There's something about the 1959 Cadillac. You've seen them, in museums or antique car shows or mounted on the walls of retro cafes. They're the long, ll-lo-on-ng-gg ones with twin, bullet shaped tail lights mounted halfway up their rear fins, the epitome of Detroit engineering extravegance.
My mother drove one, a bright red convertible with black leather interior. It handled like a dream, or like a swan on a calm lake. She called it her "canoe." We moved a lot in the early years of her marriage, back and forth across the northern United States at least six times, she in her canoe with one of us girls beside her and Dad either ahead or behind in his sedate sedan with the other two. Truckers and single guys in all kinds of cars would see the pretty blonde in that snazzy car and weave in and out and around her, trying to get her attention. Sometimes she'd wave, especially to the old guys, but mostly she just sailed on down the road.
I suspect that, if we get really do get our choice of heaven, instead of wings and a halo, Mother will opt for the open highway in her red canoe.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Canada Geese
brown goose flotilla
stay on the sound--no one needs
your Geeses Pieces
from Haiku at 3 a.m.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Counting Crows
I spend a lot of time in second hand book stores and in places like Value Village and Good Will Industries that also deal in books. Sometimes I go away empty handed. Sometimes I find a treasure.
Several years ago, I found an exquisitely illustrated version of the old children's rhyme called "Counting Crows." The colors and the details reminded me of medieval miniatures. But what was most intriguing was the rhyme itself--I'd never heard it before.
Needless to say, I bought it. I still treasure it.
Sometime later, in another bookstore, I found The Annotated Mother Goose, a compendium of every version of English language nursery rhymes with all the possible explanations of their origins. This valued book contains not one, but two versions of "Counting Crows." Here's the English version:
Several years ago, I found an exquisitely illustrated version of the old children's rhyme called "Counting Crows." The colors and the details reminded me of medieval miniatures. But what was most intriguing was the rhyme itself--I'd never heard it before.
Needless to say, I bought it. I still treasure it.
Sometime later, in another bookstore, I found The Annotated Mother Goose, a compendium of every version of English language nursery rhymes with all the possible explanations of their origins. This valued book contains not one, but two versions of "Counting Crows." Here's the English version:
One's lucky
Two's unlucky
Three is health
Four is wealth
Five is sickness
Six is death
And here's the one from, of all places, Maine:
One crow sorrow
Two crows joy
Three crows a letter
Four crows a boy
I wonder what the crows say when they count humans?
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Linus and Cancer
I've mentioned my sister, Linus, several times in writing about Bella and Zoe. Linus, of course, isn't her real name, but it was her nickname when we were growing up and, for reasons that will become clear, I'm sticking to that name.
She earned the name because, like Charles Schultz's little philosopher, she used to wrap herself up in an old blue and white blanket. She's a lot like that Linus in other ways:
She's the middle child--I'm older and our sister, M. J., is younger. The other Linus is sandwiched between Lucy and Rerun.
She's bright--nearly straight A's through school. One of our good friends used to grumble, "When we have an assignment, I work my tail off and get a "B" if I'm lucky. Linus waits until the day the paper's due, writes it IN INK on the bus on the way to school and gets an "A-!"
She's quiet--Schultz's Linus can't get a word in edgeways over Lucy, but Linus simply doesn't put herself forward unless she knows you.
In an earlier post, I mentioned she's not steady on her feet. Here's why.
Linus has cancer, a metastacized (second growth) tumor at the base of her sciatic nerves, which she's been fighting for more than two years. The tumor presses on those nerves, causing pain to radiate from her buttocks down the outside of her legs, and numbness from her knees on down; sitting ranges from uncomfortable to downright painful and walking more than a few steps is extremely difficult. She has a wheelchair named "Delilah" because she's candy apple red with black upholstry; a walker named "Fido" because she never goes anywhere without him--"Fido" means "faithful"; and braces for both feet named "Lucy" and "Ethel" since she never wears one without the other.
We take our fun where we find it.
She earned the name because, like Charles Schultz's little philosopher, she used to wrap herself up in an old blue and white blanket. She's a lot like that Linus in other ways:
She's the middle child--I'm older and our sister, M. J., is younger. The other Linus is sandwiched between Lucy and Rerun.
She's bright--nearly straight A's through school. One of our good friends used to grumble, "When we have an assignment, I work my tail off and get a "B" if I'm lucky. Linus waits until the day the paper's due, writes it IN INK on the bus on the way to school and gets an "A-!"
She's quiet--Schultz's Linus can't get a word in edgeways over Lucy, but Linus simply doesn't put herself forward unless she knows you.
In an earlier post, I mentioned she's not steady on her feet. Here's why.
Linus has cancer, a metastacized (second growth) tumor at the base of her sciatic nerves, which she's been fighting for more than two years. The tumor presses on those nerves, causing pain to radiate from her buttocks down the outside of her legs, and numbness from her knees on down; sitting ranges from uncomfortable to downright painful and walking more than a few steps is extremely difficult. She has a wheelchair named "Delilah" because she's candy apple red with black upholstry; a walker named "Fido" because she never goes anywhere without him--"Fido" means "faithful"; and braces for both feet named "Lucy" and "Ethel" since she never wears one without the other.
We take our fun where we find it.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Coriander and Ariadne
The poem from the last post refers to the legend of Theseus and the Minotaur. The Greek hero, Theseus, along with seven girls and six boys, was a sacrifice to the Minoan king to pay for the death of his son; they were to be given to a half bull/half man who had a fondness for human flesh. The king's daughter, Ariadne, fell in love with Theseus and gave him a ball of magic thread to guide him in and out of the Minotaur's lair, the legendary labyrinth. Theseus killed the Minotaur and took Ariadne with him.
On the way home, he stopped at the island of Naxos and, for whatever reason, sailed away without Ariadne. (Versions differ, depending on the source: some say Ariadne ran off with the wild women who inhabit the island, some say that Theseus just wanted to get rid of an embarrassment). But Dionysus, the god of wine and music, saw her, fell in love with her, and married her, making her an immortal.
Coriander--what we know as cilantro--was sacred to her. Before refrigeration, it was used to flavor meat dishes because it disguised any "off" flavors. Cooks believed it actually changed the meat, the way Ariadne changed a mortal husband for an immortal.
On the way home, he stopped at the island of Naxos and, for whatever reason, sailed away without Ariadne. (Versions differ, depending on the source: some say Ariadne ran off with the wild women who inhabit the island, some say that Theseus just wanted to get rid of an embarrassment). But Dionysus, the god of wine and music, saw her, fell in love with her, and married her, making her an immortal.
Coriander--what we know as cilantro--was sacred to her. Before refrigeration, it was used to flavor meat dishes because it disguised any "off" flavors. Cooks believed it actually changed the meat, the way Ariadne changed a mortal husband for an immortal.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Coriander
Coriander is
Minoan Ariadne's
who traded safety
for an unknown world and so
became a goddess
from Haiku at 3 a. m.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Cats I continued, Bella
Last but not least, we come to the third cat in the household, Bella.
As I said in an earlier post, Bella is a reformed street cat. She was literally picked up off the street when she was thrown into the path of an oncoming car by the owner/manager/something of a Chinese restaurant in New York City. This person said she was making a pest of herself, trying to get into the basement. After reading the restauranteur the riot act, Bella's rescuer took her to a local vet's office to be checked out and possibly adopted. She was an immediate hit with the staff; one of them, who knew Linus, knew she had recently lost her elderly female Callie and was looking for a companion for Zoe, called her. Bella fell in love with Linus, rubbing, purring and climbing into her shirt for more pets.
When Bella arrived, she weighed less than five pounds and was so tiny even the vet thought she was less than five months old. Further examination--when she was spayed and a rotten canine tooth extracted--proved her to be better than five years old. Since she loved people, knew what a litter box was for and had a horror of climbing up onto the furniture, we knew she had spent some part of her former life with people, but that was all we knew. She also has a strong aversion to other cats, though long association with Zoe has taught her they aren't all the enemies she expects them to be.
Bella is white and gray, the gray having some undertones of orange visible in strong sunlight. Her colors aren't quite symetrical--the grey around her ears looks like she has a side part with peek-a-boo bangs, and the gray splotch on her nose only reaches up to one eye. She has the tiniest feet and the largest ears of any cat we'd ever seen. She has amazing control of those ears: had she been a male, we'd have called her "Yoda." Though she never learned to play the way other cats do--she just sits and stares at toy mice, string, even catnip balls--she has her own version of games. Her favorite is to wait for a human (except Linus, whose balance and coordination is shaky at the best of times) to head for a chair, then leap up onto the seat, "spread" herself so she covers the most area possible, and look up at the human with a smug look that says clearer than words "Neener, neener, neener! I got here fir-rst!"
Tell me cats don't think!
As I said in an earlier post, Bella is a reformed street cat. She was literally picked up off the street when she was thrown into the path of an oncoming car by the owner/manager/something of a Chinese restaurant in New York City. This person said she was making a pest of herself, trying to get into the basement. After reading the restauranteur the riot act, Bella's rescuer took her to a local vet's office to be checked out and possibly adopted. She was an immediate hit with the staff; one of them, who knew Linus, knew she had recently lost her elderly female Callie and was looking for a companion for Zoe, called her. Bella fell in love with Linus, rubbing, purring and climbing into her shirt for more pets.
When Bella arrived, she weighed less than five pounds and was so tiny even the vet thought she was less than five months old. Further examination--when she was spayed and a rotten canine tooth extracted--proved her to be better than five years old. Since she loved people, knew what a litter box was for and had a horror of climbing up onto the furniture, we knew she had spent some part of her former life with people, but that was all we knew. She also has a strong aversion to other cats, though long association with Zoe has taught her they aren't all the enemies she expects them to be.
Bella is white and gray, the gray having some undertones of orange visible in strong sunlight. Her colors aren't quite symetrical--the grey around her ears looks like she has a side part with peek-a-boo bangs, and the gray splotch on her nose only reaches up to one eye. She has the tiniest feet and the largest ears of any cat we'd ever seen. She has amazing control of those ears: had she been a male, we'd have called her "Yoda." Though she never learned to play the way other cats do--she just sits and stares at toy mice, string, even catnip balls--she has her own version of games. Her favorite is to wait for a human (except Linus, whose balance and coordination is shaky at the best of times) to head for a chair, then leap up onto the seat, "spread" herself so she covers the most area possible, and look up at the human with a smug look that says clearer than words "Neener, neener, neener! I got here fir-rst!"
Tell me cats don't think!
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Cats I continued, Besame and Bella
After Amore died, it was clear to all the humans that Besame thought she'd be the "top cat"; she was the senior cat, not just in years, but she'd been "in residence" longer than the other two. But she'd been "beta" for so long, she had no idea how to be an "alpha."
She keeps trying, growling at the other two whenever they come near her, occasionally escalating to screaming and scratching when Bella got too close. Zoe simply ignores her--as I said, she's a one person cat and, as long as that person is within sight/sound/scent, the rest of the world can go hang itself.
But not Bella. Though she's about two thirds Besame's size, Bella is a reformed street cat and, if another cat is going to show signs of aggression, that cat had better be ready to stand behind the threat. Bella may lose the battle, but she won't back down or back off unless she's physically removed from the scene by someone bigger (me, usually).
It does not make for a peaceful household.
She keeps trying, growling at the other two whenever they come near her, occasionally escalating to screaming and scratching when Bella got too close. Zoe simply ignores her--as I said, she's a one person cat and, as long as that person is within sight/sound/scent, the rest of the world can go hang itself.
But not Bella. Though she's about two thirds Besame's size, Bella is a reformed street cat and, if another cat is going to show signs of aggression, that cat had better be ready to stand behind the threat. Bella may lose the battle, but she won't back down or back off unless she's physically removed from the scene by someone bigger (me, usually).
It does not make for a peaceful household.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Corned Beef and Cabbage
We in the U. S. and Canda think corned beef and cabbage is a traditional Irish meal. It isn't. In the Ould Sod, our Irish ancestors ate a lot of cabbage (and carrots and potatoes), but I'm pretty sure our immigrant ancestors bought their corned beef from their Jewish neighbors and liked the flavor its pot liquor gave to their vegetables so well they adopted it as their own.
In our house on this St. Patrick's Day, we have two people with delicate stomachs--Mother because she's almost 82 and Linus from all the drugs she has to take--so corned beef and cabbage wasn't an option. We had the truly traditional potato soup and soda bread and topped the meal off with green mint ice cream.
In our house on this St. Patrick's Day, we have two people with delicate stomachs--Mother because she's almost 82 and Linus from all the drugs she has to take--so corned beef and cabbage wasn't an option. We had the truly traditional potato soup and soda bread and topped the meal off with green mint ice cream.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Cats I, Besame and Amore
The "B" girls are Besame and Bella. Besame is older by a couple of years, so I'll let seniority rule.
M. J.--my other sister--was given Besame and her sister, Amore, as peace offerings from her former husband. "The girls" were calicoes with nearly identical markings, though very different in size and build: Amore was tiny, even by cat standards, while Besame is long and "rangy." Unless they were side by side, the only way to figure out which was which was which was that Amore had a black patch over her left eye and Besame over her right.
And, yes, their names are Italian: "Ah MORE ay" and "BEH some ay"--"Love" and "Kisses." Dad thought "Smith" and "Wesson" were more suitable, certainly for Amore; she was the "alpha" in more than just her name. Besame hid from friends and strangers alike; Amore greeted people at the door, demanding pets which were answered with bone-rattling purrs. If, as kittens, they got into mischief, Amore was the instigator. Amore leapt or climbed on everything; Besame preferred to keep all four feet on the ground. When they arrived at Mother's, Amore joined everyone the breakfast table (not ON the table--all cats in this house know that's a "no fly zone"--but in an empty chair) to chat about the news of the day.
Soon after "the girls" arrived here, the vet discovered a cancerous tumor inside Amore's sinuses. The cancer was extremely aggressive and the vet said, "If she were mine, I wouldn't subject her to any invasive surgery. Make her comfortable and she'll tell you when she's had enough." Amore spent the next three months curled up next to Mother, rarely moving except to use the litter box or to find a warmer spot in the sun. We even fed her on a pillow on the bed as leaning over her dish became more difficult. When she stopped eating and drinking, we knew it was time to let her go, and we did so. When the vet gave her the injection, she put her head down, gave a little sigh and just went to sleep.
We should all have so peaceful an end.
M. J.--my other sister--was given Besame and her sister, Amore, as peace offerings from her former husband. "The girls" were calicoes with nearly identical markings, though very different in size and build: Amore was tiny, even by cat standards, while Besame is long and "rangy." Unless they were side by side, the only way to figure out which was which was which was that Amore had a black patch over her left eye and Besame over her right.
And, yes, their names are Italian: "Ah MORE ay" and "BEH some ay"--"Love" and "Kisses." Dad thought "Smith" and "Wesson" were more suitable, certainly for Amore; she was the "alpha" in more than just her name. Besame hid from friends and strangers alike; Amore greeted people at the door, demanding pets which were answered with bone-rattling purrs. If, as kittens, they got into mischief, Amore was the instigator. Amore leapt or climbed on everything; Besame preferred to keep all four feet on the ground. When they arrived at Mother's, Amore joined everyone the breakfast table (not ON the table--all cats in this house know that's a "no fly zone"--but in an empty chair) to chat about the news of the day.
Soon after "the girls" arrived here, the vet discovered a cancerous tumor inside Amore's sinuses. The cancer was extremely aggressive and the vet said, "If she were mine, I wouldn't subject her to any invasive surgery. Make her comfortable and she'll tell you when she's had enough." Amore spent the next three months curled up next to Mother, rarely moving except to use the litter box or to find a warmer spot in the sun. We even fed her on a pillow on the bed as leaning over her dish became more difficult. When she stopped eating and drinking, we knew it was time to let her go, and we did so. When the vet gave her the injection, she put her head down, gave a little sigh and just went to sleep.
We should all have so peaceful an end.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Cats I
My mother's condo is home to three cats: Zoe, Bella and Besame. Zoe and Bella came with one of my sisters, Besame with the other.
Mother used to say that the most polite child gets first pick of--whatever. That being the rule, Zoe's story comes first.
Zoe was about a year old when Linus first saw her at a private shelter called "Bide-A-Wee," just a mottled cream, gray and apricot backside under a sign that said, "Watch this one. She's not eating." The attendant opened the cage and lifted her out. Zoe didn't protest, but it was clear she wasn't interested in being sociable.
What Linus saw was a mostly blue point Siamese with some interesting calico shadings scattered through her coat. Her toes are white, her legs, tail and mask gray with an apricot "Harry Potteresque" blaze over one eye. While many Siamese are cross eyed, Zoe is slightly wall eyed. And somewhere back in her genes there stalks a lioness--her front feet toe out when she walks, like a lioness on the hunt.
Something happened when the attendant set Zoe down in the "get aquainted" area that no one--not Linus, not her friend, Kura, who was with her, not the attendant--can explain, though a breeder might:
Siamese cats were originally bred as guard animals and, as such, they tend to bond with one person. In Zoe's case, that person was Linus. Zoe is polite to me (I wield the can opener), comfortable with E. J. (our mother), tolerant of M. J. (our other sister) and the other cats, but Linus is her human and that is that. She'll put up with car trips, airport security, a 3,000 plane ride and a new home as long as that person is within range of her sight/hearing/scent.
Zoe is also a talker. She doesn't have the "fingernails on blackboard" squall of some Siamese, but she has an amazing range of vocalizations, some of which we can sort of translate, but most of which we can only guess at. One of these days, someone will invent a universal translater that will convert Feline into English. I, for one, can hardly wait.
Mother used to say that the most polite child gets first pick of--whatever. That being the rule, Zoe's story comes first.
Zoe was about a year old when Linus first saw her at a private shelter called "Bide-A-Wee," just a mottled cream, gray and apricot backside under a sign that said, "Watch this one. She's not eating." The attendant opened the cage and lifted her out. Zoe didn't protest, but it was clear she wasn't interested in being sociable.
What Linus saw was a mostly blue point Siamese with some interesting calico shadings scattered through her coat. Her toes are white, her legs, tail and mask gray with an apricot "Harry Potteresque" blaze over one eye. While many Siamese are cross eyed, Zoe is slightly wall eyed. And somewhere back in her genes there stalks a lioness--her front feet toe out when she walks, like a lioness on the hunt.
Something happened when the attendant set Zoe down in the "get aquainted" area that no one--not Linus, not her friend, Kura, who was with her, not the attendant--can explain, though a breeder might:
Siamese cats were originally bred as guard animals and, as such, they tend to bond with one person. In Zoe's case, that person was Linus. Zoe is polite to me (I wield the can opener), comfortable with E. J. (our mother), tolerant of M. J. (our other sister) and the other cats, but Linus is her human and that is that. She'll put up with car trips, airport security, a 3,000 plane ride and a new home as long as that person is within range of her sight/hearing/scent.
Zoe is also a talker. She doesn't have the "fingernails on blackboard" squall of some Siamese, but she has an amazing range of vocalizations, some of which we can sort of translate, but most of which we can only guess at. One of these days, someone will invent a universal translater that will convert Feline into English. I, for one, can hardly wait.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
The "C" Words
When I realized that my present life can be described in four "C" words--cats, cancer (not mine), congestive heart failure (also not mine), and caregiving (my job)--I started thinking about all the other "C" words I've had to use. In short order, I filled a notebook page with four (4) columns, everything from courage, through Canada, Christianity and children, to candy, computers, and cross stitch.
Some of these words were important for a short time, some for much longer. All of them have stories attached I want to share.
Some of these words were important for a short time, some for much longer. All of them have stories attached I want to share.
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