I thought he was a goner

... but the cat came back. It just wasn't on the very next day. Or the next day. Or the next day.

While we were skylarking all dank, dreary weekend at the beach, he decided the rules (like being home before dark) didn't apply. The pet sitter called and searched, but nothing. We weren't really worried - he's got this odd sub-routine that makes us wonder if he's really, really deep or just simple. Something seems to click off and he goes into his own furry world, oblivious to everything but the iterations of the loop in his code.

But when we got home, he hadn't been seen for 24 hours, and Sunday turned into Monday, turned into Tuesday - and we gave up hope. I'd poked under bushes and peered into sheds, always fearing I'd find a puff of orange fur - wanting to know what happened, but dreading what I'd see.

The other two boys were, meanwhile, needier than they'd ever been - following us everywhere, refusing to go outside without us, and acting as if they hadn't slept since we left. I thought of the matriarch in "Cold Comfort Farm", who took to her bed after she "saw something nasty in the woodshed".

And then Bill came up the stairs this morning carrying the big orange doofus, who's a little slimmer (no harm there!) and VERY glad to see us. He's overfilling my lap right now, making me S-T-R-E-T-C-H to reach the keyboard, and making me type one-handed when he's too relaxed. I think his bones melt and he starts to ooze - and at 17 lb., that could be a real mess!

We'd been trying to console ourselves that at least we still had two cats, but we felt like the mother in Father Fox's Pennyrhymes,

I have seventeen children, and none can I spare.

A visitor from Alaska

When I went downstairs in the middle of the night, I thought it was a full moon, except (even without glasses) something seemed wrong. Sure enough, we woke up to





. . . in the middle of April!

It's not a record, but I can't remember snow after Valentine's Day. Out in the raised beds, the baby spinach, lettuce and chard are snug beneath their row cover and should be fine, but I'm not so sanguine about the pears and cherries; it's supposed to freeze again the next two nights.

The boys were delighted by snow when they were half-grown kittens, but they've decided, after a couple of early forays today, to pile up inside and wait for better weather. They'll be evicted soon, but we're not letting on.

We're keeping extra warm burning the scrap wood left over from the flooring. It's amazing how much heat you can get from kiln-dried oak tidbits - and how little ash it produces! Maybe we should start toasting our firewood in the oven. We'd only have to do a few sticks a day, and we could bake bread or do a roast at the same time . . .

I'm not grousing . . . really!

It's just that I was supposed to go to class this morning and a volunteer gig this afternoon, but stayed home because Corey & Kevin came a day early to start sanding and puttying the floors. That wouldn't have been a big deal, except that:

• they needed two 220v hookups, so I couldn't dry the last load of clothes for our trip tomorrow;
• then, it turned out that our flight was cancelled (yeah, American Airlines), so I didn't need those clothes, after all;
• Corey & Kevin ran floor sanders (LOUDLY), filling the entire house with very, very, very fine sawdust, including the clothes I had managed to dry before they started;
• so, I set up a table in the woodshed with my laptop, a cell phone & a giant latte;
  
• after four hours on the phone, I got a delightful American agent who got us booked for Friday instead of Thursday - disappointing, but not tragic;
• she suggested we could move our return a day, without charge, to make up for leaving a day late;
• I spent another three hours on the phone trying to make that happen;
• at 6 PM, I snapped and went out to Burgerville (you've got to try their Yukon Gold fries!);
  
• I got an automated phone message that my flight had been cancelled (the new one), and would I like this lovely one on Saturday? I said, "No!";
• Richard came on the line (by now it's 7:30 PM), and asked would I rather fly tomorrow?
• the new flight is actually better than the original one, for us and for our family;
  
• I said, "Yes, please!", opened a beer & started packing.
  

Where did you say we're sleeping tonight?

Once again, the queen-size bed is in the attic, and we're "sleeping" in the double in the spare bedroom/living room/den. I say "sleeping" because one of us is longer than the bed, and wakes us every time his feet encounter the foot rail - umpteen times a night - and the other needs an astonishing amount of space to throw off all covers, lie on her back and radiate excess heat (which apparently emanates from either the core of the earth or our wireless modem).

To go to bed, we move two easy chairs & an end table as far from the bed as they'll go (three whole feet!), and try to clear a path to avoid wee-hour collisions or stubbed toes. Then, to get dressed, the bed and chairs have to huddle together so we can get to the "dresser". (I hereby apologize abjectly for pretending that piece of furniture could have ever been adequate storage for a teenage girl's clothes! We're paying for that now.)

Our real dressers are in the attic - such a treat first thing in the morning when I really have to have that wool sweater. Bill's office is stuffed with furniture, filing cabinets, a piano, the houseplants, and a cat who thinks it's a perfect refuge. My office is the kitchen counter, which means a constant mess of bits of paper and magazines that Bill straightens up when it gets too overwhelming. We've moved so much, so many times, that we have to think where we are when we wake up, and can't DO anything without asking, "Where did we put the ...?"

I'm not even going to talk about last month when I shut myself in the laundry room while guys stomped in and out, banging and crashing for a week. (Well, I'll only talk about it a little...) It's all going to be worth it, and in a few weeks, we'll post the results of all this dislocation.

No more grousing

A long time ago, we had a fellow put in a new door and some windows and a few other odd bits. Generally, it was fine, sound work, but the trim he did just looked completely wrong to me. Since it didn't bother Bill, and there was plenty of other stuff going on, I've just groused about it all this time.

Today, in preparation for repainting the living room, we bought the trim that had to be replaced after the flooring went down. Bill put up it up around the door this afternoon, and suddenly, I'm at peace! Oh, the floor still needs sanding and sealing and the room has to be painted . . . but it looks right to me now. I know it was really a little thing, but it sure makes a big difference to me.

I wonder what I'll start grumbling about next?

It's great when it works

I just talked nonstop for three hours to the senior center "Introduction to Computers" class. You'd think I'd take a breath once in a while, but here's the deal - Dick & I decided it would be cool to have both the beginning and advanced classes at the same time. We figured the advanced ones could follow the manual and work most of it out between themselves.

With the beginners, there's a lot to explain, right? "What you see on your screen right now is called the 'desktop'. These small pictures on the 'desktop' are called 'icons'. The 'icons' with small arrows in the lower right corner are called 'shortcuts'..." Some folks have never heard this vocabulary, and some have misunderstood it. Most of them have questions - good ones.

And then, of course, the advanced students have questions, too, don't they? So, there I go, talking some more until they are ready to forge ahead on their own again, and I'm back to the beginners. It's a bit like juggling, but never knowing how many objects are in the air.

Could it be the sun?

Sitting here in the evening, I feel my cheeks glowing pleasantly. My default assumption is that it's just a hot flash or the beer, and yet... We were outside from noon until dusk, and it was t-shirt weather (well, if you were working, and I'm here to tell you we were). So, couldn't it be a little sunglow? OK, I know we're not supposed to ever let the sun's rays touch our skin, so I'll try to feel a little bit guilty. But truthfully, I just feel really, really good, because we got so much done.

There are now 20 Oregon white oaks across the north property line, and 14 new table grapes marching up the other side of the driveway. These are seven new varieties, one of which is supposed to make great pie. Grape pie! I can't even imagine it. We've selected more limbs in the locust stand for posts in the vineyard, and we figured out where the other 35 trees are going. We planted Nootka rose, ocean spray, cascara, snowberry and Western spirea along the roadside.

A lot of the rest of the planting (incense cedar, ponderosa pine and sequoia) is forbidden me because it's in the poison-oak zone. But thrills abound, regardless. Although we've already mowed once, it's time to go around again; the weeds are going gang-busters; and every bed on the place needs tending.

I can tell we're really having fun, because we have to run extra loads of wash so we'll have clean jeans again.

I don't see how that would help, really

Flying Up

A million years ago, when I was in Brownies, there was a ceremony in which we "flew up" to become Girl Scouts. It was my first inkling that ceremonies were human constructs, and (to my mind) therefore suspect, although not altogether bogus.

Last night, a dear friend's mother died, and my friend became, as I did some years ago, the matriarch of her family. She "flew up". And it's not a piffling thing to be the ranking woman in the family.

Not having been endowed with much in the way of "gravitas", I wear this mantle lightly. That's not to say I don't appreciate it. It just seems to me that taking it too seriously would disrespect the "office", and ill serve the daughters watching and wondering how we do this aging and dying routine.

Let's make it as much fun as we can, ok?

0 for 2

Strike One: I falsely accuse my dds of being ungrateful wretches (it turned out to be His sock!).

Strike Two: I jinx dd #1 by telling her how lucky she is her enchanting son has never really been sick. An hour later, he wakes up from his nap and (literally) tosses his lunch.

Time Out! If I'd known the cosmic pranksters had me targeted, I would have predicted, in smug pontifical tones, that there's no way he could learn to [read, say his grandparents' names, change his own diaper] at this age.

Hope you feel better, wee one . . .

How sharper than a serpent's tooth. . .!

Some thanks I get these days for just trying to be a good Mom! I innocently ask if anyone has lost a sock and One Of Them (guess which!) says, snarkily:

"what kind of a question is that? sure, i'm missing socks. probably including a brown one. you expect me to keep track of these things?"

To which The Other One replies, with a pathetic sympathy play:

"do I have some brown cotton socks without mates? Yes. But, after a recent sock drawer analysis, I have concluded I have more unmatched socks than I do matched ones. Sigh."

I give up! This sock is hereby offered free to the highest bidder.

Slept like a baby...

Once again, we're having howling winds and lashing rain. To watch Fox News, you'd think we're all pinned under collapsed buildings and fallen trees. But compared to the last storm or the one last year, this one seems less destructive by far. Easy for me to say, isn't it, when it's not my house that was crushed by a fir tree? Nor was my garage blown out onto a highway, as happened near Brooks.

Normally, when the wind sounds like a train going by, I can't relax and sleep is fitful at best. Too many huge limbs have fallen from the cedar tree and missed (or kissed) the house. But after beheading it last year (yes, I know it's sad and ugly) we're pretending it's no longer dangerous. Sure, the whole thing could go over - it's still fifty feet tall and five feet in diameter, after all. I think it's just that we did all we could to make ourselves safe, and now we give ourselves a pass on worrying.

Tempting fate? Maybe...

Oldtown

I have this habit of agreeing to do things that sound good, but actually scare me witless when I really have to do them. Like canvassing this October for the Yes on 49 campaign. Why would I think I'd be comfortable knocking on strangers' doors, talking to them about a highly controversial ballot measure?

When Sarah and I parted ways, and I started down Main Street toward Oldtown, I seriously doubted my resolve. Talking to acquaintances is tough enough - and forget about strangers! But I took my clipboard, literature and map and a deep breath, then looked down the street. It was a glorious warm afternoon, and at least it would be 2 1/2 hours of good exercise.

And then the familiar magic happened. It was like stepping into "State & Main" where all the people I met were friendly (even the one who gleefully told me she'd voted against the measure!). So, what was I so reticent about?

Icing on the cake? The measure passed 65%/35%, and our little county effort accounted for 8% of it - huge for a not-so-populous, usually conservative, rural area. We have vote-by-mail, so by 8:00 on election night, counties from the smallest to the largest reported results in couple of hours, and suddenly all the walking and phoning seemed well worth it.

And next time, I'll be just as reticent, and get just as big a surprise, because some things don't change very much.

Some days are better than others

Maybe I can blame this on the cat. He was pretty pissed off that he couldn't go back outside after his supper (as if that's a new rule!). We forgot to keep an eye on the little bugger and maybe you can guess what he did . . . again



You think part of this roll can be salvaged?



I think he may have missed that last sheet that's glued to the core.

What makes it hard is we secretly think this is really funny, because we imagine him lashing his tail and thinking, "I'll show them! When I get done with their toilet paper, they'll mew like kittens and beg for mercy! HA, HA, HA, HA..."

I was cooking when this happened, and I was in sort of a hurry, because we wanted to go to a movie. Let's say the cat distracted me, ok, because what happened next was just so completely stupid, I can't believe I did it all by myself.

See, I had onions and mushrooms sauteeing in one pan; the turkey cutlets were browned and lounging casually nearby, and there was this great big ceramic casserole on another burner, ready to saute the rice a bit and then combine everything, right? I looked down into the casserole and thought, "Hunh! That looks hot."

Ok, you're not going to believe this, but I then - oh, yes! - reached into the casserole and touched the bottom - really fast, because just as four of my fingertips touched the ceramic, it occurred to me that the reason it looked so hot was because it really, really was.

There was this tiny Pffffffttt! as flesh met searing pan. My fingertips were a funny shade of white, and after I ran cold water over them for 5 minutes, they felt fine, but sort of like they had white glue dried on them. No pain - none at all!

I know this isn't a good picture, but here's what the bottom of the pan looked like:



There were parts of four fingerprints in that casserole. You can pretend to see the two biggest ones.

I'm really not sure what more to say about all this. Was it a bad day or a good one?

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

I'm back from grandma-land again. It's as cold and rainy as it's supposed to be in October, which could be depressing, I suppose, except that when I look out the window I see all this rich color and texture



and think what a nice day we're having.

It helps a lot that we finally found pizza that is worth the drive! Because of the dearth of edible pizza here, we've been making our own - with pretty stellar results:



But now we have Apizza - no, not the one in Portland - it's in Stayton, and it's well worth the drive (like going all the way to Morton Grove for Burt's pies). Their pizza crust is crisp, yet tender, and the toppings don't crowd and jostle, but greet our palates a few at a time. The beverage list is twice as long as the pie menu, with Busch Light and fountain drinks, organic wines and beers, pear cider (hard) and cane-sugar sodas (like Coca-Cola as it was made before about 1970).

I'd put in a picture of their pie, but then I'd have to stay up all night worrying you'd come sneaking around looking for the two pieces we managed to save for tomorrow.

At the bottom of the menu it says, "We do not accept tips. Money left at the tables will be donated to charity. Thank you." No; thank YOU!

Unabashed promotion

Seems we're all about phones today. While I drank my coffee this morning, I was musing over how much time I'd spent on the phone lately and decided I'd better check my minutes. Panic struck when I saw 556 of my 600 were gone! Downside of giving up the land-line? Not having it as backup for just this situation. Chances of getting Bill to hand over the iPhone for the next few days? I'm sometimes mean, but it would be nasty to even ask!

So I called Working Assets and told "Julie" I needed help. "OK!" she said, "You can buy 'Talking Liberally' minutes for $5 to cover any minutes over your plan until the end of the month." Best of all? I can do it any month! Great name, too . . . Yes, I am devoted to Working Assets, and will refuse the blandishments of all other carriers.

If you're tired of pouring your telecom charges into the pockets of Big Business, and would like some of your long-distance, cell phone, or credit card charges (not profits) to go to progressive causes, take a look at Working Assets. You can round your payment up a bit and increase your (tax-deductible) contribution, and once a year we get to vote on which organizations we support. It's an education just to read about all the candidates!

The network has contributed over $50 million to causes like Doctors without Borders, Planned Parenthood, Amnesty International, and the ACLU. And through the political action program, some 80,000 calls, emails and letters are sent free on our behalf on social and political issues each month - to Congress, the White House and to business interests.

Oh, and if you do switch, let them know I sent you. We might get some Ben & Jerry's!

The Cat IS the Hat

When the boys were little (see picture) I decided they should always live inside. I think I'd found one too many surprises in hay bales, and wanted them to live long, if dull, lives.

For months the plan worked well. They were happy chasing yarn balls and could spend a whole afternoon playing with a single sheet of tissue paper.

But, as they grew, the yarn balls lost their charm and a sheet of tissue lasted about 15 seconds. We learned their new games, which involved emptying the bookcases, patrolling tabletops and counters, and savaging innocent household objects . . .



The new plan is that they go out during the day and come in for the night. It's a simple plan, and it works pretty well most of the time. Even when the grass-seed field was being swathed, we thought it would be easy to keep them inside for a few hours. But it took until noon, while the boys suffered, hanging out by the door, complaining that we were sooooo mean. Their pitiful cries would have melted Voldemort's heart (if he had one). It wasn't a fun morning. The only peace was when I showed J and B a slender stream of water in the bathroom sink, which kept them busy for half and hour (and left lots of muddy little footprints for me to wipe up).

Even when we can let them out first thing in the morning, there are glitches. If Maybe hides in the back bedroom for a long afternoon nap, he's going to want to stay out all night. If Jerome is in at 8:30 or 9:00, he suddenly remembers a shrew carcass he needs to bring us. If Bungee's the only one inside at curfew, he'll put on his sweet-kitty look and volunteer for duty: "I know where they are! I'll get 'em quick! I promise I'll be right back!" Riiiiight....

Sometimes, if we're outside at dusk, we've been able to find them and bring them in without much fuss. Other nights, we've gone hunting, and found ourselves carrying one or two squirmers a long way back to the house. But then Bill (how?) came up with a hold that immobilizes/tranquilizes them. No writhing, no complaining; just placid acceptance - even purring:

The man's either a genius or seriously demented. Either way works for me!

OK

You can bother me now. I'm done reading.

Don't bother me

. . . I'm reading.

Full of wonder

One May day, on the theory that I might be getting bored with grandbaby business (as if that could happen!), Ella sent me looking for the Bohemian National Cemetery. I'm good at getting lost, but they've made it pretty easy to spot if you can get within a mile . . .



As I drove in, it looked pretty much like your average nice, old cemetery on a lovely spring day.



As I walked around, I felt like I'd stepped into The Orange Fairy Book or the land of the Ents.




Who were these Bohemians? What was all this tree symbolism? Broken trunks and limbs (life cut off?), lots of ivy, and here and there a squirrel or so.


And what about these with their hefty, hefty anchors?
Were they riverboatmen, or did they go off to sea?

After a stroll about the cemetery, I found a parkland a bit farther on. In the woods were a pair of placid deer who looked me over with the barest flicker of interest. I was glad they didn't disturb the bird on the branch near me. I was trying to see which of the warblers it was when it hopped a little closer, tipped its olive-green head down and flashed a brilliant red-orange patch as if to say, "Hi! I'm an orange-crowned warbler! What are you?"

That's my idea of big-city fun. Chicago really does have whatever I'm looking for.