The Italian language sings. This was the topic of after-breakfast conversation around a table on the hotel's terrace. British friends said that when they're shopping, back in Liverpool, and happen to hear spoken Italian, they stop briefly, just to enjoy the language's beauty. "We haven't a clue what anyone's saying," Brian said, "but, for a few moments, we want to get lost in the beauty of a language that sings."
I couldn't agree more. Sometimes, when I'm walking, I'll pause on a bench simply to hear the beauty of passing conversations. I love how the vowels stretch, how phrases roll higher, then down into a sentence that mellows out, like a bell that tinkles, the last sound a dainty reverberation that soothes the soul. I can't imagine a really angry person speaking Italian and retaining the anger. Of course, it must happen. People are people.
Still, for the wandering tourist, snippets of conversation here and there, greetings in stores, background commentary on television, all merge into a language of beauty, a language that sings "Co me va?" (How are you?) with such purity one has to feel good or at least better, if only for a moment. And, sometimes, it only takes a moment for a day that has started out poorly .... kids crying, a rough e-mail ... to turn around, for a smile to reach upward.
The hotel solved the problem of the disappearing food last night by bringing out more food: a second round of beef (like one sees at huge receptions), more lamb chops, huge piles of French fries, more pasts, double the cut fruit selections, increase ice cream flavors, and so on and so on until one looked at these mounds of food with a weakened appetite. For it's not normal, I don't think, for this much food to feed what in reality are few people, about 100.
But, not knowing the increases would appear, others didn't rush to stand in chow lines, but held back, maintained a firm grip on the leisurely pace of dinner traditions. This is a part of the Old Europe it took centuries to reach. No one was going to forsake tradition for a lamb chop.
I can't say at which precise moment it happened .... perhaps the sight of so much food had a sobering effect, that no one in the room starved ... but civility returned, the rush abated, and order prevailed. That one could feel a certain sense of harmony blessed a pleasant evening. Except that there are murmurs prices will rise, that this hotel will be too expensive next year. However, I don't think this will happen. The British and the Germans and the Austrians are the hotel's core guests. Some have been returning yearly for decades. Without this nucleus, occasional Russian groups can't keep the hotel afloat.
A reader asked if I knew thirty-three from the Russian Federation read my blog? And, in a roundabout way, if I worried about the political correctness of what I had written?
Yes, I knew about this readership, am grateful for their support, and have sometimes wondered who they were, what they did, where they lived in Russia (I've always wanted to visit Siberia, romanticized a reader lived there).
About the political correctness, no. Actually, hell no.
When a group of people assumes others don't understand their language and makes ugly comments that can be understood, this is a xenophobia that can be called to task. I wish I could say I'm alone in this but am not. A couple of weeks prior to leaving the States, we had lunch with a Russian speaker from one of the former Eastern Block countries. Mariyan complained about the same issues I have written about but hadn't yet experienced. "They give us all a bad name," he had moaned.
And I understand this helpless feeling. Wasn't it Graham Greene who wrote about The Ugly American? I can't say Greene was wrong. Oh, but the times I saw my countrymen/women behave overseas in a manner they wouldn't think of doing back in the States and felt a sense of shame. Time has seasoned most Americans to tuck their manners into the suitcase when traveling. Still, the problem often persists, The Ugly American who needs to get his/her act together. I'm not personally insulted when others are reprimanded. The Russians I've known aren't either.
Like Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage...."
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Italy Charms
Italy charms. Slowly. Like a flower whose scent drifts, pulling you into an orbit of beauty, where bad happens in another place, another time, like yesterday's newspaper, left on a terrace table, the English gaining my attention, the headlines so dramatic, so far away I recoil from what threatens and walk away, preferring the scented beauty, the Italy that charms, the Italian language that seduces, like a lullaby, into feeling safe and secure.
After four lovely days in Munich (which I'll blog about after returning to the States, for something interesting happened which I'd like to share, hear your input), we're into our routine at Jesolo Beach, an hour's ferry ride across the bay from Venice, Italy. It's a tourist area that shuts down in winter, reverting to the gray emptiness expected from a narrow peninsula victimized by seasonal winds and heavy rains.
In the meantime, tho, the sun shines in a cloudless blue sky, tourists wander the town's shaded streets, beach devotees have claimed lounges or locals go about morning errands. The atmosphere is peaceful, very relaxing. Dick's out by the pool, content reading a Daniel Silva novel, half-shaded under his umbrella.
I don't like sitting in the sun, umbrella or not, even with sunscreen, a hat, and so on. I enjoy exploring side streets, taking photos, and walking and not really thinking, just absorbing. Around noon, Dick and I meet at a beach hangout popular with Italians (for most of the tourists here are Italian). He usually orders a beer and a panini. I don't order anything. There aren't any calories in what I pinch from his plate!! That sip of beer, too!
What I've noticed most about the area, is how generational the lifestyle is. Sons work with fathers in the small shops. Grandmothers push strollers (prams). Long-time friends gather in the piazza and talk and laugh. Small kids know to endure the pinch on the cheeks, the kisses, the exclamations about how beautiful they are. Dogs know to flatten down, to wait until they can return to being dogs, tails up, paws moving, styling and profiling. It's Italy. Everybody and everything looks good. Not a speck of dust on constantly washed cars. Store windows sparkle.
Our hotel serves dinner at 7:30. It's the only hotel in the area to include breakfast and dinner in the daily price. Dinner includes a long salad bar, a soup and pasta bar, and a buffet of fresh vegetables and grilled (while you wait) meats and fish. Dessert consists of a table filled with mouth-watering tortes, with a parallel fruit table, the cherries, strawberries, and melons that are in season. One can top off the fruit with gelato.
And, so, for a week we enjoyed a leisurely paced routine. Until a large group of Russians checked in. Now, no one knows what to think. Not just us, the lone tourists from the United States. But the numerous Brits and Germans and Austrians. We've begun to gather and compare notes. Decide what to do. When there's only one thing to do: Come to breakfast and dinner earlier, change our leisurely routine.
If not, there's little food, with the hotel staff scrambling to find fillers.
It's beyond comprehension that a group of people can put so much food on plates (for each balances more than one filled plate), move as a group, not following the course order, piling on the really good stuff (for a menu is posted daily). And they eat it all, every crumb, scraping plates clean, as if an eating marathon exists. Then, they leave. With the rest of us sitting there, wondering, what the hell was that all about?
There's a bit of sympathy, that that many people are that hungry. But sympathy only goes so far.
For those of you new to my blog, my hub and I lived in Macedonia for two years. I learned to speak Macedonian fairly well. Some Macedonian laces Russian (or vice versa). So, I understand a bit of these Russian conversations. In short, they don't like us, look down upon us, enjoy talking about us. By 'us' I mean those of us from the West, be it Austria or Germany or England or the United States or wherever. I wish I could list exceptions and say this couple or that person was very nice. I can't. They move as a group with a group mentality. Nothing individual here. Not even a response to routine greetings in their language.
I wish I could say that this is the experience from one tour group. Not so. Out desk clerks say it's the same with Russian tour groups everywhere here.
And the Russians shop en masse, flush with euros (oil money), buying high-end designer items with the same abandon with which they fill dinner plates.
So, where am I going with all this? Nowhere, really. Except to say that I, like other hotel guests from England, Austria, and Germany, am a product of the Cold War. We're a bit taken aback by this East-West divide we're experiencing. For there are guests here from European countries who speak Russian. I'm told overheard conversations get harsher when one understands Russian fluently.
One can't buy Paradise. Reality always slips in.
After four lovely days in Munich (which I'll blog about after returning to the States, for something interesting happened which I'd like to share, hear your input), we're into our routine at Jesolo Beach, an hour's ferry ride across the bay from Venice, Italy. It's a tourist area that shuts down in winter, reverting to the gray emptiness expected from a narrow peninsula victimized by seasonal winds and heavy rains.
In the meantime, tho, the sun shines in a cloudless blue sky, tourists wander the town's shaded streets, beach devotees have claimed lounges or locals go about morning errands. The atmosphere is peaceful, very relaxing. Dick's out by the pool, content reading a Daniel Silva novel, half-shaded under his umbrella.
I don't like sitting in the sun, umbrella or not, even with sunscreen, a hat, and so on. I enjoy exploring side streets, taking photos, and walking and not really thinking, just absorbing. Around noon, Dick and I meet at a beach hangout popular with Italians (for most of the tourists here are Italian). He usually orders a beer and a panini. I don't order anything. There aren't any calories in what I pinch from his plate!! That sip of beer, too!
What I've noticed most about the area, is how generational the lifestyle is. Sons work with fathers in the small shops. Grandmothers push strollers (prams). Long-time friends gather in the piazza and talk and laugh. Small kids know to endure the pinch on the cheeks, the kisses, the exclamations about how beautiful they are. Dogs know to flatten down, to wait until they can return to being dogs, tails up, paws moving, styling and profiling. It's Italy. Everybody and everything looks good. Not a speck of dust on constantly washed cars. Store windows sparkle.
Our hotel serves dinner at 7:30. It's the only hotel in the area to include breakfast and dinner in the daily price. Dinner includes a long salad bar, a soup and pasta bar, and a buffet of fresh vegetables and grilled (while you wait) meats and fish. Dessert consists of a table filled with mouth-watering tortes, with a parallel fruit table, the cherries, strawberries, and melons that are in season. One can top off the fruit with gelato.
And, so, for a week we enjoyed a leisurely paced routine. Until a large group of Russians checked in. Now, no one knows what to think. Not just us, the lone tourists from the United States. But the numerous Brits and Germans and Austrians. We've begun to gather and compare notes. Decide what to do. When there's only one thing to do: Come to breakfast and dinner earlier, change our leisurely routine.
If not, there's little food, with the hotel staff scrambling to find fillers.
It's beyond comprehension that a group of people can put so much food on plates (for each balances more than one filled plate), move as a group, not following the course order, piling on the really good stuff (for a menu is posted daily). And they eat it all, every crumb, scraping plates clean, as if an eating marathon exists. Then, they leave. With the rest of us sitting there, wondering, what the hell was that all about?
There's a bit of sympathy, that that many people are that hungry. But sympathy only goes so far.
For those of you new to my blog, my hub and I lived in Macedonia for two years. I learned to speak Macedonian fairly well. Some Macedonian laces Russian (or vice versa). So, I understand a bit of these Russian conversations. In short, they don't like us, look down upon us, enjoy talking about us. By 'us' I mean those of us from the West, be it Austria or Germany or England or the United States or wherever. I wish I could list exceptions and say this couple or that person was very nice. I can't. They move as a group with a group mentality. Nothing individual here. Not even a response to routine greetings in their language.
I wish I could say that this is the experience from one tour group. Not so. Out desk clerks say it's the same with Russian tour groups everywhere here.
And the Russians shop en masse, flush with euros (oil money), buying high-end designer items with the same abandon with which they fill dinner plates.
So, where am I going with all this? Nowhere, really. Except to say that I, like other hotel guests from England, Austria, and Germany, am a product of the Cold War. We're a bit taken aback by this East-West divide we're experiencing. For there are guests here from European countries who speak Russian. I'm told overheard conversations get harsher when one understands Russian fluently.
One can't buy Paradise. Reality always slips in.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
A Cheshire's Tale
Before today's story, I'd like to warmly welcome my new Followers. Thank you, from the heart, for showing an interest in my stories.
And bear hugs to those of you who've stuck with me these past months.
To everyone I'd like to say that if you don't see comments from me on your blog, please leave a comment so I can link back to you. Some profiles lack a link.
When the Geek Squad set up my blog last July, there were Those in my orbit who expressed surprise that I would do such a thing, that I should settle into my years and crochet afghans. Well, I did crochet afghans, six, to be exact, one as a gift, and five for a charity that benefited a Katrina relief program. So, now, back to blogging.
Thank you for your concerns about my smashed finger. You truly lifted my spirits!! Because, trust me, there were moments when I was quite angry at myself for being stupid not to watch more carefully what I was doing.
But a positive side of waiting is that I had time to think. About today's story. It's a ghost story. I was a bit nervous about sharing a ghost story. I'd rather be in Blogville than a Looney Tunes cartoon, if you catch my drift. But what I wrote is what happened. And, as President Clinton once said, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it." And, so, I will.
So, Mundo I hope you enjoy this post. Mundo is a Follower who lives in beautiful Indonesia. Perhaps you've read his comments. Mundo commented that my post about Wendy hit home, that Wendy could have been his cousin. That touched me. So, when Mundo requested a ghost story (he blogged about perhaps having a ghost near him), I decided to let my healed fingers rip across the keyboard.
* * * * *
The ball of downy white fur mewed softly. Moist blue eyes, sweet and trusting, turned toward my coos. When a tiny paw reached for my finger, I cradled Chessy in my arms and rocked her asleep.
My little kitten grew into a brown-faced Siamese with sapphire-blue eyes and pointed ears. Soft mews became stronger, never shrill, more like a feline drawl that floated on Hawaii's gentle breezes.
Especially in the afternoon. In 1971, with few buildings air conditioned, afternoons meant the island paradise felt suspended in slow motion. Birds circled lazily in open blue skies. Bees snoozed in tropical gardens. A mellow sun streamed through open windows. Breezes off the Koolau Mountains carried the sound of silence into our Kailua apartment.
Chessy had been my Valentine's Day engagement gift, a bundle of joy that had added a kaleidoscope's sparkle to the diamond on my finger. And while my fiancee, a captain in the United States Marine Corps, worked at the military base near Kailua, Chessy and I utilized my free time from teaching trice-weekly adult education classes to explore the lush stand of trees and flora near our apartment building.
My agile Siamese loved the spirit of the hunt. Nothing stirred natural instincts like a mouse scurrying among the leaves. Nimble paws ran and jumped ahead of the mouse, and, with back arched, blue eyes ablaze, ferocious hisses drowned pitiful squeaks. Until the hunter walked away, not interested in the kill.
When a lone bird came into view, Chessy crouched low, brown and white markings the perfect camouflage, muscles taunt, ready for the lunge. Then, she'd meow. And the bird would fly away.
Chessy possessed a hunter's appetite but an angel's heart.
Sometimes we'd sit in the shade by the apartment complex's pool, Chessy on one lounge chair, me on the other, umbrella up, under an overhanging tree's branch. I'd fold over the towel beneath Chessy for additional shade. As I did for myself.
Since we were usually the only visitors, my pool-mate objected to lying around with nothing to do except watch me read. I worked to ignore a mewing brouhaha. What I couldn't ignore, though, were the dramatic Sarah Bernhardt flourishes where Chessy covered narrowed eyes with a paw and howled. So, we'd leave, the victor's tail up, blue eyes triumphant.
Chessy followed me everywhere, tail up, eyes watching, nose sniffing or paws racing when I'd break into a jog. And when Chessy wearied of adventure, she'd stretch on the forest floor and stare at me, until I scooped her up for the return trek. But the clever beauty would squirm free and sprint ahead with Olympian resolve, all the while glancing back to see if I followed. I did.
Like every feline who'd ever walked the earth, Chessy had her tricks. We understood each other perfectly.
Of course, with Hawaii being the land of Aloha, love snared Chessy. I returned from an evening class to find her and another Siamese sprawled on the bed, their paws circling into coy flirts. Startled by the intrusion, the suitor raced through the apartment, out the louvered window, and down the steps, never to be seen again.
Unfortunately. For this muscular dude wasn't a surfer bum but a prized show stud who'd fled masculine Nirvana for Chessy's modest pad. Fliers promised a $200.00 reward for the gorgeous hulk's return, a fortune in the days of cinder block bookcases.
However, the next day's scheduled visit to the veterinarian's clinic revealed Dick and I were expectant
grandparents, the exact opposite of the visit's purpose.
At my exasperated sigh, the vet apologized for not operating when I had requested and waived the appointment fee, an appreciated windfall that led to financial dreams: How pedigree kittens could pay off a school loan, give us a honeymoon trip to Australia and New Zealand, perhaps buy a real bookcase.
Oh, but the dreams were big - no, huge! - for Dick and I were young, and love swirls in dreams. Those magical dreams where hearts thump and eyes sparkle and life's energy pulsates through your very being, those magical dreams where you look into open blue skies and think, Oh, God, yes!
However, the blessed event momentarily dashed fanciful dreams. Chessy gave birth to five wiggly meows. The sleek beauty had indeed fallen for a surfer bum, a live-for-today Tom with bold, black and white Aloha shirt markings who had strutted into the neighborhood.
But Dick and I fell in love with the babies, just as Chessy had. She doted on her kittens, smothered them with licks and warm nuzzles, and, just as Chessy followed me everywhere, five black and white kittens learned to follow their mother throughout our two-bedroom apartment. Soon, like goslings, the tonga line ventured onto the lanai (balcony).
Fortunately, Dick and I had five friends who wanted kittens. For once the kittens reached the lanai, Chessy grew aloof, almost turned on her babies.
After the kittens departed, I thought the apartment felt empty. Not Chessy. She jumped onto the green sofa and meowed for me to join her for a nap, as she had done before the babies were born. Relieved to be free, Chessy stretched her long, muscular body against my side, put her head on my shoulder, and fell asleep.
As such, time passed. Dick and I married. The Marine Corps decided we'd move to Virginia. And this was fine, except we didn't know what to do about Chessy.
She had developed the annoying and destructive habit of not using the litter box. Toiletry deposits appeared in shoes, behind the sofa, on the sofa. We (and the vet) tried everything to break this habit, but stubbornness prevailed.
Even though Dick loved Chessy dearly, I sensed she had become jealous of him, the husband who left on deployments that lasted weeks and returned for brief days. For there were times, on the weekends when Dick was home, that she had meowed for us to take a nap, only to watch me leave with Dick.
When I closed the lanai door, Chessy would curl into a tight ball, face hidden, her back to the world.
But, at evening's end, when Dick and I pulled into our parking slot, we'd see our watch-kitty waiting patiently for our return (for she knew the sound of our car, could exit through the louver window).
The three of us would walk toward our second-story apartment, the light evening filled with meows about where we'd been. But when we reached the steps, Chessy would stop. I always carried Chessy up the steps, her sweet face nuzzled into my neck, her soft purrs the perfect sundowner.
So, the day before we had to schedule Chessy for a flight to the Mainland, for we had no choice but to leave Hawaii, Dick and I sat at our small kitchen table and debated the options. A friend with a large yard desperately wanted Chessy.
Just as desperately, we wanted to keep her. But her toiletry habit had become impossible. My heart tugged. As much as I loved Chessy, I wanted her to feel free, not restricted to what a townhouse offered. For we'd be living in a cramped townhouse at the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia.
Our decision was that if Chessy used her litter box in the morning, she'd fly to the Mainland. Just to make sure Chessy understood the ultimatum, I turned to my feline shadow and admonished, "Do you hear that, Missy?" and burst into tears.
The next morning, Chessy had used her litter box.
For 14 years, Chessy moved with us, whenever the Marine Corps issued orders, and there were many moves among the various bases and installations. Chessy adapted to Dick's erratic schedule. Dick learned that Chessy like to have her ears scratched. And, so, the years passed. Chessy, like us, acquired a few grey hairs, suffered dental problems, and nursed aching muscles. But we adapted.
Tired as she may have been, Chessy always greeted guests and followed them into the living room, watching, waiting, sometimes talking (as Siamese do) until the party's crescendo overwhelmed feline sensibilities. Our hostess would then retreat to the kitchen for party treats: five shrimp (boiled without salt, then peeled) and nine small potato chips. After a big water slurp, eager paws raced upstairs, jumped onto the bed and slept the party off.
When my husband wasn't deployed, Chessy slept at the foot of our bed.
During most deployments, Chessy slept curled up with me, as she had in Hawaii, with her head on my shoulder.
When her body ached, though, and she had to stretch -- for Chessy now had a kidney problem -- Chessy would lie in the center of the bed and wait for me. Meows encouraged me along.
Finally, I'd turn off the lamp, snuggle under the covers, and reach for Chessy's extended paw. When she felt my touch, she'd meow softly, curl her paw around my fingers, and I'd drift off to sleep. And I was blessed. Because whatever the military threw at me, I could handle the challenge. The night's demons never shadowed my sleep.
The vet assured us Chessy wasn't in pain and could live for months with a decent quality of life. But her failing health meant she couldn't accompany us on the long haul. We had Marine Corps orders for back-to-back overseas tours: Six months in Rome, Italy, and three years in Nairobi, Kenya.
I sobbed buffalo tears when Chessy flew to my sister's home in Houston, Texas. Before Dick and I left for Rome, I'd call my sister to hear Chessy's meow. I'd hang up the phone and try not to cry, not to sob tears that gushed from the soul, rolled down reddened cheeks, and splattered the tablecloth. But I did. Every time.
Still, life had to go on. Our first year in Nairobi, Kenya, we joined friends for an Easter service at a traditional African church. Traditional, that is, in the sense that the steepled church had a mud brick floor; open windows where white crocheted curtains fluttered; old, hand carved wooden pews with a patina that glistened in the morning sun; and an African choir that sang in Kiswahili.
It was during one of these hymns that the morning's peacefulness gave way to a sudden tremble. I felt dizzy, nauseous, and broke into a sweat. Concerned, Dick asked what was wrong. My hands were cold; my face was ashen. I didn't know what was wrong. I didn't know why tears suddenly fell. I didn't know until later.
Because, while the choir sang, Chessy had died.
At the news, I was devastated, pained beyond tears, hurt where I didn't think hurt existed, to the very core of all a warm paw had touched. I ached -- do you hear me? -- I ached to hold Chessy one more time, to see her tail up, to know she was happy.
Gradually, though -- as anyone who has mourned knows -- I picked up life's thread and wove Kenya into my days. When the time came to leave, I felt nostalgic before the plane lifted up. If ever there had been a place that had nurtured my sense of freedom, it had been Africa, a curious statement, I know considering some of the continent's Orwellian habits. (But live in Africa and you will understand.)
And, so, we returned to Northern Virginia and the Washington, D.C. environs. At this point, very accustomed to moving, I soon had boxes unpacked, except for two boxes of miscellaneous items in the bedroom.
Knowing that we'd move again in a year, and ready for a mid-morning break, I flopped onto the bed. I debated whether it was worth my time to unpack the boxes when a shadow on the floor in the near distance caught my attention. Curious, because sunlight filled the spacious room, I sat up.
I didn't know what to think when this shadow, now brown and white, swirled into the shape of a cat, and looked about, as if a transformation had occurred. But, no, the room looked the same: Dresser over there; comfortable chair in the corner; boxes where I had left them. The sun streamed peacefully through the windows. Nothing moved. Except the shadow on the floor.
And when this cat ran in circles and jumped and caught its tail and rolled on the floor, I knew what was happening and relaxed into the moment.
So when this brown-faced cat jumped onto the bed and moved towards me, I held out a hand to touch a paw I couldn't feel but which shadowed through my hand. I then felt a whoosh of air as the cat jumped over me and onto the floor.
I watched as Chessy walked into the wall, tail up, and disappeared.
And bear hugs to those of you who've stuck with me these past months.
To everyone I'd like to say that if you don't see comments from me on your blog, please leave a comment so I can link back to you. Some profiles lack a link.
When the Geek Squad set up my blog last July, there were Those in my orbit who expressed surprise that I would do such a thing, that I should settle into my years and crochet afghans. Well, I did crochet afghans, six, to be exact, one as a gift, and five for a charity that benefited a Katrina relief program. So, now, back to blogging.
Thank you for your concerns about my smashed finger. You truly lifted my spirits!! Because, trust me, there were moments when I was quite angry at myself for being stupid not to watch more carefully what I was doing.
But a positive side of waiting is that I had time to think. About today's story. It's a ghost story. I was a bit nervous about sharing a ghost story. I'd rather be in Blogville than a Looney Tunes cartoon, if you catch my drift. But what I wrote is what happened. And, as President Clinton once said, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it." And, so, I will.
So, Mundo I hope you enjoy this post. Mundo is a Follower who lives in beautiful Indonesia. Perhaps you've read his comments. Mundo commented that my post about Wendy hit home, that Wendy could have been his cousin. That touched me. So, when Mundo requested a ghost story (he blogged about perhaps having a ghost near him), I decided to let my healed fingers rip across the keyboard.
* * * * *
The ball of downy white fur mewed softly. Moist blue eyes, sweet and trusting, turned toward my coos. When a tiny paw reached for my finger, I cradled Chessy in my arms and rocked her asleep.
My little kitten grew into a brown-faced Siamese with sapphire-blue eyes and pointed ears. Soft mews became stronger, never shrill, more like a feline drawl that floated on Hawaii's gentle breezes.
Especially in the afternoon. In 1971, with few buildings air conditioned, afternoons meant the island paradise felt suspended in slow motion. Birds circled lazily in open blue skies. Bees snoozed in tropical gardens. A mellow sun streamed through open windows. Breezes off the Koolau Mountains carried the sound of silence into our Kailua apartment.
Chessy had been my Valentine's Day engagement gift, a bundle of joy that had added a kaleidoscope's sparkle to the diamond on my finger. And while my fiancee, a captain in the United States Marine Corps, worked at the military base near Kailua, Chessy and I utilized my free time from teaching trice-weekly adult education classes to explore the lush stand of trees and flora near our apartment building.
My agile Siamese loved the spirit of the hunt. Nothing stirred natural instincts like a mouse scurrying among the leaves. Nimble paws ran and jumped ahead of the mouse, and, with back arched, blue eyes ablaze, ferocious hisses drowned pitiful squeaks. Until the hunter walked away, not interested in the kill.
When a lone bird came into view, Chessy crouched low, brown and white markings the perfect camouflage, muscles taunt, ready for the lunge. Then, she'd meow. And the bird would fly away.
Chessy possessed a hunter's appetite but an angel's heart.
Sometimes we'd sit in the shade by the apartment complex's pool, Chessy on one lounge chair, me on the other, umbrella up, under an overhanging tree's branch. I'd fold over the towel beneath Chessy for additional shade. As I did for myself.
Since we were usually the only visitors, my pool-mate objected to lying around with nothing to do except watch me read. I worked to ignore a mewing brouhaha. What I couldn't ignore, though, were the dramatic Sarah Bernhardt flourishes where Chessy covered narrowed eyes with a paw and howled. So, we'd leave, the victor's tail up, blue eyes triumphant.
Chessy followed me everywhere, tail up, eyes watching, nose sniffing or paws racing when I'd break into a jog. And when Chessy wearied of adventure, she'd stretch on the forest floor and stare at me, until I scooped her up for the return trek. But the clever beauty would squirm free and sprint ahead with Olympian resolve, all the while glancing back to see if I followed. I did.
Like every feline who'd ever walked the earth, Chessy had her tricks. We understood each other perfectly.
Of course, with Hawaii being the land of Aloha, love snared Chessy. I returned from an evening class to find her and another Siamese sprawled on the bed, their paws circling into coy flirts. Startled by the intrusion, the suitor raced through the apartment, out the louvered window, and down the steps, never to be seen again.
Unfortunately. For this muscular dude wasn't a surfer bum but a prized show stud who'd fled masculine Nirvana for Chessy's modest pad. Fliers promised a $200.00 reward for the gorgeous hulk's return, a fortune in the days of cinder block bookcases.
However, the next day's scheduled visit to the veterinarian's clinic revealed Dick and I were expectant
grandparents, the exact opposite of the visit's purpose.
At my exasperated sigh, the vet apologized for not operating when I had requested and waived the appointment fee, an appreciated windfall that led to financial dreams: How pedigree kittens could pay off a school loan, give us a honeymoon trip to Australia and New Zealand, perhaps buy a real bookcase.
Oh, but the dreams were big - no, huge! - for Dick and I were young, and love swirls in dreams. Those magical dreams where hearts thump and eyes sparkle and life's energy pulsates through your very being, those magical dreams where you look into open blue skies and think, Oh, God, yes!
However, the blessed event momentarily dashed fanciful dreams. Chessy gave birth to five wiggly meows. The sleek beauty had indeed fallen for a surfer bum, a live-for-today Tom with bold, black and white Aloha shirt markings who had strutted into the neighborhood.
But Dick and I fell in love with the babies, just as Chessy had. She doted on her kittens, smothered them with licks and warm nuzzles, and, just as Chessy followed me everywhere, five black and white kittens learned to follow their mother throughout our two-bedroom apartment. Soon, like goslings, the tonga line ventured onto the lanai (balcony).
Fortunately, Dick and I had five friends who wanted kittens. For once the kittens reached the lanai, Chessy grew aloof, almost turned on her babies.
After the kittens departed, I thought the apartment felt empty. Not Chessy. She jumped onto the green sofa and meowed for me to join her for a nap, as she had done before the babies were born. Relieved to be free, Chessy stretched her long, muscular body against my side, put her head on my shoulder, and fell asleep.
As such, time passed. Dick and I married. The Marine Corps decided we'd move to Virginia. And this was fine, except we didn't know what to do about Chessy.
She had developed the annoying and destructive habit of not using the litter box. Toiletry deposits appeared in shoes, behind the sofa, on the sofa. We (and the vet) tried everything to break this habit, but stubbornness prevailed.
Even though Dick loved Chessy dearly, I sensed she had become jealous of him, the husband who left on deployments that lasted weeks and returned for brief days. For there were times, on the weekends when Dick was home, that she had meowed for us to take a nap, only to watch me leave with Dick.
When I closed the lanai door, Chessy would curl into a tight ball, face hidden, her back to the world.
But, at evening's end, when Dick and I pulled into our parking slot, we'd see our watch-kitty waiting patiently for our return (for she knew the sound of our car, could exit through the louver window).
The three of us would walk toward our second-story apartment, the light evening filled with meows about where we'd been. But when we reached the steps, Chessy would stop. I always carried Chessy up the steps, her sweet face nuzzled into my neck, her soft purrs the perfect sundowner.
So, the day before we had to schedule Chessy for a flight to the Mainland, for we had no choice but to leave Hawaii, Dick and I sat at our small kitchen table and debated the options. A friend with a large yard desperately wanted Chessy.
Just as desperately, we wanted to keep her. But her toiletry habit had become impossible. My heart tugged. As much as I loved Chessy, I wanted her to feel free, not restricted to what a townhouse offered. For we'd be living in a cramped townhouse at the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia.
Our decision was that if Chessy used her litter box in the morning, she'd fly to the Mainland. Just to make sure Chessy understood the ultimatum, I turned to my feline shadow and admonished, "Do you hear that, Missy?" and burst into tears.
The next morning, Chessy had used her litter box.
For 14 years, Chessy moved with us, whenever the Marine Corps issued orders, and there were many moves among the various bases and installations. Chessy adapted to Dick's erratic schedule. Dick learned that Chessy like to have her ears scratched. And, so, the years passed. Chessy, like us, acquired a few grey hairs, suffered dental problems, and nursed aching muscles. But we adapted.
Tired as she may have been, Chessy always greeted guests and followed them into the living room, watching, waiting, sometimes talking (as Siamese do) until the party's crescendo overwhelmed feline sensibilities. Our hostess would then retreat to the kitchen for party treats: five shrimp (boiled without salt, then peeled) and nine small potato chips. After a big water slurp, eager paws raced upstairs, jumped onto the bed and slept the party off.
When my husband wasn't deployed, Chessy slept at the foot of our bed.
During most deployments, Chessy slept curled up with me, as she had in Hawaii, with her head on my shoulder.
When her body ached, though, and she had to stretch -- for Chessy now had a kidney problem -- Chessy would lie in the center of the bed and wait for me. Meows encouraged me along.
Finally, I'd turn off the lamp, snuggle under the covers, and reach for Chessy's extended paw. When she felt my touch, she'd meow softly, curl her paw around my fingers, and I'd drift off to sleep. And I was blessed. Because whatever the military threw at me, I could handle the challenge. The night's demons never shadowed my sleep.
The vet assured us Chessy wasn't in pain and could live for months with a decent quality of life. But her failing health meant she couldn't accompany us on the long haul. We had Marine Corps orders for back-to-back overseas tours: Six months in Rome, Italy, and three years in Nairobi, Kenya.
I sobbed buffalo tears when Chessy flew to my sister's home in Houston, Texas. Before Dick and I left for Rome, I'd call my sister to hear Chessy's meow. I'd hang up the phone and try not to cry, not to sob tears that gushed from the soul, rolled down reddened cheeks, and splattered the tablecloth. But I did. Every time.
Still, life had to go on. Our first year in Nairobi, Kenya, we joined friends for an Easter service at a traditional African church. Traditional, that is, in the sense that the steepled church had a mud brick floor; open windows where white crocheted curtains fluttered; old, hand carved wooden pews with a patina that glistened in the morning sun; and an African choir that sang in Kiswahili.
It was during one of these hymns that the morning's peacefulness gave way to a sudden tremble. I felt dizzy, nauseous, and broke into a sweat. Concerned, Dick asked what was wrong. My hands were cold; my face was ashen. I didn't know what was wrong. I didn't know why tears suddenly fell. I didn't know until later.
Because, while the choir sang, Chessy had died.
At the news, I was devastated, pained beyond tears, hurt where I didn't think hurt existed, to the very core of all a warm paw had touched. I ached -- do you hear me? -- I ached to hold Chessy one more time, to see her tail up, to know she was happy.
Gradually, though -- as anyone who has mourned knows -- I picked up life's thread and wove Kenya into my days. When the time came to leave, I felt nostalgic before the plane lifted up. If ever there had been a place that had nurtured my sense of freedom, it had been Africa, a curious statement, I know considering some of the continent's Orwellian habits. (But live in Africa and you will understand.)
And, so, we returned to Northern Virginia and the Washington, D.C. environs. At this point, very accustomed to moving, I soon had boxes unpacked, except for two boxes of miscellaneous items in the bedroom.
Knowing that we'd move again in a year, and ready for a mid-morning break, I flopped onto the bed. I debated whether it was worth my time to unpack the boxes when a shadow on the floor in the near distance caught my attention. Curious, because sunlight filled the spacious room, I sat up.
I didn't know what to think when this shadow, now brown and white, swirled into the shape of a cat, and looked about, as if a transformation had occurred. But, no, the room looked the same: Dresser over there; comfortable chair in the corner; boxes where I had left them. The sun streamed peacefully through the windows. Nothing moved. Except the shadow on the floor.
And when this cat ran in circles and jumped and caught its tail and rolled on the floor, I knew what was happening and relaxed into the moment.
So when this brown-faced cat jumped onto the bed and moved towards me, I held out a hand to touch a paw I couldn't feel but which shadowed through my hand. I then felt a whoosh of air as the cat jumped over me and onto the floor.
I watched as Chessy walked into the wall, tail up, and disappeared.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Quiet Days and Sunshine
A Louisiana story swirls. Unfortunately, I jammed my index finger in a drawer a few days ago. The finger's not broken but swollen and bruised, an ouchie that doesn't particularly like typing. Just can't disassociate the feeling of typing with the story that swirls. Sigh. All things are meant to be . . . .
So, I'm reading 1491 by Charles C. Mann and thought I'd pass on that this is a really good book. Not a beach or coach potato book. But a heavily researched book that, for all the research, flows. 1491 chronicles the Americas (North, South, and Central America) before the arrival of Christopher Columbus in 1492 and provides food for thought, especially as to the numbers of Native Americans along our East Coast. New England, for example, was quite a busy place. A brief passage:
When Columbus landed, Cook and Borah [researchers] concluded, the central Mexican plateau alone had a population of 25.2 million. By contrast, Spain and Portugal together had fewer than ten million inhabitants. Central Mexico, they said, was the most densely populated place on earth, with more than twice as many people per square mile than China or India.
Anyway, it's a glorious spring day here in Virginia. Mother Nature put on an incredible floral show this year. The colors amaze. And the rain has kept the grass green and growing. What treasures!
I'd also like to thank Jen at Unedited (http://jennifer-daiker.blogspot.com/) for the lovely Silver Lining Award (right) and Bree at Shadow Dance (shadowdancevintage.blogspot.com) for the lovely Sunshine Award (right). Your thoughtfulness brought bright smiles! Thank you!
So, with the expected criteria -- and as instructed -- I'd lilke to pass on these awards, with requested instructions for you to pass on your award to a like/approximate number of bloggers. Let's spread some cheer around the world!
The Silver Lining Award:
The Wanderer at http://thewanderingpebble.blogspot.com/
The Grub Seeker at http://grubseeker.blogspot.com/
Gypsy Village at http://gypsy-village.blogspot.com/
Sea Mist and Sunsets at http://seamistandsunsets.blogspot.com/
Blue Starr Gallery at http://bluestarrgallery.blogspot.com/
Four Dog Day at http://fourdogday.blogspot.com/
Sunshine and Baba in Chennai at http://madamasebastian.blogspot.com/
Ms Hen's Blog at http://ahenwithoutarooster.blogspot.com/
The Sunshine Award:
Renee at http://agelesswithaunty.blogspot.com/
Cheek to Chic at cheektochic.blogspot.com
Through the Sapphire Sky at http://through-thesapphire-sky.blogspot.com/
This Is What I Meant By That at http://kittieflyn.blogspot.com/
This Is Not My Day Job at http://thisisnotmydayjob.blogspot.com/
The Writer's Funhouse at http://thewritersfunhouse.blogspot.com/
Tao~The Yang Side at http://baronessoftao.blogspot.com/
A Case of Myth-Taken Identity at http://mythtaken.blogspot.com/
Rose Tea Cottage at http://roseteacottage.blogspot.com/
Meg North at http://megnorth.blogspot.com/
Labyrinths of Lahrah at http:lahrah.blogspot.com
All the Things I Love at http://allthethingsilove.blogspot.com/
And, you probably have a favorite recipe blog. Just in case you'd enjoy another site, I've had really delicious results with recipes at Bunny's Warm Oven (http://www.bunnysoven.com.blogspot.com/
It's not easy to fine a recipe for Bourbon Chicken that works. Bunny's did!
I hope everyone has a bit of spare time to visit some of the sites above. Some terrific posts await. And, in this tough economy, I've got to put in a plug for our Mom and Pop sites!!! They need love, too!
And I hope Iceland's volcano subsides soon, that Followers in the plume's path don't suffer hardships. Mother Nature's power never ceases to amaze.
Hugs and Love,
Kittie
So, I'm reading 1491 by Charles C. Mann and thought I'd pass on that this is a really good book. Not a beach or coach potato book. But a heavily researched book that, for all the research, flows. 1491 chronicles the Americas (North, South, and Central America) before the arrival of Christopher Columbus in 1492 and provides food for thought, especially as to the numbers of Native Americans along our East Coast. New England, for example, was quite a busy place. A brief passage:
When Columbus landed, Cook and Borah [researchers] concluded, the central Mexican plateau alone had a population of 25.2 million. By contrast, Spain and Portugal together had fewer than ten million inhabitants. Central Mexico, they said, was the most densely populated place on earth, with more than twice as many people per square mile than China or India.
Anyway, it's a glorious spring day here in Virginia. Mother Nature put on an incredible floral show this year. The colors amaze. And the rain has kept the grass green and growing. What treasures!
I'd also like to thank Jen at Unedited (http://jennifer-daiker.blogspot.com/) for the lovely Silver Lining Award (right) and Bree at Shadow Dance (shadowdancevintage.blogspot.com) for the lovely Sunshine Award (right). Your thoughtfulness brought bright smiles! Thank you!
So, with the expected criteria -- and as instructed -- I'd lilke to pass on these awards, with requested instructions for you to pass on your award to a like/approximate number of bloggers. Let's spread some cheer around the world!
The Silver Lining Award:
The Wanderer at http://thewanderingpebble.blogspot.com/
The Grub Seeker at http://grubseeker.blogspot.com/
Gypsy Village at http://gypsy-village.blogspot.com/
Sea Mist and Sunsets at http://seamistandsunsets.blogspot.com/
Blue Starr Gallery at http://bluestarrgallery.blogspot.com/
Four Dog Day at http://fourdogday.blogspot.com/
Sunshine and Baba in Chennai at http://madamasebastian.blogspot.com/
Ms Hen's Blog at http://ahenwithoutarooster.blogspot.com/
The Sunshine Award:
Renee at http://agelesswithaunty.blogspot.com/
Cheek to Chic at cheektochic.blogspot.com
Through the Sapphire Sky at http://through-thesapphire-sky.blogspot.com/
This Is What I Meant By That at http://kittieflyn.blogspot.com/
This Is Not My Day Job at http://thisisnotmydayjob.blogspot.com/
The Writer's Funhouse at http://thewritersfunhouse.blogspot.com/
Tao~The Yang Side at http://baronessoftao.blogspot.com/
A Case of Myth-Taken Identity at http://mythtaken.blogspot.com/
Rose Tea Cottage at http://roseteacottage.blogspot.com/
Meg North at http://megnorth.blogspot.com/
Labyrinths of Lahrah at http:lahrah.blogspot.com
All the Things I Love at http://allthethingsilove.blogspot.com/
And, you probably have a favorite recipe blog. Just in case you'd enjoy another site, I've had really delicious results with recipes at Bunny's Warm Oven (http://www.bunnysoven.com.blogspot.com/
It's not easy to fine a recipe for Bourbon Chicken that works. Bunny's did!
I hope everyone has a bit of spare time to visit some of the sites above. Some terrific posts await. And, in this tough economy, I've got to put in a plug for our Mom and Pop sites!!! They need love, too!
And I hope Iceland's volcano subsides soon, that Followers in the plume's path don't suffer hardships. Mother Nature's power never ceases to amaze.
Hugs and Love,
Kittie
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Kittie Receives an Invitation
I closely examined the black and white photograph in the Baton Rouge newspaper. Four women in white hats and gloves, each with a white purse hooked over the left wrist, stood behind a cloth-covered table.
A rose-filled vase centered the table. Positioned to the side was a large tray with a teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl. My grandmother had a similar arrangement, what she called 'a tea service', in the dining room. But my two-and-a half-year-old sister and I weren't allowed to touch the treasured wedding gift.
I sat mesmerized, staring at the pretty picture. The photograph's black and white contrasts wove a dreamy spell, an enchantment that ached to touch a pretty moment that was. The ladies wore fashionable shirt-waist dresses with full skirts and wide belts. A string of pearls at the neck and pearl earrings accessorized dresses with small, dainty prints.
The women had dark brown hair that hung spray-net smooth beneath elegant hats, then rolled into a semi-collar of perfect curls that framed glowing faces with dark eyes and arched eyebrows. The 1950s society-page mavens smiled white smiles through rouged lips. I knew they wore bright red lipstick. Like my mother wore. Even if my mother lived in the country, not far from Baton Rouge, but a world removed from the society page.
But women who lived in the country still looked at glossy magazines and dreamed, smoothed on the Ponds Cold Cream, and checked the mirror for that Ivory Soap complexion. Not exactly vanity. But 'pretty is as pretty does' prevailed.
And so did gossip. In a male-dominated era that chafed but didn't rile women, if a woman didn't look good, something had to be wrong. So, my mother, a transplanted New Orleans city girl, dressed to please herself, but with an eye to what others thought. Along the bayou, gossip reigned, as much a crop as sugarcane and cotton.
Mama knew rumors couldn't fly about a poor mental state, a catch-all for not liking boudain (blood pudding), Wilbur's Beauty Parlor or the bruised bananas at Mr. Luke's grocery store. So my mother baked banana bread, enjoyed pickled pigs' feet, avoided Wilbur's but announced (rather than said) she voted for Wilbur's cousin in the last parish (county) election.
Which he won. Not specifically because my mother voted for Baby Joe. But locals appreciated that my mother thought like an insider and understood that no one else knew what to do with Baby Joe either. At 46 years old, Baby Joe, son of Big Joe and Skinny Rose, hadn't done much except grow a few rows of garlic. So, turning Baby Joe into a politician became an investment. Folks knew he wasn't clever enough to steal big money, not like the real politicians.
As such, my mother relaxed into enjoying pretty: Feeling pretty, looking pretty, thinking pretty, admiring anything pretty. In the mornings, I'd watch her apply red lipstick, pinch her cheeks rosy red, fluff her blond hair, and smile happily back at the mirror. She was 26 years old.
Mama looked especially pretty on Fridays, when Daddy returned home from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. (And when Sarah and I couldn't go into their bedroom.) Ma and Pa watched Sarah, Dan, and me while my parents visited with their friends. Or friends came to our house.
My parents joked that strangers who got lost on the state road that fronted our farm probably thought nothing much happened in the country.
Quite the opposite. Louisianians loved to throw parties. Or cook up big meals in honor of a favorite Catholic saint. And if a week or two passed where a saint didn't appear on St. Mary's Holy Roman Catholic Church calendar, well, word spread that one of the farms was having a crawfish (crayfish) boil, just before sunset. With music blaring. And dancing on the porch. Or just sitting around on the stoop. It really didn't matter, just so folks got together and lived life. And this life wasn't always good. But being together cushioned what had gone wrong or hadn't made sense.
This morning, though, I wasn't thinking about crawfish (crayfish), just lipstick and getting dressed up. I narrowed my blue eyes to read the newspaper print beneath the photograph but couldn't. At four-and-a-half-years-old, I was all grown up, knew the alphabet backwards and forwards, even recognized words in my story books, but I couldn't read, not like the adults.
This frustrated me. I wanted to know what happened in the newspaper that smudged my hands with black ink. I wanted to know why four women wore hats and gloves and stood behind a table with a big teapot.
When Little Mary, Jo-Jo or Melodie visited, and we played with my tea set, we sat on the floor, with our dolls, and drank lemonade. We wore shorts, not dresses. According to the picture in the newspaper, we didn't dress right. And, come to think of it, how come only adults drank tea? I'd have to ask Mama. She knew everything.
I waited while Mama changed Dan's diaper. He was six months old now and a good baby. At least, that's what everyone said, even Mama. Compared to kittens, though, who rolled onto their backs and pawed at my string, I didn't see how Dan did much of anything, good or bad. I mean, what fun was a baby brother who did what babies do: Poop, eat, laugh, sleep, cry, poop?
Still, I worried why Mama put a salve on those things boys get between their legs, you know, what the bull in the pasture has. I'd heard Mama and Daddy say the salve protected the family jewels. But what I saw looked like half a Vienna sausage and two jacks balls, not pretty stones that sparkled in the sun.
When I told Mama what I thought, her eyes flashed, and I knew I'd made a mistake. I'd said something about something only adults talked about.
So, no, she didn't have time to mess with an afternoon tea. I'd have to ask Ma.
Which I prepared to do. While Mama dripped her second cup of Community Roast coffee and thumbed through the Ladies Home Journal, I tip-toed out of the kitchen, and around through the living room, careful not to draw my sister's attention, carefully closed the screen door (for a change), and flew across the pasture to my grandmother's house.
Only to come to a screeching halt. Ma and Mrs. Slim drank coffee and visited on the porch while Mr. Slim sat across from them, reading a magazine, paying no nevermind to the two women who spoke in French.
I didn't have to understand French to know Mrs. Slim had been to Wilbur's Beauty Salon for a new perm.
I could smell the solution that had fried her short brown hair into tight curls that hugged her scalp. I thought she looked like a surprised hornet's nest, what with her eyebrows arched so high and her thin lips puckered into a red wheel. But I didn't say anything, not after getting Mama mad at me, not if I wanted an afternoon tea (now that I knew what I wanted).
Besides, I had to be nice to Mrs. Slim. She was Little Mary's grandmother, one of the three friends I wanted to invite. Mrs. Slim possessed a fiery temper. When Mr. Slim had been younger and slim, like his nickname, he'd gotten caught cattin' around with a woman while Mrs. Slim thought he was helping this woman's husband.
To show Mr. Slim he wasn't going to mess around anymore, Mrs. Slim had driven his Ford to the center of their large front yard, hauled out his shotgun, shot up the Ford so it wouldn't run anymore, planted a pink rose bush in front of the car and placed statues of the Virgin Mary on either side. Mrs. Slim bragged the rose bush had grown into a flowery testament to marriage's sacred vows. (Daddy said Mrs. Slim trimmed the bush back once in awhile so the bullet holes showed, just in case.)
So, when Mr. Slim started to laugh at my idea for an afternoon tea and Mrs. Slim shot him a warning look that snapped his mouth shut, I knew Ma would like the idea. Mrs. Slim, whom Ma called Bernice, triumphed as Ma's major source of gossip along the bayou.
Within minutes, Ma and Mrs. Slim had gotten into planning my tea and told me to run along. That evening, when Mama learned she and Daddy would host the crayfish boil that followed my afternoon tea, Mama reacted with how tired she was, what with three kids to raise while her husband attended law school during the week. And, just in case anyone thought otherwise, she hid her ladies magazines under the mattress and behind the dresser.
The ploy worked. While Ma planned the tea at her house, Mrs. Slim and her cadre of Wilbur devotees decided who would do what and when at our house. And Mama perked up when she learned we'd keep the leftovers. Mama didn't like to cook. Nothing pretty about wringing a chicken's neck and plucking the feathers.
A week before my Saturday afternoon tea, Mama handed me an envelope with my name printed on the outside. Mama read where Ma had written on a note card I had been 'cordially invited to Afternoon Lemonade.'
When my eyes popped and my heart sank, Mama thought I didn't understand 'cordially' and went on to explain. However, I didn't care about cordially, only lemonade. Not more lemonade! No one dressed up for Afternoon Lemonade. No one had a 'lemonade service' in the dining room. Even I knew that.
I protested (cried, wailed, pouted, tried to make myself throw up, the usual get-my-way stuff) to no avail. Kids didn't drink tea. End of discussion. I didn't perk up until Daddy informed me that I'd actually gotten what I'd wanted, doing what the ladies did in the photograph, and whether we drank tea or lemonade didn't matter.
So, the following Saturday morning, Mama washed and set my shoulder-length hair with Bobbie pins, in small curls that would dry really tight. When the clock finally ticked the time to dress for Afternoon Tea, Mama surprised me with a grown-up shirt-waist dress. Since Mama could sew without following a pattern, she had copied what the ladies had worn, only pint-sized for me.
Mama hair-sprayed my flounce of tight curls into a stiff collar, positioned her white hat on top, snapped white beads around my neck, placed her white purse on my arm, and proudly pronounced me ready for Afternoon Lemonade. At the news, I looked into the mirror and beamed.
But, just as we stepped outside, onto the porch, and Mama handed me my white church gloves, I ran back inside. Mama had forgotten the red lipstick!
She frowned a bit when I returned, but quickly smiled again. Together we walked across the pasture, like twins, with Mama in her matching shirt-waist dress, white hat, gloves, and purse, to Ma's front door (for Mama said we were guests).
And when Ma opened the door, she also wore a shirt-waist dress and white hat. As did Melodie, Jo-Jo, and Little Mary. And their mothers. And Mrs. Slim.
In the center of the living stood a round table (that I didn't know Ma had). On the table were a vase of pink roses and Ma's tea service.
While the ladies sat elsewhere, on the living room sofa or in chairs, Melodie, Jo-Jo, Little Mary, and I sat at the round table and enjoyed an Afternoon Lemonade that included small sandwiches without crusts and little cookies.
After Ma took a photograph of the four of us. We stood behind the cloth-covered table: Steel magnolias-in-training with bright, lipstick-smeared smiles.
A rose-filled vase centered the table. Positioned to the side was a large tray with a teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl. My grandmother had a similar arrangement, what she called 'a tea service', in the dining room. But my two-and-a half-year-old sister and I weren't allowed to touch the treasured wedding gift.
I sat mesmerized, staring at the pretty picture. The photograph's black and white contrasts wove a dreamy spell, an enchantment that ached to touch a pretty moment that was. The ladies wore fashionable shirt-waist dresses with full skirts and wide belts. A string of pearls at the neck and pearl earrings accessorized dresses with small, dainty prints.
The women had dark brown hair that hung spray-net smooth beneath elegant hats, then rolled into a semi-collar of perfect curls that framed glowing faces with dark eyes and arched eyebrows. The 1950s society-page mavens smiled white smiles through rouged lips. I knew they wore bright red lipstick. Like my mother wore. Even if my mother lived in the country, not far from Baton Rouge, but a world removed from the society page.
But women who lived in the country still looked at glossy magazines and dreamed, smoothed on the Ponds Cold Cream, and checked the mirror for that Ivory Soap complexion. Not exactly vanity. But 'pretty is as pretty does' prevailed.
And so did gossip. In a male-dominated era that chafed but didn't rile women, if a woman didn't look good, something had to be wrong. So, my mother, a transplanted New Orleans city girl, dressed to please herself, but with an eye to what others thought. Along the bayou, gossip reigned, as much a crop as sugarcane and cotton.
Mama knew rumors couldn't fly about a poor mental state, a catch-all for not liking boudain (blood pudding), Wilbur's Beauty Parlor or the bruised bananas at Mr. Luke's grocery store. So my mother baked banana bread, enjoyed pickled pigs' feet, avoided Wilbur's but announced (rather than said) she voted for Wilbur's cousin in the last parish (county) election.
Which he won. Not specifically because my mother voted for Baby Joe. But locals appreciated that my mother thought like an insider and understood that no one else knew what to do with Baby Joe either. At 46 years old, Baby Joe, son of Big Joe and Skinny Rose, hadn't done much except grow a few rows of garlic. So, turning Baby Joe into a politician became an investment. Folks knew he wasn't clever enough to steal big money, not like the real politicians.
As such, my mother relaxed into enjoying pretty: Feeling pretty, looking pretty, thinking pretty, admiring anything pretty. In the mornings, I'd watch her apply red lipstick, pinch her cheeks rosy red, fluff her blond hair, and smile happily back at the mirror. She was 26 years old.
Mama looked especially pretty on Fridays, when Daddy returned home from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. (And when Sarah and I couldn't go into their bedroom.) Ma and Pa watched Sarah, Dan, and me while my parents visited with their friends. Or friends came to our house.
My parents joked that strangers who got lost on the state road that fronted our farm probably thought nothing much happened in the country.
Quite the opposite. Louisianians loved to throw parties. Or cook up big meals in honor of a favorite Catholic saint. And if a week or two passed where a saint didn't appear on St. Mary's Holy Roman Catholic Church calendar, well, word spread that one of the farms was having a crawfish (crayfish) boil, just before sunset. With music blaring. And dancing on the porch. Or just sitting around on the stoop. It really didn't matter, just so folks got together and lived life. And this life wasn't always good. But being together cushioned what had gone wrong or hadn't made sense.
This morning, though, I wasn't thinking about crawfish (crayfish), just lipstick and getting dressed up. I narrowed my blue eyes to read the newspaper print beneath the photograph but couldn't. At four-and-a-half-years-old, I was all grown up, knew the alphabet backwards and forwards, even recognized words in my story books, but I couldn't read, not like the adults.
This frustrated me. I wanted to know what happened in the newspaper that smudged my hands with black ink. I wanted to know why four women wore hats and gloves and stood behind a table with a big teapot.
When Little Mary, Jo-Jo or Melodie visited, and we played with my tea set, we sat on the floor, with our dolls, and drank lemonade. We wore shorts, not dresses. According to the picture in the newspaper, we didn't dress right. And, come to think of it, how come only adults drank tea? I'd have to ask Mama. She knew everything.
I waited while Mama changed Dan's diaper. He was six months old now and a good baby. At least, that's what everyone said, even Mama. Compared to kittens, though, who rolled onto their backs and pawed at my string, I didn't see how Dan did much of anything, good or bad. I mean, what fun was a baby brother who did what babies do: Poop, eat, laugh, sleep, cry, poop?
Still, I worried why Mama put a salve on those things boys get between their legs, you know, what the bull in the pasture has. I'd heard Mama and Daddy say the salve protected the family jewels. But what I saw looked like half a Vienna sausage and two jacks balls, not pretty stones that sparkled in the sun.
When I told Mama what I thought, her eyes flashed, and I knew I'd made a mistake. I'd said something about something only adults talked about.
So, no, she didn't have time to mess with an afternoon tea. I'd have to ask Ma.
Which I prepared to do. While Mama dripped her second cup of Community Roast coffee and thumbed through the Ladies Home Journal, I tip-toed out of the kitchen, and around through the living room, careful not to draw my sister's attention, carefully closed the screen door (for a change), and flew across the pasture to my grandmother's house.
Only to come to a screeching halt. Ma and Mrs. Slim drank coffee and visited on the porch while Mr. Slim sat across from them, reading a magazine, paying no nevermind to the two women who spoke in French.
I didn't have to understand French to know Mrs. Slim had been to Wilbur's Beauty Salon for a new perm.
I could smell the solution that had fried her short brown hair into tight curls that hugged her scalp. I thought she looked like a surprised hornet's nest, what with her eyebrows arched so high and her thin lips puckered into a red wheel. But I didn't say anything, not after getting Mama mad at me, not if I wanted an afternoon tea (now that I knew what I wanted).
Besides, I had to be nice to Mrs. Slim. She was Little Mary's grandmother, one of the three friends I wanted to invite. Mrs. Slim possessed a fiery temper. When Mr. Slim had been younger and slim, like his nickname, he'd gotten caught cattin' around with a woman while Mrs. Slim thought he was helping this woman's husband.
To show Mr. Slim he wasn't going to mess around anymore, Mrs. Slim had driven his Ford to the center of their large front yard, hauled out his shotgun, shot up the Ford so it wouldn't run anymore, planted a pink rose bush in front of the car and placed statues of the Virgin Mary on either side. Mrs. Slim bragged the rose bush had grown into a flowery testament to marriage's sacred vows. (Daddy said Mrs. Slim trimmed the bush back once in awhile so the bullet holes showed, just in case.)
So, when Mr. Slim started to laugh at my idea for an afternoon tea and Mrs. Slim shot him a warning look that snapped his mouth shut, I knew Ma would like the idea. Mrs. Slim, whom Ma called Bernice, triumphed as Ma's major source of gossip along the bayou.
Within minutes, Ma and Mrs. Slim had gotten into planning my tea and told me to run along. That evening, when Mama learned she and Daddy would host the crayfish boil that followed my afternoon tea, Mama reacted with how tired she was, what with three kids to raise while her husband attended law school during the week. And, just in case anyone thought otherwise, she hid her ladies magazines under the mattress and behind the dresser.
The ploy worked. While Ma planned the tea at her house, Mrs. Slim and her cadre of Wilbur devotees decided who would do what and when at our house. And Mama perked up when she learned we'd keep the leftovers. Mama didn't like to cook. Nothing pretty about wringing a chicken's neck and plucking the feathers.
A week before my Saturday afternoon tea, Mama handed me an envelope with my name printed on the outside. Mama read where Ma had written on a note card I had been 'cordially invited to Afternoon Lemonade.'
When my eyes popped and my heart sank, Mama thought I didn't understand 'cordially' and went on to explain. However, I didn't care about cordially, only lemonade. Not more lemonade! No one dressed up for Afternoon Lemonade. No one had a 'lemonade service' in the dining room. Even I knew that.
I protested (cried, wailed, pouted, tried to make myself throw up, the usual get-my-way stuff) to no avail. Kids didn't drink tea. End of discussion. I didn't perk up until Daddy informed me that I'd actually gotten what I'd wanted, doing what the ladies did in the photograph, and whether we drank tea or lemonade didn't matter.
So, the following Saturday morning, Mama washed and set my shoulder-length hair with Bobbie pins, in small curls that would dry really tight. When the clock finally ticked the time to dress for Afternoon Tea, Mama surprised me with a grown-up shirt-waist dress. Since Mama could sew without following a pattern, she had copied what the ladies had worn, only pint-sized for me.
Mama hair-sprayed my flounce of tight curls into a stiff collar, positioned her white hat on top, snapped white beads around my neck, placed her white purse on my arm, and proudly pronounced me ready for Afternoon Lemonade. At the news, I looked into the mirror and beamed.
But, just as we stepped outside, onto the porch, and Mama handed me my white church gloves, I ran back inside. Mama had forgotten the red lipstick!
She frowned a bit when I returned, but quickly smiled again. Together we walked across the pasture, like twins, with Mama in her matching shirt-waist dress, white hat, gloves, and purse, to Ma's front door (for Mama said we were guests).
And when Ma opened the door, she also wore a shirt-waist dress and white hat. As did Melodie, Jo-Jo, and Little Mary. And their mothers. And Mrs. Slim.
In the center of the living stood a round table (that I didn't know Ma had). On the table were a vase of pink roses and Ma's tea service.
While the ladies sat elsewhere, on the living room sofa or in chairs, Melodie, Jo-Jo, Little Mary, and I sat at the round table and enjoyed an Afternoon Lemonade that included small sandwiches without crusts and little cookies.
After Ma took a photograph of the four of us. We stood behind the cloth-covered table: Steel magnolias-in-training with bright, lipstick-smeared smiles.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Piggy Lou (Louisiana Stories)
(Note: I'm late posting. And reading your beautiful blogs. Hang in there! My husband got sick with a bug that infects the sinuses and hung out in this multi-purpose room so as not to infect me...he's a good guy!...but is now back to normal, yea! Then, I decided to prepare this room for spring, reverse clothes in closets and so on. That accomplished (ahhhh!), the sun's shining, birds are chirping, and life's good.)
Today's story . . .
The end of World War II brought economic, military, and political change to much of the world. Within the United States, hundreds of thousands of soldiers returned to a grateful nation, but also to change. The need to move troops within the country had increased internal rail lines and expanded roadways. This constant movement of troops had also exposed 'good ole country boys' to the bright lights of the cities and a different way of life.
War's end meant thousands of soldiers with rural roots descended upon America's cities, all looking for a job and a more affluent life. Jobs became scarce. The G.I. Bill, a massive government spending program, provided immediate opportunity for war veterans to attend university and re-enter the work force with updated, more realistic skills change demanded.
The United States also faced the problem of how to dispose of excess war materials within the country: Jeeps, tents, Quonset huts, and the like. Public auctions and shifting materials to peacetime usage decreased stockpiles and allowed factories and the auto giants to return to normal production. (To maintain security interests, the United States requires three auto companies: Two for conversion to mechanized production during war and a third to produce vehicles for the private sector.)
To accommodate increased university attendance the G.I. Bill afforded, Quonset huts functioned as student housing, especially for married students. Universities partitioned the metal, dark green, tubular modulars into half, with a family occupying either end.
When my father returned home from the war, he returned home to a family. I had been born while he fought on Iwo Jima. My mother quickly became pregnant with my sister, Sarah.
Although my father possessed an undergraduate degree from Louisiana State University prior to enlisting in the Army, at War's end he didn't think his degree provided an edge in a congested job market. He decided to attend Law School at LSU.
And, so, we lived in a Quonset hut, one among many in the on-campus, married students' housing (across from the field where the university golf teams now practice).
Of course, I didn't know any of this. I was a child. A very happy child with red hair and freckles who loved to laugh and giggle and explore everything around me. And, on this day, I was even happier. It was my third birthday. I was a big girl now, all grown up and ready for the world, even if this world comprised a sidewalk that fronted the rows of Quonset huts:
The sleek wagon's watermelon-red paint glistened brand-new in the July sun.
And I squealed with delight.
Nervous hands soon tugged at the Radio Flyer's handle. When the wagon's black wheels glided forward, I felt the power of freedom and turned to run. I ran down a sidewalk that went forever, at least to New Orleans, maybe to Mississippi. I ran for a million miles, my laughter and giggles a flautist accompaniment to the sidewalk's thump! thump! thump! cracked percussion.
My frilly pink party dress clung to my pale skin. The white ruffles wilted. My straw summer hat, with its pink bow and fluttery tails, floated on a breeze. Only the straps on my white Mary Jane's kept me on the sidewalk, prevented me from pulling my red wagon into the blue sky and hooking a ride on the hat that swirled toward a golden sun.
Ten years later -- no, twenty years later -- I returned to my birthday party, red wagon in tow, a wide smile on my freckled face, a victorious Helen of Troy before I knew either of the warrior queen or life's battles, only that my heart exploded from joy, the sheer joy of living beyond what a three-year-old knew.
At my wide smile, my parents hugged me, and everyone clapped, my parents' friends and their kids, all neighbors who had come to my third birthday party. And they sang Happy Birthday. And we ate cake with pink frosting and a scoop of home-made ice cream on the side. And after playing with my friends, I fell asleep on a blanket under a nearby oak tree.
However, the next day I didn't see Peggy Lou. My best friend in the whole wide world, who lived with her parents on the other side of our Quonset hut, hadn't attended my birthday party.
Two days later, when Peggy Sue still hadn't come out to play, I grew sad and worried Peggy Lou had disappeared. And because friends my age lived deeper in the housing complex I didn't have anyone except Sarah to play with. So, I pulled Sarah up and down the sidewalk. This was fun. Maybe. Not really.
I thought Peggy Lou would want to take Bootsy for a ride in the wagon. Bootsy was a big doll with long brown hair Peggy Lou had received for her third birthday. She'd had a huge birthday party before summer began, with balloons and games and prizes and a pile of other gifts. But Mama said I'd received lots of presents when I was an only child and this was fair. And Mama was right. Sarah was fun. Except when she tried to eat my picture books.
So, while Mama sat on the stoop, I played with Sarah and the wagon. And a long time passed, maybe five years, before Peggy Lou came outside. One afternoon, after playing with Sarah, and while Mama, Sarah, and I sat on the stoop, Peggy Lou appeared.
Without saying a word, and focused as only a three-year-old can be, Peggy Lou walked up to my red wagon, now parked near the sidewalk, and began kicking it. Before Mama could re-situate Sarah, Peggy Lou had kicked the wagon over, yanked on its handle and run off.
My little red wagon never rolled again. No one could realign the handle and the wheels.
A month later, after we'd moved to my grandparents' farm, my red wagon remained parked on our front porch, drooped on its side. But that's where I wanted my wagon. And Sarah and I would put dolls our grandmother had given us into the wagon and imagine the wheels rolled.
But, still, I didn't know about cows and pastures. I didn't understand my new world where everything appeared so open and far away. I didn't understand that this move to the farm had been planned, that my grandparents had had our house built for us. I didn't understand that my parents transitioned into the next phase of their lives and that my father commuted between LSU and the farm until he graduated the following spring. So, not understanding meant I didn't know what to do.
Until, that is, someone gave me a baby pig. A chocolate-brown baby pig that squealed like a thousand kittens. All at once.
Except in a picture book, I'd never seen a pig before and couldn't believe my good fortune. Of course, I didn't know my mother was furious about this unsolicited gift or that my grandmother had thrown a fit. "A PIG!", Ma had screeched and with a case of the vapors had lain in bed for two days (Mama told me years later).
But no one could take my pig from me, except at night. My little friend slept in the barn.
Every morning my mother and I walked to the barn to get my pig. The three of us then walked to my grandmother's where Ma waited with breakfast scraps. With my pig behind me, I learned to navigate that wide expanse between our houses that soon appeared smaller and smaller, still a pasture, but not as bad as I had thought.
When my father returned to the farm the next weekend from LSU and saw my new friend, he got a twinkle in his blue eyes and asked, "What are you going to name your pig?"
Without a moment's hesitation, I answered, "Piggy Lou."
And Piggy Lou and I had fun. For a little while. Until the day came when I realized I could leave the front porch and my little red wagon without Piggy Lou.
I also got lucky. For Piggy Lou was growing fast, too fast for my little legs to keep up with. Just in time I learned other sidewalks existed in life where I could run forever, at my own speed.
Miss Kitty, the former slave who lived up the road, said she'd raise Piggy Lou. When Miss Kitty saw the pretty pink ribbon I'd tied around Piggy Lou's neck, she chuckled and patted me on the head. After a slice of cake and a glass of lemonade, Pa drove home.
And my grandmother gave me a kite.
And I ran and laughed and giggled, happy to be with my new best friend in the world, myself.
Today's story . . .
The end of World War II brought economic, military, and political change to much of the world. Within the United States, hundreds of thousands of soldiers returned to a grateful nation, but also to change. The need to move troops within the country had increased internal rail lines and expanded roadways. This constant movement of troops had also exposed 'good ole country boys' to the bright lights of the cities and a different way of life.
War's end meant thousands of soldiers with rural roots descended upon America's cities, all looking for a job and a more affluent life. Jobs became scarce. The G.I. Bill, a massive government spending program, provided immediate opportunity for war veterans to attend university and re-enter the work force with updated, more realistic skills change demanded.
The United States also faced the problem of how to dispose of excess war materials within the country: Jeeps, tents, Quonset huts, and the like. Public auctions and shifting materials to peacetime usage decreased stockpiles and allowed factories and the auto giants to return to normal production. (To maintain security interests, the United States requires three auto companies: Two for conversion to mechanized production during war and a third to produce vehicles for the private sector.)
To accommodate increased university attendance the G.I. Bill afforded, Quonset huts functioned as student housing, especially for married students. Universities partitioned the metal, dark green, tubular modulars into half, with a family occupying either end.
When my father returned home from the war, he returned home to a family. I had been born while he fought on Iwo Jima. My mother quickly became pregnant with my sister, Sarah.
Although my father possessed an undergraduate degree from Louisiana State University prior to enlisting in the Army, at War's end he didn't think his degree provided an edge in a congested job market. He decided to attend Law School at LSU.
And, so, we lived in a Quonset hut, one among many in the on-campus, married students' housing (across from the field where the university golf teams now practice).
Of course, I didn't know any of this. I was a child. A very happy child with red hair and freckles who loved to laugh and giggle and explore everything around me. And, on this day, I was even happier. It was my third birthday. I was a big girl now, all grown up and ready for the world, even if this world comprised a sidewalk that fronted the rows of Quonset huts:
The sleek wagon's watermelon-red paint glistened brand-new in the July sun.
And I squealed with delight.
Nervous hands soon tugged at the Radio Flyer's handle. When the wagon's black wheels glided forward, I felt the power of freedom and turned to run. I ran down a sidewalk that went forever, at least to New Orleans, maybe to Mississippi. I ran for a million miles, my laughter and giggles a flautist accompaniment to the sidewalk's thump! thump! thump! cracked percussion.
My frilly pink party dress clung to my pale skin. The white ruffles wilted. My straw summer hat, with its pink bow and fluttery tails, floated on a breeze. Only the straps on my white Mary Jane's kept me on the sidewalk, prevented me from pulling my red wagon into the blue sky and hooking a ride on the hat that swirled toward a golden sun.
Ten years later -- no, twenty years later -- I returned to my birthday party, red wagon in tow, a wide smile on my freckled face, a victorious Helen of Troy before I knew either of the warrior queen or life's battles, only that my heart exploded from joy, the sheer joy of living beyond what a three-year-old knew.
At my wide smile, my parents hugged me, and everyone clapped, my parents' friends and their kids, all neighbors who had come to my third birthday party. And they sang Happy Birthday. And we ate cake with pink frosting and a scoop of home-made ice cream on the side. And after playing with my friends, I fell asleep on a blanket under a nearby oak tree.
However, the next day I didn't see Peggy Lou. My best friend in the whole wide world, who lived with her parents on the other side of our Quonset hut, hadn't attended my birthday party.
Two days later, when Peggy Sue still hadn't come out to play, I grew sad and worried Peggy Lou had disappeared. And because friends my age lived deeper in the housing complex I didn't have anyone except Sarah to play with. So, I pulled Sarah up and down the sidewalk. This was fun. Maybe. Not really.
I thought Peggy Lou would want to take Bootsy for a ride in the wagon. Bootsy was a big doll with long brown hair Peggy Lou had received for her third birthday. She'd had a huge birthday party before summer began, with balloons and games and prizes and a pile of other gifts. But Mama said I'd received lots of presents when I was an only child and this was fair. And Mama was right. Sarah was fun. Except when she tried to eat my picture books.
So, while Mama sat on the stoop, I played with Sarah and the wagon. And a long time passed, maybe five years, before Peggy Lou came outside. One afternoon, after playing with Sarah, and while Mama, Sarah, and I sat on the stoop, Peggy Lou appeared.
Without saying a word, and focused as only a three-year-old can be, Peggy Lou walked up to my red wagon, now parked near the sidewalk, and began kicking it. Before Mama could re-situate Sarah, Peggy Lou had kicked the wagon over, yanked on its handle and run off.
My little red wagon never rolled again. No one could realign the handle and the wheels.
A month later, after we'd moved to my grandparents' farm, my red wagon remained parked on our front porch, drooped on its side. But that's where I wanted my wagon. And Sarah and I would put dolls our grandmother had given us into the wagon and imagine the wheels rolled.
But, still, I didn't know about cows and pastures. I didn't understand my new world where everything appeared so open and far away. I didn't understand that this move to the farm had been planned, that my grandparents had had our house built for us. I didn't understand that my parents transitioned into the next phase of their lives and that my father commuted between LSU and the farm until he graduated the following spring. So, not understanding meant I didn't know what to do.
Until, that is, someone gave me a baby pig. A chocolate-brown baby pig that squealed like a thousand kittens. All at once.
Except in a picture book, I'd never seen a pig before and couldn't believe my good fortune. Of course, I didn't know my mother was furious about this unsolicited gift or that my grandmother had thrown a fit. "A PIG!", Ma had screeched and with a case of the vapors had lain in bed for two days (Mama told me years later).
But no one could take my pig from me, except at night. My little friend slept in the barn.
Every morning my mother and I walked to the barn to get my pig. The three of us then walked to my grandmother's where Ma waited with breakfast scraps. With my pig behind me, I learned to navigate that wide expanse between our houses that soon appeared smaller and smaller, still a pasture, but not as bad as I had thought.
When my father returned to the farm the next weekend from LSU and saw my new friend, he got a twinkle in his blue eyes and asked, "What are you going to name your pig?"
Without a moment's hesitation, I answered, "Piggy Lou."
And Piggy Lou and I had fun. For a little while. Until the day came when I realized I could leave the front porch and my little red wagon without Piggy Lou.
I also got lucky. For Piggy Lou was growing fast, too fast for my little legs to keep up with. Just in time I learned other sidewalks existed in life where I could run forever, at my own speed.
Miss Kitty, the former slave who lived up the road, said she'd raise Piggy Lou. When Miss Kitty saw the pretty pink ribbon I'd tied around Piggy Lou's neck, she chuckled and patted me on the head. After a slice of cake and a glass of lemonade, Pa drove home.
And my grandmother gave me a kite.
And I ran and laughed and giggled, happy to be with my new best friend in the world, myself.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Goodness of the Hippo and the Tortoise
I think a donation wins out over a gift card. I am very happy with this! However, I'm not sure if you want my donation to go to an Animal Shelter or a Soup Kitchen shelter that serves the unemployed and/or homeless. I take your comments seriously and will be most happy to donate to either. I'm staying tuned because I want my little Spring Celebration to spread sunshine!
Your comments (and e-mail requests) also stir the Louisiana stories. And there's a whole mess of stories! (A mess is Southern for that amount which satisfies a designated number of people. How many ears of corn to shuck? Until there's a mess to feed four hungry people.)
Several Louisiana stories percolate now. How one particular story bubbles to the top, I honestly don't know. Except that your comments give me a sensing of what you'd like to hear: Hard scrapple, whimsical, amusing or a bit of fun.
Because life can get quite serious. Teresa Evangeline (http://teresaevangeline.blogspot.com/) and I enjoyed an e-mail exchange that focused on how excessive negativity overwhelmed the spirit. At least, our Soul Sister spirits. Many people thrive on negativity, can't get enough of what's wrong, pounce on the slightest mishap with undisguised glee.
I make every effort to avoid these people. Even if I'd agree with what they'd say. I just can't take all that negative energy. Life's too short, the sun's too bright, to get bogged down in mumbo-jumbo.
Good and bad exist as polar opposites, life's yin and yang, if you will. Can't have one without the other. So, this morning, while reading this weekend's Parade magazine, a comment from David Gergen, the Harvard professor and CNN political analyst, caught my attention: "As my favorite preacher, Peter Gomes, says about how one should handle adversity in life, 'Get used to it, get over it, and get on with it.'"
And, unfortunately, when it comes to earthquakes, the world's definitely getting 'used to it'. The horrific quakes in Haiti and Chile were heart-wrenching. The ensuing slew of smaller quakes and aftershocks, from Illinois to Japan to Hawaii and back to Chile and Haiti, elicited shivers of fear. Nothing prevents an earthquake. Nothing stops an earthquake. Nothing stops a tsunami, its first cousin.
But nothing also stops the human spirit, even when an earthquake rains death and misery. The entire world witnessed how the Haitians, who already possessed few material goods, coped with even less, many with nothing. But a previously ignored people never lost faith in God, themselves, and in humanity's goodness. And, though a more affluent country, the Chileans also suffered terribly, but maintained their indominable faith and perservered. Both countries accepted what had happened and got on with it. Survival.
But millions of people around the world contributed to this survival, either through financial donations, personalized relief efforts or both. This generosity sparked hope that goodness trumped negativity. Survival.
Like others with practical experience, a nurse with 20 years experience also contributed to this goodness. I'd like to thank and applaud Enigma4Ever, a Follower, at http://watergatesummer.blogspot.com/ for all that this warm, giving person contributed during these disasters. Her blog remains a shining example of how a knowledgable person can spring into action for the common good.
Enigma posted emergency telephone numbers, tirelessly coordinated detailed information, and consistently pointed volunteers in the right direction on not one blog, but a series of blogs (also on Twitter) that kept people informed in a calm, professional manner.
I hope Enigma's gotten rest. But I doubt it. This is one dynamite gal whose passion for life goes beyond self. Thank you, Enigma!
And I need to recognize and apologize to Sandi at http://itstartedwitharitzcracker.blogspot.com/ and Cheryl K at http://www.lakemarymusings.com/ for not including their names on my Spring Celebration list for the Over the Top award. I didn't realize the paper with their names (and a smaller paper I still can't find) had been scattered by a spring breeze. Sandi's on crutches at the moment but is positive about tossing the sticks soon. Cheryl and her hub are housesitting -- which includes minding four young kids -- but, like Sandi, accomplishes all with grace. Please accept what I hope is a happy award. And please pass it on to five people. I'm sick of Cotton Mather's shadow. It's time to spread some smiles.
For those of you outside the United States, Cotton Mather was a Puritanical leader/preacher during the early 1600s who thought being normal was sinful. However, not long ago scholars found correspondence that said Cotton Mather enjoyed a glass of wine and liked to laugh (horrors!)
Now, about the photo at the bottom, photographer unknown (as far as I can tell).
And, as the hippo grew older and bigger he still remained near the tortoise, very caring and respectful, when the hippo could easily have squashed the tortoise. (Eventually, though, the hippo had to move on in life and do what hippos do.)
But people can do the same. Get along. Work together. Be pals.
If only we'd get on with it.
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