, which made the return much easier.

One of the other red cats is a shy girl. Having learned my lesson from "Joe" I put her carrier down right in front of her cage. To my surprise, she jumped right in when I opened the door. Nice trick. Once in the socializing room she explored a bit, would come by for a pet and then wander away once more. After about 10 minutes of this she curled up in my lap and began to purr like a Ferrari. I think she eventually dozed off, having curled herself into a perfect ball. I had her out for 30 minutes because I just couldn't bring myself to disturb her. Once I did move again she jumped down and, to my surprise, hopped into her box again. She's so sweet and such a lovely girl.

Words cannot express how much I love volunteering there. And days like this, when your patience is rewarded with a shy girl making herself welcome in your lap, are the kind of days when this is the best paying job in the world.

Photo of the day: Corinthian Dawn

I know, you were expecting another cute kitten. Sorry to disappoint but a girl's gotta branch out.

Photo of the day: Scarves

As soon as fall comes I'll pull them out and show them off. I love my scarves, many of them come on the advice of my beautiful Husband. He in his bow tie, me in my scarf, we're styling those jazz shows.

Things I Believed When I Was a Kid...
- I thought the word "signed" was actually written on all those notes and letters people read in movies. "See you in two weeks. Signed, John."

- I thought alligator was pronounced "all-a-ga-tor-ay." Must have thought they were Italian.

- I thought there was one really, really long street in California called "Frontage Road."

- I thought that stars hummed and the really twinkly ones were humming the loudest.

- I had a hard time with the concept of the past and aging. So I'd see a handsome photo of Robert Taylor from the 40's and think he was gorgeous had to do be convinced that at that point he was either dead or 80.

- I didn't hear whatever good stuff my parents said about me but I heard loud and clear all the bad.

-I couldn't handle the "L part of my fist name and said my name was"wisa" My siblings would correct me "no it's LLLL-isa! So then I'd say "ULLLLL Weesa" I still get teased about this.

Photo of the Day: Little Cat With Little Pink Tongue

Because I'm a sucker for those little pink tongues. This guy was non-stop adorable in the nursery, and quite a bit of trouble as well.

Photo of the day: Whatever Happened to Missing Kids?

This is the ad on my gallon of 2% milk. Really? If I'm drinking 2% milk I will also probably be denying myself brownies. So taunting me with them is just plain mean.

Scenes from Silver Creek: The Art Show

The Silver Creek Arts Guild was, unfortunately, one of the most popular and certainly the most prolific club in town. They met once a week to gossip and, ostensibly, to work. I could never understand how everyone worked at once because they all seemed to have different mediums. At any one time you’d walk into the rec center and see Mrs. Hodges turning lumps of clay into differently-shaped lumps of clay or Mrs. Morgenstern painting yet another pastel seascape that would look exactly like the last pastel seascape.

Each season they had a “showing” which typically featured paintings with no perspective, slightly boring and out-of-focus photographs, and the occasional still life with unappetizing fruit. To see these still lifes you would assume that no one in Silver Creek had ever seen real fruit. They bore no resemblance in either shape or color to any fruit known to man.

Sadly for us, dreadful Aunt Camille was a member of the Guild and expected us to attend every show Her artistic oeuvre seemed limited to malformed ballet dancers or anemic poodles who always seemed to have either not enough or too many limbs. She would only branch out when the Guild would do themes. I remember for the “Childhood Dreams” theme she contributed a nightmarish series of scenes from Mother Goose that, quite frankly, scared the crap out of me when I was 6. I recall actually shrieking the following Christmas when I unwrapped her watercolor of The Old Man and the Shoe and, subsequently, I had to coaxed out from under the dining room table by my father before the rest of the gifts could be unwrapped.

The spring flowers show was a much-detested annual event and produced some exemplary pieces of horticultural horrors. I think I attribute my dislike of flowers to early exposure to oddly colored blobs of paint thrown on top of dead-fingers of stalk. They were universally awful and I was comforted to know that I was not alone in my hatred of the spring show above all others. I would typically try to get the flu that week. Once, when I was 14, I actually kissed 8-year old Benny Martin on the lips because he had strep throat I wanted to get sick enough to had an excuse to miss the show.

The amusing thing about these shows is that everybody won a ribbon. We had blue ribbons for first place of course, and red and white for second and third. But we had so many shows in town for so many various things (ranging from growing the largest watermelon to the best costume in the Halloween parade) that the city never could afford to have the name of the event put on the ribbon. Silver Creek bought them in bulk so all they said was “First Prize”. Not “First Prize, Spring Art Show.” Eventually everyone in town had a ribbon for doing, growing, or making something, even if it were just for showing up to the event.

Aunt Camille always won at least one blue ribbon per competition because everyone was afraid not to. I remember looking at one of her malformed ballerinas, and the combination of elongated body and disregard for perspective made me feel as if I were standing down a steep hill and looking up at a fun house mirror. I was vaguely seasick form the battling viewpoints and lines and kept finding myself leaning slightly back and forth to orient myself. I pointed this out to my friend Gina and we noticed that other people did the same thing. Eventually we stood in a corner and giggled as we watched everyone in town pause, look, and weave.

The landscape show was notorious for several unique and decidedly phallic geographic formations and bleak winter landscapes so depressing that the suicide hotline had an upswing in calls. Aunt Camille’s contribution that year was entitled “The Mighty Mississippi,” which she had never seen, depicted in an unlikely turquoise blue more suitable for the Caribbean. This wound through an idyllic, Mark Twain-esque dreamscape of weeping willows, rounded hills, and blue sky. Unfortunately her trees looked like green cigars, the hills looked like two breasts, and the sky was filled with clouds shaped like barnyard animals.

The only really good artist in town was Dr. Foster. But he only painted trout. That’s it. Not even other fish, just trout. And always dead. No mater what the theme Dr. Foster would contribute a trout painting. They were exquisite in detail and execution, but they were, after all, only dead trout.

Photo of the day: Black and White And Sleepy

Her Majesty Cipher, the World's Most Amazing Cat, Screw You if You Don't Agree tm.

Photo of the day: Flame

Pretty self explanatory, I should think.

Disclaimer: No houses were burned down while attempting this stunt. Do not attempt.

Pondering
After ten years on the air I'm considering giving up my radio show. I just don't look forward to doing my show every week the way that I should. And I'm beginning to feel guilty about taking up a primo spot for so long when so many people want it. But another part of me can't imagine not being on the air, learning about world music, and hanging out with all the wonderful, crazy people at KZSU.

Perhaps I'm just in a rut. Maybe I need to take a quarter off from world music and play blues. Or do a funk show. I'm not sure. And I haven't made any decisions yet....just thinking.

Photo of the day: The White Rose

Today is Bosworth Field Day. On this day in 1485, Richard III, the last Plantagenet King of England, was slain at the Battle of Bosworth Field by Henry Tudor, later Henry VII. Don't believe Shakespeare. Old Will was wrong about Richard. He was neither a hunchback nor a murderer. Don't believe me? Find out for yourself. The white rose was the symbol for the House of York, of which Richard was a member.

Photo of the day: The Escape Artist

She's figured out how to slide open the cage door and she's determined to get out. Hilarious to watch in action. It takes all four feet plus her mouth but she's getting better, and faster, at it. We now have to keep the door clipped shut so she can't go all Houdini on us.

Photo of the day: Openings

I think I managed to concuss myself in the middle of last night. It's a bit fuzzy but I think I was trying to avoid stepping on the cat and ended up going head-first into the fridge. I have a heck of a bump and it's nicely red and ugly. In a few days it will probably look like Husband has been knocking me around. I say the "concussed" part rather than just "whacked the hell out of my head" because I was really groggy this morning and, in fact, have no recollection of Husband kissing me goodbye. However, dear friends, I am fine (this is just one of the hazards of being a klutz) and this statement has nothing to do with today's photo. Just thought I'd mention it.

Wishing you all a bump-free day.

Photo of the day: Looking Up

Never underestimate the photograph possibilities of an airport. I could have shot several hundreds of shots were I not on the lookout for my soon-to-be-returning husband.

Catching Up
If zombies attack, we are all hosed according to science

.....
$10 million dollars because Hondas aren't tornado proof? Lady, you can't sue people because you're a fucking idiot.

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Who says teenagers aren't brainy? How about classes in riding the bus.

Photo of the day: Welcome to San Francisco

Please grab a cart.

Photo of the day: Crouching Tiger...Hidden Pipe Cleaner

This little guy is in the classic "I'm gonna pounce" position, just waiting for some unexpected prey to appear. I think he attacked one of his littermates about 10 seconds after this shot.

Photo of the day: Sartre Was Wrong

Just follow the arrows.

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.

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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.

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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.