A Very Good Dog

I like dogs.  I don't have any because my life isn't conducive to them sharing a home, but I like them.  I have friends with dogs, and I get my doggo fix by visiting and loving on their animal family.

There are dogs, and there are Very Good Dogs.  Some dogs try to human, and some dogs just don't care, and some dogs just dog so damned well it's a pleasure to know and love them.  They're superlative.  They set the bar high with enviable grace and ease.  They're unabashedly, perfectly imperfect and even when cross with them, their hoomans can't help but smile or laugh, shrug, and love them.

Trip was A Very Good Dog.  I liked him.  Sometimes, when no one was looking and so my reputation for not feeding dogs from my plate was safe, I would give him a little something - a piece of chicken skin, a tidbit of meat, or the last bit of soup or whatnot.  Strictly hush-hush, of course.  Reputation and all.

I let him lick me once or twice.  You may not think that's a big deal, but to me it's huge.  I do not let dogs lick me.  It simply isn't done.  Rare exceptions.  Trip was one.

A few times I even invited him up on the couch with me.  Shh, don't tell the others.

Trip was extremely patient with the kids, mine and his family's, even when he would have been justified in a growl, a nudge, a nip.  He loved his hoomans and they loved him.

Note the past tense.

A Very Good Dog crossed the rainbow bridge today.  I was honored to be there with his people as he ended his current earthly journey and left behind grieving hearts, shed his physical form and the cancer that was killing him, and went on to whatever is next.

Many people had the pleasure of knowing him.  He was loved and he will be sorely missed.

His hoomans permitted me to say my blessing as he crossed.  Thank you for that E and K2.  I wept a little.  I am not made of stone.

I say again:

Hail Trip.  Hail the traveler.
May your journey to the other side be an easy one. 
May you leave behind all memory of unhappiness and pain.
May you carry with you all memory of happiness and love.
May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who crossed before you.
And should you return to the circle once more, may those who loved you know and love you again.
Hail Trip.
Hail the traveler.

'Scuse me, there's something in my eye.

Dad

I wrote this on Thursday, but I didn't want to publish it until there was time for people to find out via means other than my blog.  Not that the folks who'd want to know read my blog, but I do try to be considerate.  This will be messy, but I'm disinclined to "fix" it.  I'm writing from the heart, and my heart is notoriously untidy under the best of circumstances.

Also, this is lengthy.
~~~~~

My Dad died last night.  This morning.  Just after Midnight.

I was not expecting that.

Well, I kinda knew it was more possible than not, since last week, but still.

I was hoping.

Last week I found out he was in the hospital.  My Uncle B was coming home from Costa Rica.  My stepmother S was on her way back from Sri Lanka.  I though Dad was in Sri Lanka with her.  I don't know why he wasn't, but I'm guessing he really wasn't feeling well or he wouldn't have missed that trip.

While I didn't know much at that time, I knew that for those two to drop their respective trips and come back to the US, things were probably dire.

I managed to talk to him on the phone for about a minute.  He was tired, in pain, couldn't even hold the phone for very long.  I told him I love him.  Several times.

He had surgery, and chemo, because cancer was the root cause of all of this.  Fuck.  Cancer.

He was in pain.  My Daddy was in pain.  He wanted to go  home.  To be done.  He went into hospice care and two days later passed through the veil.

No more pain.  No more cancer.  No more Daddy.

Let me tell you about my father.

He was almost 79, I think.  He and my mom married in 1968.  My brother was born in 1969.  I came along in 1972.  When I was too young to remember, he and Mom parted ways.

I remember occasional gifts in the mail, at holidays or maybe a birthday.  I remember knowing that other kids had fathers, and one day making the connection that this stranger who sometimes came around was my father, that "Dad" meant him, and that while other children had someone at home by that name, I did not.

For a while, that was okay, because it was our normal.  You can't miss what you never had.  Mom never let anyone speak badly of him in front of us kids.  Whatever went wrong, it was between them.  Thanks, Mom.

For a while, I wondered why Daddy didn't want me.  I guess I wondered why he didn't want us, because there was my brother, too, but mostly I wondered why he didn't want me.  What was wrong with me?  What did I do wrong?  Why didn't I hear from him on my birthday, so often gone unremarked by my paternal parent?  Little girls want their Daddies.  That is our first relationship with a male, and it's what we model all future relationships on.  I didn't know that, of course, being still in the single digits in age, but later...

Over time, he reconnected with us.  Largely thanks to S, my stepmother, who shook some sense into him.  I always liked S, even when I was an angsty teenage shit visiting for the summer.  She taught me some things about relationships, probably without knowing she did it - about speaking your mind, voicing what's right even if it's not popular, about sticking to your guns.  Also she taught me that there's no such thing as a seagull.  No, there isn't.  Really.  There are Herring Gulls, Laughing Gulls, Blackback Gulls...but no Sea Gulls.  Anyway.

Dad was a boatman.  He belonged on the water.  He was happy as a skipper, whether the vessel was large or small.  He was good at it.  I loved being on the water with him.  I didn't know until a few years ago that he was in the US Army for a bit.  He grew "Portuguese Peppers" in the woods once, which I often felt bad about because they never seemed to fruit, and he was a good gardener.  When I was a bit older, I found out that "Portuguese Pepper" was code for a different kind of plant.  Hint:  it wasn't actually a pepper.

I'm pretty sure he's been on every continent.

He was wicked smart, funny, and all around a decent fellow.  I admired him, I liked him, I loved him.

Here are some memories I have:

Sitting on his lap in a truck.  He let me steer.  We were at the top of a big hill.  I was very young.  It was awesome.

Eating those jellied fruit slice candies, the kind all covered in big sugar crystals.  Or was it the mint leaves?  He shared them with me.  I liked to nibble the sugar off of them.

Spending a small eternity (or probably a week or two) on his sail boat, the Osprey, "helping" him and S with netting and banding birds somewhere off the New England coast.  Jumping off the boat to swim.  Eating cereal out of those wee boxes, using them as bowls.  This is when I learned that I do not like powdered milk, reconstituted or not.  I do like jumping off of boats and paddling about in the ocean.  Also, salt water doesn't foam up when you shampoo with it.

Summer days on Martha's Vineyard, stretching out into forever.  Taking the John boat down to the beach.  Learning to catch crabs with a pig's foot.  Refusing to pluck ducks that he'd hunted.  His wizardlike ability to find arrow heads on the shore of the pond.  Being a little grossed out when he'd pull an oyster out of the water, open it, and slurp it down.  Wishing he would teach me to drive a stick shift.

Bird banding on Penikese, riding back to the Vineyard on the bow of the boat,  feeling the waves burst against the hull and spray me.  Stiff with salt, going to a store by the dock and getting lobsters for dinner.  The party after, people laughing and talking and eating and scaring the tar out of me with fireworks.

Him asking me if we should or should not pick up a hitchhiker.  They're common on the Vineyard.  I don't think I ever told him to pass one by.

Riding in the bed of the truck, up on the side, wind making a mess of my hair while he drove.

Helping him change a wheel bearing on his truck.  Learning to drive a lawn mower and cutting the grass in the field.  Learning how to prime and start the motor on the John boat.  Going to the huge garden and digging potatoes, picking vegetables to cook for dinner.  Making pretty salads for Dad and S to take to a party or for our own meal.  Peeing on the poison ivy.

Osprey and Scrimshaw, two of his boats that I loved.

Fried clams at the Menemsha Bite.

When I got married, we decided to have a Renfest kind of theme for the clothing.  Dad and S were game.  It was marvelous.  They danced at the reception and I loved seeing them together.

Telling him that he was my favorite crusty old fart, getting a laugh for that.

Our holiday phone calls.  We rarely spoke or visited each other, but I tried always to call on Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We might not talk for the rest of the year, but on those days, we caught up.

Talking to him about addiction, about dealing with, loving, an addict.  It was one of the most adult conversations we ever had, and he never made me feel stupid about it all.  The conversation about mental illness, my mental illness.  His striving to understand, and loving me regardless.

Spending Thanksgiving with him and S on the Vineyard when the Evil Genius was just shy of two.  Ohmuhgoodness, that sausage-brandied apricot dressing!  He and S asked me to make the cranberry sauce.  I'd never done that unless it meant opening a can.  They trusted me to make it right.  Pretty sure I did.

His voice.  My brother sounds just like him.  It will be eerie, now, talking to him.

No matter how angry, bitter, disappointed, disillusioned, or hurt I was about who we were to each other, how we were with each other, what we did or didn't have...I loved him.  Whatever he thought of me, he never made me feel bad for being...me.  Strange, silly, sometimes stupid, sometimes a bit too optimistic and too little realistic daughter, once I realized that his absence in my childhood wasn't about me, it was about him living his life, a life that simply didn't involve kids because it was too much, too out there in the world, too alien to him...I got over myself and realized that I could love him and it was okay.  And love him I have and will continue to do.

Hail, Flip.  Hail the traveler.
May your journey through the veil and into the next life be an easy one.
May you leave behind all memory of pain, sorrow, anger, and loss.
May you carry with you all memory of happiness and love.
May you be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before you, and should you return to this life once more may we who knew and loved you do so again.

I will miss you, Daddy.  I will miss knowing that you were somewhere on this old Earth, knocking about, birding, sailing, raising a little hell, exploring, loving life.

Hail, Flip.  Hail the traveler.

Dammit, Daddy.

Isabelle

Strange days.

Mum called me this evening to let me know that my grandmother passed through the veil at the beginning of the year.

Oddly, Isabelle (known to me as Mimi) has been on my mind of late.  I've been thinking about her, and dreaming about the house that I grew up in, where she and my grandfather lived for most of my young life.  I have been wondering where, and how, she was.

She wasn't kin by blood, but rather by marriage, wed to my grandfather for...umm...a long damn time.

After Papa died, Mimi returned to France and despite my efforts I lost touch with her.  She left our part of the family behind, and it seemed to me like she never looked back.  She moved, moved again, and I never got her new address.  I suppose I could have made more effort - there was a trust, there were lawyers who knew where she was - but why?  She made it clear through her absence and silence that she wasn't interested.  That hurt.  I had to let go.

Still, from time to time I would look for her online, a quick browsing of Google searches giving me nothing.  Last night, Mum found an obituary.

Mum and I talked about her sometimes, she relating news that had filtered to us months or even years after Mimi had come to the US for some reason, or perhaps whispers of where Mimi was living in France, me wondering if she was happy, if she felt loved and was content.  She wondered, once, whether Mimi was even alive.  I told her she'd know when the woman passed - the trustees would be in touch.  We laughed ruefully about that.  As it turns out, no one got in touch.  Mum found the obituary and talked to my aunt, who made some calls and found out what was what.  Without the curiosity and the drive to find out, who knows when we'd have learned of it?

She never told us when she was coming over the pond, and in fact seems to have instructed people who were in the know to NOT tell us.

She lived through the Nazi occupation of France.  She married, came to the US, found that her husband had lied to her about his circumstances and she left him (righteously, IMO), made a life for herself.  She was a terrific cook when she wanted to be.  She taught me to endure and even enjoy all kinds of foods I'd otherwise not have eaten.  From her I learned how to make vinaigrette dressing.  Until I was about 6, I spoke with her in French as easily as English. I can still read and sing in French, although I don't speak it very well any more and my understanding is weak at best.  Google translate has to do a lot of the work for me, these days.

Because of her, I learned exquisite table manners - I can, if pressed, still recall which utensil is for what and I have fond memories of high tea with her.  I still have the eggshell China teacups we used for such occasions. 

She drove like a maniac, but I would sleep in the car without fear.  She hated flying and would take pills and ride the Concord to minimize the horror.

In the evening, she and Papa would watch the news in their living room, and I would sit with her, leaning on her, and she would stroke my head.  She taught me how to pour and appreciate wine.  I can eat just about anything with a knife and fork thanks to her.  At Christmas she would let me set up the nativity scene.

She said horrible things to me with the best of intentions, never knowing how she devastated me.  Some of the the shadow demons with which I do battle sprang from her.

I wasn't much connected to her French family, but I adored one of her nieces (Christine) and found the rest tolerable.

She was a staunch friend and ally to those she loved and believed in.  She was opinionated and acerbic.  Her anger was terrible, her approval rare, her favor much sought after.  No one wanted to be left in the dark, arctic chill of her bad side.
She stuck with my grandfather through his end, and that was no small thing.  I believe that she loved him, and he loved her, even when they didn't see eye to eye (which happened a LOT).  She was relentless in making sure he was well taken care of.  A bulldog on his behalf.  It must have been exhausting.

She wasn't terribly interested in church when I was little, but she was Catholic and became more so as she aged.  I hope her God saw the good in her and let her in to his halls.  There are those who would say she deserved a place in Hell, but I don't think so.  I think she knew enough of Hell here in her earthly life. 

One of the last things I said to her was that she had hurt me, deeply, but that I loved her, and that nothing would change that love.  I meant it then, and ever after.

I hope she remembered that.

There's so much more that I could say, but she was too complex to encapsulate in a blog.

Rest in peace, Isabelle, Mimi, grandmother, force of nature.  Rest in peace.

What Gun Control Means at Casa de Crazy*

*Update below.

On Thursday afternoon, T was shot.

By a gun.

Not a water gun.

A .45, with a hollow point bullet.

He was in the car with his best friend, J.  J buys and trades firearms.  He is reasonably intelligent and safe, but on Thursday something went wrong.  While he was inspecting this particular firearm that (as I understand it) he'd just bought, checking the slide, the firearm...well...fired.  That was unexpected.  It should have been empty.  Who sells a loaded weapon?  And then doesn't tell the buyer it's loaded?

The bullet was one of the particularly horrid sort, a hollow point, designed to do as much damage as it can while it tears through flesh.

In T's case, it went into his abdomen, in one side and out the other.  Because of the very close range, it didn't have a chance to blossom into the little nugget of destruction it was designed to be.  Because it rocketed through soft tissue, it did relatively little damage, all things considered.

T took a helicopter ride to a level 1 trauma center and had some surgery performed on him.

There may be some long term repercussions - he lost some...er...to put it delicately...innards...and there's a concern of infection, but overall things are nowhere near as devastating as they could have been, and for that we are grateful.

So this happened on Thursday, as I was at Mum's sort of keeping her company and cooking dinner - she broke her leg on Monday and has been subsisting on soup and yoghurt, a home cooked meal was in order.  I received the call as I was slathering butter on the chickens I planned to roast.  My hands were all buttery and I almost didn't answer my phone, but a call from my sister-out-law is unusual so I picked up, butter and all.

I didn't immediately drive down - to what purpose?  He would be out cold for a while, and there were already people there with him, people who love him and would let me know if there really was a need to go NOW.  I didn't tell The Evil Genius about his father, because why let him worry all night?   We would go the next day, Friday, and I would let him know what happened while we were driving.  Had things gone bad, I would have told him what was up and driven us down to the trauma center, but they didn't.

With luck, T will be out of the SICU today, and perhaps out of the hospital next week.  The Evil Genius and I went to see him yesterday and will try to go again tomorrow if I can find a sitter for Sprout.

I wouldn't be me if I didn't turn this into a teachable moment.

So, on the way to see T, the Evil Genius and I talked about our "Rules of Guns".  These are OUR rules and may not mesh with other peoples' rules, but hopefully they will stick with him and save him experiencing what T and his friend J are experiencing now.

Guns are not toys.
Always maintain your gun.
The gun is always loaded, even when it isn't.
Never point a gun unless you intend to shoot.*
Never shoot unless you shoot to kill.*
Never take a life unless it is to feed your family or in defense of yourself or another.
Always honor the life you take.

My idea of gun control is to be in control of your firearm.  I don't like them.  I won't use them.  I'll cut a bitch, but shoot?  No.  I won't own one because at best it would gather dust and at worst it would arm an assailant because I wouldn't use it.  That said, I don't have anything against anyone else having one if they are safe and sensible with it.  I don't blame the hammer for smashing my thumb, I blame my use of it.  I feel the same way about firearms - I don't blame the object for the results of its use.

Speaking of blame - I don't blame J for this.  Perhaps neither of them were as cautious as they could have been.  Certainly the man who handed J a loaded firearm had an obligation to TELL him!  Everyone involved will very likely exercise more caution in the future, and life will go on as life does.  I am as worried about J as I am T - they'll both have scars after this.

If you'e the praying kind, the blessing kind, then sparing a bit of love, compassion, and healing energy for T would be much appreciated - I'm a damn good witch but I can only do so much.

*Update the first - T is out of the ICU and in a regular room.  He is in good spirits.  He should recover fully.  Tomorrow he may be given his first semi-solid food, mashed potatoes!  I'm bringing him some home made chicken broth and some chicken soup, with doctor's permission, later this week.

Update the second - T was rousted by the PT folks yesterday and marched up and down the hall in his terribly fashionable open-backed hospital gown.  Alas, I was not there to take photographs with which to blackmail him later.

Update the third - T is out of the hospital and heading home for the remainder of his recovery, woot!!!

*I was recently mocked for this because what about cleaning or target shooting?  "Oh, well, I guess I have to kill someone every time I pick up my gun!"  You know what?  Laugh.  That kind of foolery is what gets people killed, because it makes it easy to dismiss safety and responsibility.  As far as I'm concerned, guns aren't funny.  If you can't follow a few simple safety guidelines, I'm not sure I want you in my home or if I want to be in yours.  Fuck me for NOT wanting me or my children to be part of a horrid statistic.  

Balloon

There's often a balloon.  Tonight it's red.  Somewhere is an orange one, sadly deflated from its prime.  It languishes in corners and under beds until Sprout needs a pretend orange or something small and squashy.  Tonight it's the red one, still large, round, proud.

There was a blue one that lasted quite well, several weeks, until an unfortunate popping from an enthusiastic bite.  The terrific bang it made surprised me into dropping a spoon in the kitchen and made her laugh maniacally for several minutes, then mournfully cry out "My 'loon!  My 'loon!" followed by "Mama, can I have another one please?  Pleeeeeaaaaase???" and then exhortations of "Papa, you blow it!"

The red one is a good size for hands both small and large.  It's been stuck between the fan blade and the ceiling until Papa effected a rescue.  She likes to rub her teeth against it, making a kind of squeaking, frog-ish noise.

Her favourite thing, though, is to toss it at her Papa, then catch it when he boinks it back towards her with his fingertips.  She could play endlessly.  When the balloon goes wild, she shrieks, giggles, chases it, tosses it back to him.  From time to time she will stop, lie on the lounge, hold the balloon, roll from side to side.  Or she'll carry it about, tucked under her arm.  She talks to it.

When it pops, there will be another one.  And another.  We buy them by the bagful, worth the few cents per balloon - imagine a few pennies for hours of fun.

It would be worth far, far greater expense just for the joy of watching them play...

Faire Play

Someone's mother was sufficiently entertained, and I'm forgiven for the horrifying state of Casa de Crazy. It was a fun day.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Elvis Is In the Building

My friend K gave me the green light to post pics of her new wee dude (warning, there may or may not be a partial boob-shot in here), so I give you Elvis*:

Uh thangyou, thangyouverruhmuch...

Wee little monkey toes...

Well, it ain't a peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwich, but it's a start...

The King needs his beauty sleep...

Whadaya mean, I can't have a peanut butter, bacon, and banana sandwich for at least another year?

*Names changed to protect the innocent...but did you SEE those sideburns??

About a Baby

My friend K had her baby yesterday. Oh, wait...did I mention that my friend, bandmate, sister-of-my-heart was pregnant? Yeah, about that...oopsie.

She had a boy, seven pounds, nineteen inches long, full head of hair, and (no kidding) sideburns. I'm calling him Elvis because that's not his name and hello? Sideburns! Awesome!!

I went to visit them in the hospital and took a bunch of pictures, but am not publishing them yet because I figure it's only fair that she get first crack at makin' the little feller famous in the Blue Nowhere, since she went to all the trouble of growing and birthing him.

Instead, I will regale you with photos of the little lad's room.

K likes to decorate her children's rooms, give them style and personality. She went with earthy colors for Elvis; chocolate brown, sage-ish green, and medium pale blue with forest critters were the main design points.

Because I'm broker than our political system (but far less shady), I offered to make her a quilt, as I did for her daughter The Bean. She gave me some fabric (seven different prints!) and the go-ahead. Here's a close-up of the quilt:

I love the owls.

I made a little pillow for Elvis's rocking chair...but it was too small to be a butt cushion, so I'll make another. Good thing he won't need it for a while!

Here's the quilt on the crib. I made a simple semi-random patchwork and backed it with coffee-ice-cream colored anti-pill fleece. No batting - the little guy doesn't need to roast! I didn't do any fancy quilting...just ties the corners of the squares. It's washable, portable, and cuddly, and as long as K was happy (she was) I wasn't going to get too fussy with it. I like making quilts people aren't afraid to use.

The awesome bumper that matches her color scheme? Another friend found it at Goodwill for maybe three bucks! Sweet!!

Check out the insanely cute baby biker boots! I want a set just to put on one of my Teddy bears.

K is an artist...she does wonderful things with glass, with mixed media, and with paint. One of the things I love about her kids' rooms is how she surrounds them with herself, with her love and creativity. Lucky kids. She painted these owls based on the fabric:

Don't you want one for your own?? She's hireable...although you might have to wait a bit...she did just have a baby.

And then these little guys, too, because why not?

And then got a little funky and linear and other artsy phrases:

This only looks like an empty canvas:

Really, it's an amazing piece of potential waiting to be fulfilled. She's going to paint it with a nest (I think) and fill the nest with photos of the people who will surround Elvis in his life - family, friends, people who will love him, tease him, and maybe occasionally give him presents. Cool, huh?

And then there are the Ugly Dolls. I love Ugly Dolls. I keep threatening to steal my son's...they are so full of the awesome.
Because K travels to sci-fi conventions a lot, she has access to vendors who sell the dolls, and she brings them home with her. When I win the lottery, I'm buying a whole set, just for me. Meanwhile, I will play with Elvis's when he's not looking.

Look at this doodad...it's got pockets for holding toys or nappies or bearer bonds in!

Bird has a dragon one that K bought him several years ago...I bet she got the frog at the same place. Ikea, anyone??

Finally (I heard that sigh of relief!), a last look at one of the little lamps in the baby's room:

Good grief, isn't that just fantastic?

I don't know where she finds half this stuff...but I do know there are few babies in the world that will come home to a room so filled with love and welcome - a room put together by his mama, his papa, his mama's and papa's friends and relations, everyone happy to welcome another life into the circle. We're all family, here.

Welcome to the circle Elvis!!

Family

We've had some quiet days here at Casa de Crazy. The holidays are over, the Evil Genius's birthday is past, and we're settling into Winter and something of a pattern for our daily lives. Last week, a couple of us took turns feeling rather unwell and are really only just now on our feet again.

This evening, the Evil Genius wanted to play with his new Monopoly game (thank you Aunt J, my ex-sister-in-law, aka my sister-out-law), and wondered if I would play with him. I've put him off with other games and toys lately, busy with my own thing, and he was so hopeful...I decided that blogging could wait, housework could wait...my kid needed a round of Monopoly.

Someone had an errand to run, but he offered to join us when he got back.

The three of us sat at the dining room table and played for nearly three hours. The Evil Genius had plenty of opportunity to work with his math skills and to learn about negotiating and calculating the potential benefits of a deal versus the pitfalls. He had ample opportunity to remember (and be reminded) not to interrupt other people when they're speaking, to keep track of his turn, and to read cards and instructions.

He even saw what paying an honest compliment can mean to a body - I drew the Community Chest card that claims the reader has taken second place in a beauty contest and won some money. He offered "Well that makes sense because you're beautiful..." Whoof...seven years old and already knows how to lay it on thick!

He had his dinner while we played - fish sticks and baby carrots and the most basic food group of all, catsup (studies show that little boys are fifteen percent catsup and get cranky when their supply is low) - and played past his bedtime a bit. Someone suggested we finally end after two more turns, and we agreed. We ended up about even, no clear winner - each of us had monopolies on the board, each of us had buildings and cash. We'd helped each other out, laughed, chatted about nothing and everything. The TV wasn't on. No news or talk show on the radio. No one on the computer paying only half attention to what was going on. No one on the phone. We focused on each other, on listening and seeing and being.

When we were done, and I'd gotten the Evil Genius off to his room, I realized that tonight...tonight, we felt like a family. Sweet.

Family isn't always who you're born to. Sometimes you have to build it with bits and pieces, a ragtag collection of people and critters and love and elbow grease.

It's not always blood...sometimes it's choice.

Welcome to the Family...

"What the hell do you mean, 'Hang in there!'?? Get me a freakin' ladder!!"

Thanks to a truly epic and kind donation from one person (thank you, Mizz D!!!) with an (obviously) enormous heart, and a little extra squozed out of out home budget, I took Rook to the vet today. Much to my relief, she does not have any of the various plagues that are fatal in felines and would have meant not only not getting out of the pen, but being euthenized on the spot. Please believe I would not have done it lightly, but releasing a diseased animal into my home population is out of the question, as is setting her loose outside to fend for herself until she dies.

Whew.

She's been given a deworming pill (possibly the nastiest tasting thing she'll ever have in her mouth, and she gave me the stink eye over it) and de-flea-ifying drops and has had her first round of shots. We came home with a bunch of free stuff from the vet, who was very empathetic about our anemic finances and did everything they could to provide a maximum of service for a minimum of cost.

I even had a dollar and seventy-two cents leftover! Woo-hoo, iced-tea is on me!

So she's officially part of our dysfunctional little clan. Wlecome to the family, Rook. Poor thing.

I'm Beachy

We visited with my Uncle for a bit this morning. We chatted about this and that, met some family we didn't yet know, and Mum and I showed Uncle T our tattoos. Cousin C (Aunt D and Uncle T's daughter) thought they were cool. I'm not sure if uncle T knew what to make of them...but I think...maybe...he was a little pleased. Eventually, we hauled the Evil Genius to the beach. He was keen to play in the sand and waves.

The trouble was, the beaches we remembered swimming and playing on weren't there any more - all condos and waterfront developments, now. We finally found some county beach...

...which looked lovely, and was quite nice...but we couldn't really swim. It seams the hurricanes of the last few years have done a number on the shore, and where one used to be able to walk out on silken sand and swim with ease, it's now quite stony and rough, with a number of break zones to provide chop.

We managed to have a lovely time, anyway - Bird helped Gramlin hunt for shells and played with us in the surf.

It was a beautiful day, windy, enough cloud to keep the sun from cooking us...

...and lots of treasures on the beach. in addition to several coconuts and a few million sea urchins, there were some corals and sponges to be found.

We've only been back in our room for a little while, and are heading out soon - we plan to have dinner before the visitation so we can stay for the whole thing if we want without worrying about the Evil Genius getting hungry.

My Uncle seems to be holding up well...he's surrounded by friends, kids, grandkids, and us weirdos, and I think he had quite a while to get used to the idea of Aunt D's passing...but I think he'll be lonely when we're all gone, and I'm hoping he will find something to sustain him when the house is once again silent.

Today, we spent some time living, and it was good.

Aunt D and the Big "C"

I posted a while ago about my Aunt D. She was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It's not operable, and it's fatal.

Or is it?

Her cancer marker has shrunk. That's a good thing, as I understand it. In January, she will have some sort of test - if the magic number revealed by this test is 37 or lower, she is in remission. That's an even better thing.

So many people are sick, suffering, fighting on a cellular level for life. Maybe you have someone in your life with the gnawing demon inside them. I hope they win. Will you hope my Aunt D wins, too? If ever there was such a thing as magic, and if ever one could use this magic, I would make such a spell...one to set Aunt D's test score at zero, to vanquish the growing health-horror of cancer to the deepest, darkest reaches of the halls of disease, locked behind iron-bound oak doors that can never be opened again so that no one ever has to know they carry their own death in them, and it's devouring them millimeters at a time.

I don't pray, at least not in the way most people think of prayer. I do sing...and my songs are my prayers, my spells, the deepest root of the tree of me. You'd better believe that from now until the test results are in, I will be shaking the rafters for Aunt D, and for anyone else in her boat.

Sing with me, please?

I promise (maybe).

I read this over at Noble Pig, and it reminded me of when I was a kid and one of my (many, many, no really, I can't count them all) quirks; I don't make promises.

Not often, anyway.

When someone does manage to wrangle a promise out of me, I'll promise to try, but not to do. I won't make a promise I am not certain of keeping - if I think weather, time, humanity, or my own perfidy will keep me from keeping my word...I won't give my word.

Promises flew through the air like popcorn from a lidless hot-air popper when I was a kid. I can't begin to tell you how many trips to Disney World were promised by my grandmother as rewards for good grades and/or behavior - but I can tell you that I went once, with someone who never promised we'd go, just showed up one day and asked Mum if he could borrow me and my brother for adventures in the home of the rodent with a side jaunt to Cape Canaveral (Thanks, GDH - that was awesome). Other than the one person who'd never promised to take us anywhere, the trips never happened. When I was six, I really believed the promises...then I cottoned on.

From my grandmother I learned that people make promises because it's more convenient than being honest, because they want something from you.

Now, I am not referring to mistakes like mixing up dates or times, or when something catastrophic happens and things can't be avoided.

Nope. I'm talking about promising your ten-year-old daughter that you are coming to visit her at boarding school this weekend and not showing up. And she refrained for going roller-skating with the rest of the dorm because she was waiting for you. So instead, she spent Saturday in a tree coming to the conclusion that she meant absolutely zero to you. That's what I mean.

If it happened only once, that would be one thing - but more than thirty times in four years? Umm...that's a pattern, a habit.

From my father, I learned that promising is easier than telling someone they mean less to you than the party, the boat, the hunting trip, the inconvenience of the effort of keeping that promise.

I was probably fourteen when the last straw hit me. It was such a stupid thing, really - my grandmother decided I wasn't fucked up in the head enough and maybe an eating disorder and an unhealthy attitude towards food were just the things I needed, so she placed me on a special diet. Easy for her to do - I lived at a boarding school where she didn't have to implement this bizarre diet - the staff did. Bless their hearts.

I was seriously limited in my dining options, since I wasn't permitted to consume anything with wheat, oats, sugars, yeast, or anything remotely resembling "tasty".

One night a week, we planned our own meals. One week, the other kids decided to have root beer floats for desert. I didn't say anything, just knew I wouldn't have any. As usual, I would probably just leave the room.

One of the relief house-parents knew about my restrictions and offered to get me some special ice cream - I couldn't have a float, but at least I'd have a special treat, too. Since I'd been living on rice cakes, tofu, and tree bark for months, I was happy to believe in her promises.

The anticipated night came, and we had our dinner (lasagna for everyone else, salad with no dressing for me)(yes, some eighteen years later I remember - that garlic bread smelled good!). I didn't mind that I couldn't have lasagna or garlic bread - I had a treat waiting for me.

Or...did I?

Yeah, umm...it seems that a certain relief house parent (I don't have room to explain this, here. maybe some other time) had forgotten.

So while the other kids were digging in to ice cream and pouring root beer, I was quietly waiting for my promised Tofutti. A plate was thrust under my nose. A plate with rice cakes on it. As an added bonus, some old, rancid, organic, no sugar added, stir the oil back in every time you open it peanut butter had been swiped across the tops. Festive.

And definitely not on par with Tofutti, ice cream, or root beer floats. I asked what had happened to the Tofutti she'd promised. She casually said "Oh, I forgot about that" and she made it clear that it meant nothing to her. I started to cry. Yes, I know, it was a stupid thing to cry over...but she'd promised. I'd looked forward to it for a week, endured meals I wouldn't feed to the worst of humanity knowing I had this one small thing in my future. I mentioned that she promised, and she basically told me to get over it, I was being childish (Umm, hello? I was a child!!), and it didn't matter.

When I declined the offered taste treat, I was called ungrateful - ungrateful for the effort this woman had made in un-bagging some stale old rice cakes and topping them with something akin to baby shit but with less appeal.

I took the plate, stared at it for a moment, and did something I'd never before done. I lost my shit. I threw the plate at the woman (I missed, but the offending cakes did stick to the wall in a most satisfying manner)(organic peanut butter apparently makes a fine stand-in for wallpaper paste, should you run out) and left the dorm. She yelled at me to stop, and I kept right on going.

I'd never rebelled against anything, never lost id like that before. It was a revelation. She stood in the doorway screaming, and I kept right on walking, over the lawn, past the big hexagonal school building, and into the woods. If I had known the word "fuck" at the time, I think I might have used it.

That was the last time I believed in a promise. Oh, sure, I'll hope that someone means it, but I don't put any faith in the vow - I don't trust promises, and (sadly) I am rarely disappointed in their breaking. I am (more sadly) usually stunned in their keeping.

I, myself, will not be forsworn. I'll die first. That's not hyperbole - I mean it. If I promise a thing, I will kill myself keeping my word. I have not broken any of the rare promises I've made in life, nor will I. I may ask to be released from a promise, but I won't break it. I won't disappoint my son the way I was disappointed - I won't wound him with that kind of carelessness. I won't do that to anyone.

Hell, I even hedged my wedding vows, promising not to love forever, but to remain as long as love lasted. No "'til death do you part" for me. Nope. It was "As long as love lasts". I won't promise forever...won't even promise next week. I'll promise the moment I'm in and no more.

I could go on about the promise that's kept me kicking through this old life, and the aftermath of my tempestuous, teen-angsty blowup over Tofutti (today, I would consider it a favor if you didn't give me any)(and doubly favored am I if you never, ever offer me anything with tofu it), but this has gone on enough.

I'll post that other stuff another time. I promise.

Oh, and? Noble Pig didn't break a promise - she made a simple mistake from which she and her child will recover and learn. I just feel the need to point out, again, that it's not the same...because she's a terrific woman, a loving Mum, and human. It was the disappointment that reminded me...that's all...

At the Movie

On Saturday, we took Bird to see Kung Fu Panda in the theater. It was his second movie-going experience, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself. The theater we patronize has excellent popcorn and several seats that are extra wide - meant, I am sure, for extra-large or disabled customers, but perfect for a mother and her little boy to sit and snuggle during the film.

We used the extra-wide seat because Bird's not heavy enough to hold down a regular seat on his own (although it is funny to watch him try and end up folded in half for his troubles), and last time (Horton Hears a Who) he ended up in my lap for most of the film. That was lovely, but not terribly comfortable for me. In the wide seat, he could lean against me, sit up straight, or even crawl onto my lap if he wanted. For the most part, he leaned against me.

The movie was fun, but the best part was when, during a slight lull in the action and noise, he said "I love you", eyes glued to the screen, hand buried in his popcorn. Sigh.

About A Wedding

Burlap Condoms has invited her readers to share their awful wedding tales, leading off with one of her own.

I haven't been to many weddings (should I feel unloved or something??) and they were all loverly, so instead of sharing something awful, I'm braggin'.

I was married on a Friday the Thirteenth in October, on the day of the full moon, in my Mum's front yard by a judge, wearing a Renaissance style dress. T was wearing a sort of Pirate/Three Musketeers getup, complete with sword. Geeks, we. Our guests were invited to wear Rennie-garb or "resort casual" dress, which was a phrase I thought I made up on the invitations (turns out I didn't, oh well) and did nothing to clarify to guests how they could dress if they didn't want a costume. I do NOT eschew obfuscation!! What I really meant was "Hey, as long as your are clothed and not wearing your rattiest blue jeans, it's cool", but that was way too long for our little created-at-Kinko's invite. Hey, the art on the front was an original piece drawn for us by an artistic friend, so it wasn't all bad.

The original piece of art is hanging in our living room. We had it on a table at the wedding, and friends and family wrote their well-wishes on the mat. Some of them are gone from this world, but their words still linger.

The ceremony was less than five minutes - seriously, it took longer for us to walk down the "aisle" (a pebbled path from the house to the arbor) than it did to say vows.

Words blathered, we stood for photos (taken by a couple of friends because I'm too cheap to pop for a pro. Photos turned out amazing) with our REAL flowers, then headed to the tent on the other side of the driveway, where our potluck reception was held. Yes, I AM that cheap.

The tables had linens, there was a dance floor, and the flowers on the bridal table were real. So were the floating candles on the other tables (best friend provided them, and they were lovely.) We didn't do place cards, preferring the informality and conformability of mingling, of folks sitting where they liked with whomever they liked, getting to know each other. We had scattered throw-away cameras on the tables so our guests could be our photographers. They did us proud.

The food was amazing - everyone brought out their best creations for us. We had plastic plates and cups - so many, in fact, that we are still using them when we go camping! The wedding cake matched my dress, white on white brocade pattern, entirely by accident. The Groom's cake (this has to be a Southern thing, as I never heard of it until Steel Magnolias and my move to the South) was a red-velvet, armadillo cake. Really. I still have the head and the arse in my freezer. Is that wrong?

We drank the obligatory toasts, but T had a secret - ginger-ale in his glass rather than champagne. He doesn't drink, never has, won't. I was fine with that.

We used the same DJ that played our SCCA events (Sports Car Club of America, for whom we worked turns as safety marshals). We danced for what would be the only time (so far) in our marriage, to an Eagle's song. Classy, no? During the dance, I was quietly trying to reassemble his wedding ring - he had a puzzle ring, and had managed to let it fall apart...and he didn't know how to put it together again! Lucky I did, and could do it without looking. His ring was back on his finger before anyone noticed anything amiss - we have some superstitious family members, and what on Earth would they have made of that?? Hmm...come to think of it...

I wasn't one of those little girls who dream about a princess wedding, pearls and crystals on the dress, twelve carat diamond on my finger, all that. I was happy with my Mum's engagement and wedding rings, a dress sewn by a seamstress friend for just about cost, potluck reception serving foods made with love by the people who fill my life with the best of themselves even when they're at their worst. I love that our invitation was drawn by a friend. I love that our reception wasn't catered, didn't break the bank, but gave our friends and local family a chance to shine. I love that our friends and family, rather than burden us with a bunch of household goods we didn't need (I already had one of every kitchen gadget known to man), tried to surprise us (well, me)(it's very hard to surprise me, but I bless them for the effort) by chipping in for a cruise for our honeymoon - we weren't going to have one, otherwise.

Our wedding cost less than many women spend on their gowns. I am proud of that - why spend your (or your parents') savings on a gown you'll wear once? On a hall you won't notice, on food you won't taste? I know it's the dream for some, and that's fine...I've been a pragmatist since I was a child, and it didn't make sense for me...and T didn't care, so long as we were married. Bless him.

At some point, T and I slipped into the house and changed into blue jeans - and so did a number of our guests. We eventually drove off to the B&B we were staying at. I offered to come help clean up the next day, but was firmly told "no". They wouldn't let me help set things up, either. Heck, I didn't even help cook the rehearsal dinner (steaks on the grill, corn on the cob, rocking on the front porch of Mum's house in the dusk). I was secretly glad to leave it to someone else.

Long as it is, that's a nutshell of the day.

So - how about you? Have a bad experience at yours or someone else's wedding? Have a good one? Tell me about it!

Well, Sugar Honey Iced Tea!

Yes, I said it...Sugar Honey Iced Tea!!

We are having a rough time here at Casa de Crazy. Actually, we aren't having a bad time at all but the people in our lives are certainly enjoying their share of challenges, and we're feeling it.

First there was Skidmarks. I know he was just a cat, but love anyone or anything long enough, and their sudden absence in your life will sting whether they had two or four feet.

Then Mum found out that someone we know has lung cancer - not a surprise given his chain-smoking habit, but still a bit of a blow.

Then there was our young friend who took his own life because he just couldn't see any other way to end his hurting.

Then, while we were in Ohio, T had to call and tell us that Mum's other cat was in congestive heart failure and the vet wanted to know if they should keep trying to save her or let her go. Mum let go - we have long agreed, we wouldn't keep a human on life support, so why would we torture a pet (OK, fine, animal companion, geeze) that way?? When she got home, Mum had to retrieve the husk for burial. Whee.

We just found out that another friend is in the ICU and has been for several weeks now...seems he has pancreatitis, kidney failure, and some side dishes to go along with that. They can't get his blood sugars down, and that's dangerous, so he's in for the long haul until they sort his innards out and everything starts behaving again.

And now this. I was looking forward to August - we had a family trip planned wherein all of us were going up to one of those Carolinas for a party...a birthday party. Mum's brother is turning even older, and we were all going to party on the beach and let all the new cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings, and general weirdoes meet and greet. It would have been fun...a weekend at the beach with family we haven't seen in years. Look out, whichever Carolina it was in, the L family's comin'!! Or...not.

The trip's been canceled. My uncle's wife, my Aunt D, has cancer. Inoperable pancreatic cancer. Chemo, radiation, whatever...it won't matter. She can get treatment, but it's incurable...so die sooner but not ravaged by treatment or die later but have a really crappy time of it. Whee. Double whee.

I hurt for my Uncle, right now. His wife is funny, occasionally outrageous, a tigress for her children, thoughtful, and just a touch nuts...which makes her a perfect fit for our family. She loves to send cards to her family - Bird has received Valentines, Easter cards, Hallowe'en cards, and I think there's even been one or two for President's Day, Groundhog Day, and Talk Like a Pirate Week, too. The cards always, always have holiday themed confetti in them - we've learned to open mail from Aunt D and Uncle T with caution and a broom handy. But we always smile, and Bird lives to play with the confetti. Various holidays are scattered all over the house, under cushions, under chairs and beds, in his closet, in books - we'll be finding it for years. Aunt D had to put up with Mimi, too. She brought Pepsi and potato chips into a house that was usually stocked with fruit, vegetables, cheese, and water...or the occasional natural soda. I haven't seen her since before my wedding. I can't remember when I last saw her, actually. We talk via e-mail sometimes, but that's about it.

Now, I am hoping to see her one last time before she dies. I'd really like her to meet my son. Heck, to meet my husband, since she never has. August was going to be that time - the time for T to meet the woman who sends us e-cards regularly, never misses a birthday or holiday, and often sends patriotic, troop-supportive e-mails our way because she know T likes them.

So, shit. Shit, shit, shit, and more shit.

I really like Aunt D, and this sucks. I know, I know, she was going to die eventually from something, but I would prefer it was another twenty years from now from, say...an overdose of laughter. Not pancreatic cancer.

I really would like her to meet my son, who is so much like my grandfather, like her husband and son, like all of us. I would like her to see his jug-handle ears, blue eyes, evil genius. I'd like her to meet my husband, a man who has tolerated more crazy than Bedlam and is still here to tell about it.

OK, enough of the downers. She's still alive, still well enough to enjoy that...she's seen her kids married and having children and she has all summer to tan to her heart's content without worrying about wrinkles or skin cancer. We will find a way to go see her (whether she wants us to or not, I suspect) while she's well enough to enjoy it.

We get knocked down, but we get up again...

Later, I'll write about Ohio, and Bird's bee sting, and the cats on my back stairs. For now...I am going to finish mopping the floors and try to change the order of the Universe so that my Aunt doesn't have cancer and I am a lottery winner. I'm not asking for much...

Good Sweaty Fun

That ought to garner some interesting Google hits.

The fun I'm referring to happened yesterday evening. I took Bird outside so I could clean out the van and he could play. It was after six-o'clock, but it was still quite warm. I had hardly begun cleaning out the van before I was just dripping - it's true, you know, that saying 'It's not the heat, it's the humidity". While the temperature was probably only in the upper eighties, the humidity was quite high.

So I was all icky anyway, and irritated because some thoughtless lout had not only knocked my stage hat onto the garage floor, but also stepped on it...and this isn't a hat you can miss seeing. I was pissed. Luckily, it's a vintage hat, made of wool and sturdier than today's chapeaus, so I managed to mostly get it back into shape. Still mad.

Sorry, tangent.

Since I was already hot and sticky, I figured I could get in a little play time with the kid. We had a rousing game of soccer in the cul-de-sac, using his big beach ball. It was fun! I'm thinking that I'll be purchasing a proper soccer ball soon - that beach ball was a little unpredictable in its trajectory.

Y'all, it has been twenty-two years since I played any form of soccer - and I can still manage a decent kick! Bird had a blast because I was lofting the ball over his head and he could chase it down, and he loved trying to outrun me to kick the ball. We managed about half an hour before I had to call it quits - I am not known for my appreciation of being sweaty, and I needed to come in and make dinner, anyway.

Still, it was a lovely way to spend some time with the boy. Now that the days are getting brighter and hotter, we'll be indoors more...so we really need to maximize our outdoor time with more good, sweaty fun.

Elachee, Part Three

Notice Me!

The Carpet Needs Cleaning...

Texture in Three Parts

Shelter

If Tarzan Can Do It...

Elachee, Part Two

The Evil Genius and some random stranger, at the entrance to the Nature Center

The way out is the way in.

Not for Soup

Elachee, Part One

Today I am feeling the results of yesterday's excursion. Really, I'm hauling the equivalent of a one-hundred-plus pound backpack around with me in excess weight - haul that five miles up and down some surprisingly steep hills and see how you feel in the morning! Whew! Thanks to all that wandering, sweating, climbing, sweating, photographing, and did I mention sweating?, I am now half a pound lighter. Woo-freakin'-hoo!

The balls of my feet hurt. I don't know why. I will say that, while Crocs are probably not the best shoes to wear for such a day, my Crocs were quite comfortable and did nicely for the occasion. They may never be the same, but then...neither will my feet. I know, I know, I should be wearing hiking boots or at least sneakers, but I'm claustrophobic...and closed shoes make me nervous. I'd rather contend with dirty feet and the occasional risk of snakebite than spend the day feeling smothered because of my shoes.

My calfs calves the backs of my legs hurt, too! And, umm...my posterior.

All in all, though, I'm in fairly good nick, so I'm pleased. I was contemplating a gym trip today, but am thinking it'll be tomorrow.

We all slept well last night - I wonder why...

So I shot about two-hundred photos, and while they didn't all turn out, many did. I'll share a few here and post more later. I did learn that I want to keep the flash on, even if it makes the shot look really dark in the viewscreen. Luckily, I took a fair number of the shots both ways, so I didn't lose to many pictures to the dreaded blurs. I need a larger memory card (or three) if I want to keep doing that, though.


Oh, one last note before I load the first photos - around the last mile or so of our hike, we had a couple of Army helicopters fly over. Bird thought they were cool, if loud. I waved and called out "Peace, brothers!", even though I know they couldn't see or hear me. Eh, it's a habit I don't care to break. I had to resist the urge to hide, though. For some odd reason, ever since I was a kid I've wanted to duck and hide from helicopters. I feel like a mouse when there's a hawk overhead. I wonder why...


On with the show - in Part Two.