Enjoy her while she's here~

“Just enjoy her while she’s here,” my husband says. "It's all we can do."

He’s talking about our cat eighteen-year-old cat Becky, who is sleeping at the other end of the couch. Comfortable now, it appears. No twitching and tossing and turning. No frequent change of position. Just what looks like a normal cat nap. She’s napped for most of the day, but that’s par for the course for an old cat.

Becky’s my baby. We got her when my youngest, was three. He’s twenty-one now, and Becky is… old. And so loved by us all.

Early on, she chose me as her objet d’amour, and she became mine.

The kids always said, “You love Becky more than us, Mom.”

Of course I didn’t, and they know that, but damn, she ran a close second!

And now she’s on borrowed time.

“If a cat lives beyond fifteen,” the vet said, “that’s something!”

Something, but not enough, really.

Just enjoy her while she’s here. Bittersweet love.

She’s had a healthy life until recently when old-age issues led us to the vet, who, with a gloved finger where the sun don’t shine, discovered a mass. A mass. Such a loaded word, and it matters not what it’s loaded with in Becky’s case—cancer or benign, it’s inoperable according to the vet--Becky’s pediatrician cum gerontologist.

Better to have loved and lost than never too have loved at all. Undeniably true. The sorrow when a pet dies is balanced by a lifetime of pleasure she provides—and  the reciprocal love that passes back and forth is priceless.

For now, Becky seems to have rallied from her setback. I knock on wood as I type; I’m aware that she’s fifteen plus three. I’m realistic. Even stoic, in a small way. Been here, done this. It hurts. I'll heal.

But for now, she’s here. And I’ll enjoy her company for as long as she stays--my sweet girl.

If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans. ~James Herriot

A tattoo and a prayer~

I stood, camera in hand, waiting my turn at a local bakery where a mouthwatering array of pastries and cakes would tempt the most ardent dieter to fall off the wagon. Fall? Make that, leap off the wagon. Happily. Diet schmiet!

Colorful cartoon-character cupcakes, with candy eyes focused on elegant petits fours on dainty doilies, shared prime shelf real estate with brash Italian pastries stuffed with cream cheeses.

When the counter woman asked, "May I help you?" I explained that I was a photographer and would like to take some pictures of the goodies.

I expected a quick, "Sure, go ahead." But instead she looked confused, and said she'd have to ask the manager in the back room.

"Ask him if I can set up a time to take some photos of someone decorating a cake, too, please."

The answer was no. No, I couldn't take any photos in the shop, nor of someone decorating a cake.

And no, I will not buy anything from your bakery either, I thought silently, while I made my lips say, "Okay, thanks for asking. I appreciate it."

And then, because I'm me, I said, "I'm curious, though. Did he give a reason?" She just shrugged; she seemed the type who wouldn't think to ask why, especially not of a boss. Maybe not of anyone.

But there are people who welcome the lens pointed in their direction. Broad Street Tattoo was happy to allow me in with my camera.

"Come back at 1:15," shop owner Joe Staska told me. "I'll be setting up for my next customer, and you can get some photos then."

Joe Staska of Broad Street Tattoo

When I returned, a kid--a young man, I suppose--clean-cut, sort of sweet and innocent looking, was sitting on the couch. I figured he was waiting for someone who was getting tattooed, maybe his mother. Or maybe a friend with a five o'clock shadow at 1:15. Someone wearing a do-rag and tee shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the better to show bulging biceps in tattoo sleeves.

But then he took out a wad of cash and counted it--twice. "Are you here to get a tattoo?" I asked.

He was. He smiled and told me he'd always wanted a tattoo, this was his first--he'd just turned eighteen--and he was excited about it, that he wasn't worried about the pain. Yes, his mother knew, and no, she wasn't upset at all.

Nick Bennett

All sorts of designs adorned the walls. "What are you going to get?" I asked, thinking of my son's tattoos. Ghoulish designs that, nonetheless, have meaning to him.

"The Serenity Prayer," he said. "I've always loved that."

I'll never know the reason he chose that tattoo. There are only so many questions one is entitled to politely ask. But I'll bet there is a good story there. I wish I knew it.

~~~~~

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

~~~~~

Read my story, Coffee Break, at Camroc Press Review--a tattoo related tale of mother and son.

For Alice~ She's home!!!!!!!

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes it's all about knowing that loved ones and friends stand behind you,

knowing that support is there on the down days,

the worry days,

the days when you feel off-center,

out of sync,

bedraggled emotionally,

and in pain,

but knowing all the while that you're not alone.

You're not alone...

Alice is an online friend--she lives in Hawaii-- who belongs to the writer's workshop that I do. We've only "met" online, but those who have online friendships know that they can be just as strong as those in-person relationships.

Alice was hit by a car while walking, and is in the rehab phase of things. She's working to regain mobility after a broken pelvis, a broken arm, and a broken nose. It's scary to realize how, in the blink of an eye, life can lurch and our plans for a time are displaced by survival and healing. We've all been there--the place where the road veers sharply and suddenly--and it is then that we see how much our friends mean to us.

Alice---
Pohai Nani Good Samaritan Retirement Community
Weinberg Care Center Room
45-090 Namoku Street
Kaneohe, HI 96744

September 12 update... Alice says: Please tell everyone that I'm walking better and better. My physical therapist even let me try a cane instead of a walker and suggested that it might be better to use in the house instead of the walker. We're beginning to discuss logistics and I'm working harder and harder. Able to rise almost gracefully and get myself out of bed. Getting back in is another matter, not quite so elegant, but pain is at a minimum.

September 17 update... Alice is making good progress. She'll soon be able to go on "outings" with friends or relatives, and is looking forward to seeing the ocean again.

She writes: I do have a lovely piece of news - I'm moving into a private room! There are only two. Mine has a patio facing the forest that covers the hill behind Pohai Nani. The private room is my luxury. I do believe I've earned it.

It's probably easier to send any future snail mail to my home address. My husband, Sachi, brings it to me every day.

Alice Folkart
333 Aoloa Street #324
Kailua, HI 96734

September 20th update:
Dear Friends,

I still don't know when they're going to let me go home, but I did make a very pretty polymer-clay rose--pale pink--in occupational therapy(OT) yesterday. Clay play is good to improve dexterity in the broken-arm hand. In physical therapy(PT) I endlessly stepped up and down, down and up on a low step.This is supposed to get me ready for climbing stairs.

In addition to two hours a day of OT and PT, I walk and walk and walk, mostly with my walker but sometimes with my lovely new cane. There's not much of any place to go except round and round in the corridors or in tight circles in the little garden.You can't leave the building without setting off an alarm. So, I don't do that.

We have a black standard poodle here named Hoku. He is definitely NOT a therapy dog. He'll only go to people who have food preferably French fries. He's very naughty. I'm trying not to take him personally.

Wish I could give you some local color, but the big news here is when someone's doctor has increased
or decreased some blood pressure meds or maybe when someone has convinced the nurse that he really does need a suppository. Big news! Am loving my private room and my very own shower. That's it, what's big here.

Thank you all again and especially Ruth.

More later.
Love,
Alice

September 25th update: Alice is home!!!!!!!

The scarlet letter~

I feel like Hester Prynne, except, instead of a scarlet A on my bosom, I have a big red X on Facebook… next to a picture of Obama.

There was a "quiz," and though I seldom take quizzes I saw that other people had big green check marks showing that they had taken the quiz, so I clicked the link.

Here's the question:

Should President Obama be allowed to do a nationwide address to school children without parental consent?

-Yes
-No
-I don't care

Well, in a blink of an eye "without parental consent" trumped the president in my mind, and I clicked the box beside No.

Then I thought, I really should find out what this is all about. I looked for the cancel button, but there wasn't one, so I returned to the Facebook page.

Branded!

There was a big, fat, red X next to a picture of Obama at the chalkboard on my page, like I was Xing him personally. Everybody else has pretty green check marks next to the picture on their pages.

Some of us are just doomed to fail multiple-choice tests, aren't we?And we know what a red X means beside an answer.

If my kids were little, would I complain about an encouraging message from the president to children? Not at all.

If they came home and said, "Guess what, Mom? In school today, we all watched a speech from President Obama."

I'd say, "Oh? And what did he tell you?"

"That school really matters. That we should try hard, blah, blah, blah…"

"Great!"

But still, there is something about "without parental consent" that bothers me. Not that I think there is something sinister or political about this speech. I don't. Some parents raised issues, as is their right, and those in charge made changes to some of activities that were suggested teachers do with their classes afterward. Good move.


But the bottom line for me, after years of teaching and interacting with parents of my students, is my I belief that each parent should have the final say over what his child is exposed to. Yes, even the "kookie" parents. The one whose views differ from mine. The ones I really don't see eye-to-eye with. The ones who sound… uptight, overly concerned, paranoid, or … fill-in-the-blank with an adjective of your own. Because if we don't grant parents their different opinions and approaches… then whose opinions do we replace them with?
~~~~~
The moment we begin to fear the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that is in us, and from motives of policy are silent when we should speak, the divine floods of light and life no longer flow into our souls. ~Elizabeth Cady Stanton

It's all peachy~

Full steam ahead. It’s harvest time. And time to can and freeze as much as possible, a hot process in steamy late summer.

My husband doesn’t remember that I canned peaches last year, he says, although I have the pictures to prove it--and memories of pleasant winter breakfasts of peaches on oatmeal when he--oblivious, I guess--had toast.

This year, we make it a team effort. Although, to be honest, right now, I'm not playing. I’m on my laptop, and he’s peeling peaches at the sink. We have a small kitchen, poorly designed. If I get in his way in the crowded space he sighs in annoyance so… fine… peel away. Have fun. We’ve bumped elbows enough, and he is too precise for me, and I’m too loose for him.

“Why don’t you do such and such?” he asks me.

“Because this way works fine,” I reply.

He times things. I don't. He measures. I don't. He doesn't cut corners. I do. this is an exaggeration, but you get the point.

He sighs. Exasperated. “I don’t know why you insist upon doing things your own way,” Don’t you think the experts know what they are doing?”

“Experts? Experts!” I cry. Who’s the expert? You’re just reading directions on someone’s blog!”

The freshly cut fruit needs to have lemon juice on it to prevent the oxidization that turns it brown. I have lemons. How much juice, he asks, am I adding? Enough, I tell him, as I squeeze lemon juice on the slices. My fruit never rusts. But he bought a 32 oz. bottle of lemon juice and he adds a precise 1/4 cup to his fruit. This bottle will see us through many seasons…. maybe well past 2015.

“Hon,” he says, “it was only $2. 29. How much did your lemons cost?”

“More than that,” I admit, “but at least they’re real. If I squeeze them in tea they don’t taste like ….”

And so it goes. But come December, come the blizzards and Nor’ Easters, we’ll sit down to oatmeal with peaches and cream, peach muffins, peach cobbler, and peach jam on toast--not to mention what we did with the apples and pears-- and when the temperatures plummet and the wood stove keeps the house cozy, we'll be tasting summer.


We’ll forget all about lemon juice and what the "experts" said. We’ll forget who measured, and who didn't. It won’t matter a whit come winter. We are both experts who work differently. And it's impossible to eat peaches and not smile.

~~~~~
Proof of last year's canning.

Peaches.

And more peaches.
~~~~~
Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring and because it has fresh peaches in it. ~Thomas Walker

River of hope~

There was a woman taking a nap on the granite bench that curves along the river walk running through downtown Providence. She had on several layers of clothing despite the warm August sun, and used her backpack as a pillow. I stood photographing city architecture from my place nearby. She must have heard the click of the camera's shutter .

"No pictures of me," she said sitting up to swing her legs up on the bench in the opposite direction.

"No, I wouldn't. I won't," I assured her. Then I asked, "Do people take your picture?"

Truly, I'd thought briefly of doing so--a photo journalistic impulse, a poignant documentation of the sadder, sorrier side of life. In honesty, I might have taken a picture had I been using my zoom lens from farther away where she might not have noticed me. I've been tempted at other times, with other homeless folk, although something always holds me back from what feels like a blatant invasion of privacy.

"Lot's of people do," she said, and then angry words delivered in a measured tone, "I tell them they better stop, or I'll grab their God damned camera, and I'll . . .

She was already lying down again with her back to the river and me. Her words became indecipherable

"Oh, well, they deserve that," I said lamely as I walked away. I'd deserve that, I suppose, had I given in to impulse.

And I left her lying there beside a bridge with Rhode Island's symbolic brass anchor--HOPE--shining in the summer sun for all who walk beside the river to see.

But not for all to feel. Some people see the flip side of hope.


~~~~~
Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all. ~Emily Dickinson

A sip of summer~

A sip of summer

Recipe:

Collect shells along the beach.
Pocket them till they rattle as you walk.

Pour shells into an eight ounce glass.
Add warm, golden sunlight.

Savor in small sips all year long.
Summer's glow keeps well.

~~~~~
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time. ~John Lubbock

Mama Peach~

"Mama Peach" is on her nest this morning, and something in her eye--a watchful but calm and peaceful glint--makes me feel envious of her leafy retreat in the peach tree.

I begin my summer mornings with a walk around the yard, cup of coffee in hand. The cat trails behind me, stopping to wash when I pause to inspect the blooms or pull a few weeds.

The peach tree hangs heavy with an offering that should be ready next month. I inspect the soft peach-fuzzy fruit in the morning sun from several angles, the way I would if I had my camera.

And that's how I discover Mama Peach's nest.

There is no bird on the nest, but three eggs wait in the nest's deep bowl. I try not to worry that the eggs are unattended. It's early in the day, and robins--quintessential early birds--leave their nests to grab worms before the heat drives them to wriggle deeper underground. Besides, a mother robin often doesn't settle on the eggs until she is through laying--four being the average number of eggs per nest--to ensure that the babies hatch at pretty much the same time.

So I trust nature to manage what it's done so well for time immemorial. And there are multitudes of robins in the yard to bolster my faith.

But I do peer daily through the peach boughs, and I'm always relieved when I see Mama Peach sitting, immobile and camouflaged, on her nest.

Today she looked so content that I found myself wistful. Her task, needing only time and patience, requires her to remain still and out of life's spotlight. Seeing her reminded me of the times years ago when I'd settle in a quiet room, rocking the baby at my breast to sleep. I heard life go on around me: muffled conversations from the other room, the TV, the ringing phone. I knew what was happening. Like Mama Peach, I was hidden, but not apart. I felt as content then as Mama Peach looks now. She reminds me of the pleasure such quiet interludes bring.

By the time the peaches are ready for picking, Mama Peach will be caring for her babies. I'll wait patiently for fruit and fledglings. Some things deserve time.

~~~~~
“It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.”
~C.S. Lewis

How old are you now?

I stopped in the local pet shop the other day to buy meal worms for the remaining class pet, one of two sweet girl geckos I brought home when I retired a year ago. She's . . . can she be 9 now? Her sister died recently, and this one--Tillie or Lizzie, I never kept them straight--lives alone in the aquarium that has prime real estate in the living room . . . so I won't forget to feed her. And, okay, so she'll have "socialization," such as it is. Sometimes she gets more attention than I do, but that's a post for another time.

I live in a home of old creatures. An old gecko, and old cat, who at 18 is amazingly youthful despite her missing teeth, and gives me more attention--and eye contact--than my husband (also old) does. But this is for the other post I mentioned.

I'd made a comment to the woman at the pet store, a joke really, about having mid-life issues. And then I thought, "Midlife. Who am I kidding?" To be truly MIDDLE aged I will have to live to 116.

I got a book from the library the other day, Memory Lessons: A Doctor's Story, a memoir by a gerontologist who writes of his father's Alzheimer's disease. He calls his father the "oldest old."

It seems that in the world of gerontology "old" has been split and redefined in several categories. Age sixty-five to seventy-four is considered "old." Those between seventy-five and eighty-four are labeled "old old." And the "oldest old" are eighty-five and up.

The young me

I'm none of those yet, but I hope to become each of them in due time. I'm "old mid-life" if I may create my own label, but I feel ageless inside. As my father said in his latter years, "I feel like the young me looking out of the same eyes." I guess this is why mirrors or photos provide a jolt. Who is that old middle aged person that looks a little like me?

May I someday be among the oldest old?

Yes, please!
~~~~~
Old age isn't so bad when you consider the alternative. ~Maurice Chevalier

When you get lemons~

Make Lemonade

The month of June in Massachusetts has not been good to its beach goers or vacationers, or, I suppose, to any of us who have been looking forward to some warm summer sun. But being raised by a mother who often reminded me that complaining accomplished nothing, and most particularly where the weather is concerned, I'll not complain.

When it's raining lemons, I'll make the metaphorical lemonade.

I picked cherries in the rain. Not counting what we ate out of hand, our five-year-old Rainier cherry tree blessed us this year with a pie and two cobblers.

Who wants to bake in the hot summer? Not me. But in the unseasonably cool rainy days, I found it pure pleasure to mix and stir, and pop a pan into the oven, and then fold laundry while the delicious sweetness filled the house.

I thought often of my grandmother. I think it was the act of pitting the cherries--truly manual labor--and it brought to mind the long-ago summer days I'd sit with her while she shelled peas or snapped beans for supper. While I folded clothes, I thought of my mother who would iron while watching Afternoon Playhouse on TV. I can still smell the starch, and hear the hiss of steam.

Those were labor intensive days in many ways, yet they forbade the multi-tasking we are so prone to today. Laundry day was for doing a week's worth of laundry; shopping day was for buying groceries for the week. I find my self tossing in a daily load of wash and then jumping in the car to pick up some milk and bread, and then doing the same the next day. And the next. I've lost the sense of being done for a week that my mother and grandmother had.

Maybe I need a little old fashioned one-thing-at-a-time in my life.

~~~~~

Smiles don't have to be saved for a rainy day. it's good to waste them. ~ anonymous