Loss

The day that Sable died, the peonies were in bloom. Pink and sweet, the pleasant scent mixed with the warm summer air.

Sable was my kitty. He was a silver-tip Himalayan with green eyes. Despite being petite he was filled to the tips of his beautiful white ears with love.



In the rare event that he became angry, such as, for combing him too long or pulling at a fur mat, he expressed his anger with a short growly meow, and immediately began purring again.

He had a particular way to place his front feet while he sat. It was as if they had to be just so in order to optimize his handsomeness.



He did not mouse, bird, or guard the house, but he provided an important function. His death is hitting me harder than I thought it would because I realized that he gave something that is more rare than his purebred bloodlines: unconditional love.



I was 20 when I realized I wanted a cat of my own. Dakota came home with me in early May of 1994, but it seemed lonely to have only one. He needed a buddy. He is a cream-colored Persian and such a cute kitten, settling in with me the moment I held him. I still wanted a silver-tip. My family had had one when I was a kid - Toby - and he was such a great, funny cat. I located a litter of silver tip kitties, and drove to pick one out. I thought I wanted the biggest and the whitest kitten, but when I looked at them, I chose Sable. He was medium-sized, with a lovely bit of grey on his back. His skin was dark, especially around the paws, eyes, and mouth. So adorable! He was exactly eight weeks old when I brought him home that day in late May, sixteen years ago.



He was a normal kitten, especially enjoying smelling fresh outside air and chasing cotton balls. All was fine and dandy for six years, until I brought home the baby. Dakota didn't seem to concern himself, but Sable did NOT like her! That unpredictable screaming thing was not his cup of tea, but he wasn't hostile in the least. He simply avoided her. He practiced the notion of live and let live.







When he was ten, he began to throw up blood. I found out he likely had Irritable Bowel Syndrome caused from a food allergy. I changed his food and all was well for a few years. He began to throw up blood again, or have bloody stool, so I experimented with various wet and dry foods that he would tolerate, while he tolerated the numerous car trips to the vet with their accompanying temperature taking and stomach-probing.



Keeping weight on him was a challenge. Dakota didn't have the type of sensitivity that Sable did, and because they shared the same food area, they had to eat the same kind of food. Believe me, I tried to feed them separately, but Sable and his amazing sniffer always found the dish I tried to sequester away for Dakota. When he knew I was feeding Dakota some tasty food, he looked hurt. It was awful, so I stopped doing it. Dakota was going to have to get with Sable's diet plan.



He couldn't eat any kind of grain, so I had to read every label. Vet-office cat food had corn. Grocery store cat food had corn or soy or rice. I cooked chicken thighs for him. I went through every possible combination of meat and vegetable I could think of. For a time, he ate baby food. This was the beginning of the newly-enlightened pet food industry that finally realized that pet food ought to contain only the kinds of food pets would eat naturally. The prices reflected this new revelation, and so the choices were more expensive than grocery store brands, but at least there were choices.



As the years passed, he became sensitive to foods much more quickly. The last few years have been particularly difficult. In the past six months, I had fed every type of grain-free wet cat food available and was currently serving the last option: turkey. If he grew intolerant of that, and every indication from past experience told me he would, there weren't any options left. I was worried, but I tried not to think about it. After all, just because a solution didn't present itself doesn't mean that it wouldn't at the right time.



Sable liked to eat. He was a relatively healthy, hungry cat who was interested in life and even a little bit of play. When I put the canned food out for them, he was there to shove his face in it and move it onto the floor before licking it into submission. He would end up with wet cat food on the sides of his face, and sometimes the top of his head. He had quite a bit of personality in old age, too. There were more than a few times when I went into the kitchen after hearing what I thought may have been a cat having a seizure, but it wasn't that at all. Sable would be playing with something on the floor. Paper, a bit of dust, or something. He would look up at me when I surprised him, immediately ready to abandon play for scratches and pets. He loved and loved and loved.



His last two days were obviously the end. He lay flat as a pancake on the floor, refusing food and drink. I even gave him a cheese puff to lick, to satisfy his craving for salt and processed cheese flavor, but he ignored it completely. That was when I knew it was the end.

I called the vet, but I was reluctant to take him in. I didn't want him to endure another trip to the vet's office, full of strange smells and scary noises. He was a nervous cat, and he was sick, so he didn't need anything else to worry about. As it turned out, the vet didn't call back until the afternoon and I missed the call. She left a message saying she had some ideas, but I knew it was not going to happen.

Yesterday, his last day, I was calm. I pet him, I combed him, and trimmed the fur mats I could see while he purred. I had given him a bath last week to wash the litter that stuck to his feet. He was having diarrhea, and throwing up bile, so I had to wash his face and his bottom again, too. I did that while disturbing him as little as possible. That last day, there was nothing left in his system. He was so thin.

After his bath, I wrapped him in a towel and held in over my shoulder, like a baby. He liked that. He rested his head on my shoulder and purred. He spent the day laying flat in the grass while I sat with him and alternately worked on nearby flower beds. It was a warm day, and the sun probably felt good. He would move a foot or so, then settle down again and sleep with his little face planted into the ground. He seemed okay. I felt okay, glad to be with him. I pet him, I talked to him. He purred.



Early this morning, he died in his sleep on the kitchen floor. He was still warm when I got up and found him. I pet him, told him I was so grateful that he was my kitty. I took a bit of fur to save. That fur was the most gorgeous fur in the whole world, attached to the body of the most loving being one can find in the animal world.



I wish I could have taken away all his pain, fed him until his stomach was as full as his heart. I wish I could hold him one more time, over my shoulder like a baby, rub my face against his head and hear his sweet purr.



I know he's out there somewhere, saying that it's okay; he's okay now. He is eating all that he wants and he feels no pain anymore. I want to tell him that I did the best I could, but that I know it wasn't good enough for him. I wish I had done more.

The bucket that I used for his last bath is still out in the yard, drying. I miss him more than words can say.



I gave him many nicknames, including Sableson plum, sugary little angel boy, pumpkinhead, bell-bells, bellie, Sabellie-bellie-bellie-bellie, ma cherie amour, and many more goofy things that I liked to say to him. He understood French. At least, it seemed like he did from the way he looked at me and blinked whenever I said French words to him. Perhaps he was humoring me. That would have been just like him to be so thoughtful.

Sable
3/19/1994 - 6/23/2010

Reality Fur

Monday nights are not a good time to have a conversation with me. All I want to do is watch "The Bachelorette". Last night I sent an Estonian door-to-door salesperson away because the show was on. She is a college student in the U.S. selling education materials. I bought some books from a guy last year who was here doing the same thing. I realize now that putting her off one night so I can watch reality t.v. may not have been the smartest move, as I may purchase something from her to assuage my guilt. Bad television: it takes as good as it gives.

The saddest shot from this week's show had to have been Kasey standing alone on the glacier as the helicopter with Ali and Justin flew away. Kasey wanted to "protect and guard" Ali's heart, but I think Kasey missed something. He spent so much time being redundant that he forgot to be himself. He is a cutie, but has a strange voice. It's nasaly, and monotone. I kept wanting him to clear his throat every time he talked.

I know, as if I would come off without a flaw on highly-edited television! I would probably dangle a participle or something, and how embarrassing that would be.

Poor Ali. She is continually described as being afraid to love. Chris, the armchair psychologist told her that. Ali herself talks about needing to "love more". What does that mean? Aside from sleeping around.

She's on a television show where she is dating many, many men at once. Every week, she needs to thin the herd. One of those guys that is sent home may have been a fantastic boyfriend, if it weren't for the show and the cameras and the competition. She is right to wonder about what she is doing. It makes for great television (great, as in terrible...) but who wouldn't be freaked out by it all?

Next week is the week where Ali finds out somebody has a girlfriend. The entertainment weeklies say it is Justin, and I can't wait for that fur to fly!

Do you notice how Ali seems to be reading names on the roses she hands out? Does she not remember who she has chosen? Does she need to read names in a specific order? Do the guys have to hand the roses back every time? I am a person who wonders about details.

The details of my weight loss saga (smooth segway!) are not that exciting. I'm holding steady at the same number as last week. I'm happy about that, because I indulged in some Mexican food (or, as folks in Mexico call it...food) and that included Santitas tortilla chips, salsa, and a shredded beef taco salad. The chips are not health food, y'all, but they were salty good eats. Also ice cream, which served to balance the Salt with some much needed Sweet.

Animal Planet House

WEEK THREE: 157.0

There was another chicken adventure last night. The neighbor's chickens escaped their low-security enclosure for the unencumbered out-of-doors. This affects us because the neighbors are away for a day and we are in charge of their three chickens. I looked for them last night until it was dark, and then got up at 5 am (FIVE A.M.!!!) to look for them. I found one of them right away in their car port, but the other two were no-shows. I returned home for more coffee.

Later that morning, OC and I went out again and made fools of ourselves, calling for chickens. The elderly man next door said there were two chickens in his apple tree. The turds were there when I was walking by earlier, clucking like a crazy person. They must have laughed their chicken heads off at the ridiculous lady speaking nonsensical chicken early in the morning while they dozed until a more reasonable hour.

All I can say is, chicken pot pie sounds really good for lunch...

Wait how many calories are in that?

There Are No Calories in Water

As a person on a quest to lose weight, I am a bit preoccupied with counting calories. This morning, for instance, I checked the package of coffee for nutritional information. Surprisingly, there was no chart.

Duh. It's coffee. Rather like tea, it's flavored water and unless you are a souped-up sports drink, THERE ARE NO CALORIES IN WATER. Perhaps you already knew that. I am a little slow.

Yesterday's breakfast was cereal with rice milk. I did not measure the portions, but this morning I did. I probably consumed close to 400 calories at breakfast alone! It's not hard to do. Once you start paying attention to calories and portions, you find it adds up quickly.

Wondering about the number of calories in coffee is a little nutty, but thinking about calories is a good thing. It's a new thing for me to worry about, because my attitude before last week tended to be something like, since I'm eating mostly vegetables, what's the worry? Except, the vegetables were nestled snugly beneath a layer of salad dressing, or cooked up in olive oil, and while there were vegetables, there were also too many calories.

Don't get me started about ice cream. Or chocolate. Or bread. I L-O-V-E bread! But things like bagels, those harmless, non-doughnut, morning-coffee-going-with bagels have something like 300 calories in them, and that's before the butter! Sheesh. No wonder I weighed 161 pounds. IT WAS THE BAGEL, IN THE KITCHEN, WITH THE DARIGOLD.

We had an away softball game last night. I had three girls in the car and we went to Subway for sandwiches. I had eaten a steak sandwich before we left (little bit of steak, lots of lettuce and cucumber), with my olive oil and lemon juice mayo substitute. I brought a granola bar and some crackers, and may have eaten some of the girls' Doritos...but that was it.

1400 calories a day is my goal.

Gwyneth has a video about preparing a Mexican dinner which makes me wonder, how many calories are in shrimp...?

Scales are Better Than Shingles

Let's get right to it.

WEEK TWO: Weight: 159.6

It's fair to say I have traded fat for muscle. The number hasn't gone down very much but my clothes feel better already, and I'm feeling more fit. Party on.

Finished the Heaven Can Wait 5k yesterday with OC and a friend from French class. OC has never run that far before. I am so proud of her!!

Attack of the Woman of Ideal Weight

Which is not me......yet.

The ideal weight for a woman of my age and build ranges from 122 to 149 pounds, the mean being 135 pounds. My goal weight of 141 will do a couple of things, one of which is to make my driver's license accurate. More importantly, it will make me happy.

I don't weigh myself often. Usually, I find out the number when I go in for a checkup at the doctor's office. Instead of weight, I gauge my body by how my clothes fit and how quickly I can run a 5k. Lately, my clothes are on the verge of not fitting at all, and I haven't run a 5k in nearly a year.

After two weeks, I am down to *&% pounds.

Breakfast is a fruit smoothie:

- frozen fruit of various types
- fruit juice
- 1 banana

The combinations are endless, and I love that.


Lunch is a sandwich or wrap:

- turkey, chicken, or roast beef (or, whatever)
- sliced cucumbers
- lettuce
- tomato
- olive oil and lemon juice (in place of mayonnaise)


Dinner is....various things. Steak and baked potato, salads, yogurt (when I'm going to class), a wrap, sandwich, or I don't even know what. Great tip!


I feel really good. I still drink coffee in the morning with my usual teaspoon of sugar, and eat a few semi-sweet chocolate chips for dessert. I don't feel like I'm on a diet, and it's really not a diet. Even though it is. If I tell myself I'm on a diet, I'll feel squirmy and tied down, and I don't like to feel that way. I like to feel that I have options, and diets are psychologically NOT about options.

So, on this diet/non-diet, I'm doing well because food tastes good and I'm eating plenty of it (low-calorie, especially). I'm not going to restrict myself from any kind of food, but rather, watch the portions and only concern myself about calories.

I figure this is the most reasonable way to not be on a diet, while on a diet slash lifestyle change.

Inspired By Pepper Botts

So I was reading Gwyneth Paltrow's blog the other day, and she wrote about getting into shape for a movie role. I've been feeling overweight and gross lately, and something in me snapped when I read the words "kale juice" among the list of foods she eats. It sounded really good, this pulverized kale with lemon juice. Maybe it's the idea of spring, but "grassy" lemonade sounded refreshing.

Here's the deal: I've decided that I've got to lose 20 pounds. That's not just a round figure (pun! haha...) that I pulled out of the air. If I lose 20 pounds I will be at a fairly ideal weight for a female who is 5'7" tall.

I will write about my weight loss, for my own record and to inspire, maybe, someone else to do something to get healthier. I'm going to be honest and record my actual weight once per week, some of what I eat, and what I do for exercise. Some of you may be interested, some would rather watch paint dry. I understand. It won't be the only thing I write about, but this will be a good way to record what I'm doing and, if I am being completely honest here, you are my motivation.

And please, do not look at me eat a slice of pizza or a tiny bowl of ice cream and remind me that I am trying to lose weight. I know this. I believe in small rewards and realistic expectations. In other words, you do not have to ride herd. Thanks, though.

I have some really cute clothes that do not fit, and some that fit but do not look good on me right now. It's time to do something about that.

WEEK ONE:
Starting weight: 161.0

I can't believe it, but there it is. Let the weight loss begin!

Childhood Memory

My brother used to fart into a band aid box in order to "save it for later". Later, as ammunition against one of his sisters.

Sure, I could have told the story about how, as an adult, he walked a friend home for a dozen miles in the middle of the night, and then walked home by himself. He was just that kind of a guy.

The band aid box story is funnier, and goes to explain a lot of things about us. For instance, it explains why we are glad the old metal band aid box style has been abandoned for a cardboard version, with its loose, folding joints that allow for breezy drafts...

Athleta

I adore Gap's Athleta store. I only wish I was in a higher income bracket in order to indulge every whim.

No complaints. I'm happy to have an income at all, I'm just saying.

Is it spring yet?

Echoes

My brother would've been forty-two years old yesterday. Instead, he died from Acute Myeloid Leukemia the day after his 34th birthday.

This was written by my mom.

I held my son’s hand when he died that morning in May. His left hand. When I wrapped my own hands around it, his bruised fingers fluttered faintly and I felt his response. “It’s alright to let go now, Ric,” I whispered to him. “Don’t worry. We’ll be alright.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. I watched the muscles in his body, tautly held so long against the pain of the leukemia, release their tension. His labored breathing stopped, and I knew he was gone. I wept then, wept and held my son’s hand.

He turned thirty-four years old the day before he died. He had resolved he would not die on his birthday. It was his gift to me, as our birthdays were only days apart. The Gemini sign linked us, and together this day we shared a gift. From our home on the hill, we watched a rainbow dance over a green pasture. Then I saw my son’s face soften as he slowly scanned the room, turning his head to capture every corner. He looked at me, our eyes met, and I knew on a primal, gut level that somehow we would be alright. He grinned his familiar, lopsided grin and said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “There sure are a lot of people in the room, Mom.” Physically, he and I were the only ones there, but I felt what he saw. He would not be going alone when he left us.

* * * * *

I chose my son. He came into my life when he was ten years old. He’d been in protective custody and foster care for six years, and had scars to show from those places. We had three girls who wanted a brother, and since my husband had been adopted, it felt like a natural choice for us.
We fell in love with Ricky the first time we saw him. We knew he would be our son. This boy, with the horror stories to match the scars on his body, now reveled in his adoptive status. He knew he had been chosen. At last he had a real home. His joy was contagious. I felt my heart grow with him.

Two dozen years later, at his funeral, someone – gratefully, I cannot remember who – said to me, “At least he wasn’t your real son.” I was too numb to respond. I knew it was meant to be comforting, but “not my real son?” If he wasn’t real, what was he? Ricky was the son of my heart, as real to me as any child of my flesh. I knew for certain: he was real, and he was my son.

* * * * *

Three weeks earlier, in April, the doctors told us they had exhausted all treatment options. We were still numb from that news when Ric turned to me and asked, “Mom, will you ever be happy again?” I looked him squarely in the face and told him – for we had agreed months before we would be brutally honest with each other during this journey – that I could not see any possibility of being happy again. My son, this wise old soul, turned his distinctive hazel eyes with the golden flecks in them at me and calmly said, “My life won’t count for anything if you aren’t happy.” I had no words, for I could not lie to this boy, this man facing his own mortality far too soon. Happy? I wanted to rant and rave and break something, anything, to release my terror at the idea of life without him.

* * * * *

Life was never dull with Ricky. This lanky young boy with the bowl-cut brown hair delighted in telling me how he tricked his sisters by catching his farts in a metal Band-Aid can and getting the girls to open the lid. I remember when he broke his arm playing football, when he wrecked his bicycle and needed stitches, when his skin turned blue from playing in the cold Oregon surf, all the while insisting he was fine. I remember those times as a teenager when he grew so fast he couldn’t walk without tripping until his coordination skills caught up. The daunting amounts of food he could eat. The fear from learning he might be epileptic, and the relief when the doctor said it had been a mistake. How do you wrap your mind around your child’s terminal diagnosis?

* * * * *

We brought him home to care for him those last weeks. We set up a hospital bed in the living room, and Ric laughed that the bed was standard sized while he was not, and his feet hung over the edge. He laughed when I cried at the unfairness of it, the bureaucratic bungling. He laughed and reminded me of how I had spent hours massaging his feet in the hospital with what I thought was lotion, and one day a nurse asked why I was using liquid soap. He had the cleanest, slipperiest feet of anyone on the oncology ward, and now they were hanging over the end of the too-short bed.

Those weeks surprised me. I thought we would spend long hours talking about weighty matters, but what Ric wanted most was to watch one more NBA season finale. The Portland Trailblazer basketball franchise was only a few years younger than him, and he avidly supported his team. But the games were on satellite, and we only had a network antenna. I asked him, “You want to watch basketball???” “OK, Mom, here’s the deal,” he said, “The games give me something to hope for, and I’ve gotta have hope.” I called the satellite company. A man came and aimed a device at the sky and said there were too many trees and it couldn’t be done. Couldn’t be done? Couldn’t be done? I would cut down every tree on our property so my son would have hope. I had already heard “couldn’t be done” in the worst possible context, and this wasn’t it.
I would make it happen. I called my neighbor, a seventy year old retired logger. He quickly mobilized his heavy equipment: truck, loader, crane, crawler, winches, and chain saws. One sixty-foot tall Douglas fir tree fell, and the ground shook. No signal. He cut down another, then another, tears streaming down his face, until the satellite guy captured a signal and gave a thumbs-up. Ric had his basketball games. He’d felt the ground shake when the mighty trees fell. In his battle for hope, he knew there were other soldiers actively engaged with him.

One afternoon while Ric was resting the telephone rang. I answered it and a man’s voice said, “This is Bill Walton. Could I please speak with Ric?” Speechlessly I handed the phone to Ric. Bill Walton was the tall, red-headed center forward who had led the Trailblazers to their single World Championship against the Philadelphia 76’ers back in the glory days of 1977, when my little boy was nine years old. Bill Walton on my telephone? How had that miracle happened? I watched Ric’s face transform from tension into a loose, ear-splitting grin as he realized he was talking to his idol. Then he was asking me for a paper and pen, and wrote down Bill Walton’s cell phone number. When he hung up, he was still beaming. “Mom, Bill Walton said I could call him anytime, day or night. Bill Walton, Mom!” And my heart sang.

In the early stages of the adoption process, we took Ricky to visit friends. A local television celebrity lived next door, and casually dropped in to say hello. Ricky’s eyes got huge and his mouth dropped wide open. “You’re Ramblin’ Rod!” he shouted. Rod Anders, aka Rambling Rod, sat down with Ricky and told him all about his cartoon show, and invited him to be on it. Ricky told us the next day he would be the best son we could ever, ever have, if we would please, please adopt him. His joy, when we assured him he would be our son, was a tangible thing. It was his trademark. Like the time he laughed so hard on the Zipper ride at the County Fair that he swallowed his gum. When he stumbled across a skunk and got sprayed. The time he was home on a break from college, and my 6’4” son stood facing his 5’10” father, who looked up at him and said, “You’ve grown.” Without missing a beat, Ric poked his Dad in the belly and said, “So have you.” This boy – this man – lived joyfully. He wanted it to be his legacy. He had run his lap of life’s relay race, and was handing his baton to me. “My life won’t count for anything if you are not happy.”

* * * * *

In the hospital, Ric’s visitors had been limited because he could not risk catching an infection or cold. I knew my son had friends, but now I was learning how constant they were in staying connected. In these last weeks exposure no longer mattered, and on good days he held court. We carefully planned those brief hours when he would rally his energy to cheer his friends who came to cheer him. His room was filled with cards and photos, balloon bouquets, and banners scrawled with words and sketches. High school and college friends traveled hundreds of miles for a brief visit with Ric. They told stories, laughed and cried, and laughed.

Someone asked me during those weeks if it wouldn’t be easier to lose a child suddenly, in a car accident, rather than slowly to a devastating illness like leukemia. How do you answer an impossible question? Twenty years earlier I had sat with a friend whose son had died in a car accident the day before he was to leave for college. It was horrible. Are those my only choices? How about (c) never lose a child at all?

Time turned a precious commodity when its boundaries came into sharp focus. Once I had time to kill. Time on my hands. When it was Monday I yearned for Friday. When I was fifteen I longed to be twenty-one. Time had been like an artesian well, always there in abundance, a never-ending source. Now I scrambled to find the controls. Slow it down! Form a reservoir to store it up! Give me back the wasted bits and pieces!

We talked. As the days slipped past there was a point when Ric realized hope would not be enough, and we talked. As he fearlessly faced his own mortality, we talked freely about living, and dying, and what we thought came afterward. “Live your life joyfully, otherwise my life will have counted for nothing,” he said. I promised, even though I had no idea what that meant. I promised, because I still hoped to stop time and keep him with me.

* * * * *

At his funeral we were surprised at how many people attended. We hadn’t known Ric had so many friends. We invited them to share stories, and they showed me another side of my adult son: his loyalty to his friends. The time he walked a girl home after they got off work past midnight, to ensure her safety. She lived four miles away, in a remote area. He delivered her to her family, turned around and walked home. One man said Ric was the only friend he would ever let dance with his wife. Ric never forgot his foster care years, and counseled friends enduring their own tough times. He saved the lives of two people who had talked about suicide. The palpable elements of authenticity and joy, lived out in his own life, spoke to theirs and forever changed them. He had built a solid legacy. It wasn’t just words for him.

* * * * *

One afternoon during that last week, Ric’s girlfriend came to visit, and I slipped away to a mortuary to make plans. It was a surreal experience. He wanted a service that would celebrate his life. I wanted him to live. There was a lag time between his acceptance and mine, but I knew I could not let him down in his dying any more than I could in his living. The mortuary experience somehow brought his heart and mine into alignment.

I sat beside him that last night, holding his hand and talking to him. He was heavily sedated but never alone. My husband and I took turns, grabbing naps and keeping vigil. We were both with him when our well of time ran out. In the process of releasing his remains and preparing for his service, I thought the season of receiving any more gifts from Ric had passed, but I was wrong. His body went through the cremation process four days later, on my birthday. On Memorial Day.

* * * * *

When he was young his sisters called him “Ricky Ticky” and “Ricky Ricardo.” In middle school he shortened his name from “Ricky” to “Rick.” After college he shortened it again to “Ric.” I told him I liked it, but if he made any more changes, his options would be initials only, or lengthening it back to his given name, Richard. “OK, Mom, here’s the deal,” he said, “It’s just a name. I know who I am.”

* * * * *

Ric had been specific about where he wanted his ashes spread: the Oregon coast. Victoria, British Columbia. The San Juan Islands. A year after his death we met with some of his friends in Lincoln City, on the Oregon coast, to begin honoring his wishes. It was late May, cold and windy. There was a dark, heavy, low bank of clouds stretched across the horizon. Each friend had a vial of ashes, and we stood huddled together, quietly talking and waiting. There was speculation that Ric probably had something to do with the fact that the basketball season for the LA Lakers, Portland’s nemesis, was going badly. I checked my watch - 11:22 am. We had come exactly one year from his death. At that instant, a hole opened in the sky and a column of warm, sparkling sunlight descended, only on us, like a spotlight. “Ric’s here,” one of his friends said in a hushed voice. I could see my own awe reflected on the faces of the others. And echoing the cries of the gulls soaring overhead, I heard my son, laughing.

Amendment

After drinking a big, almond milk-based smoothie and suffering a righteous headache, I now suspect my body is highly offended by almonds. The smoothie recipe has been amended to include no almond milk. Thanks a lot, Gwyneth Paltrow.

This week has flown by. We had a rained-out softball game on Monday, which I hurriedly rescheduled for Wednesday and called each team member, only to have it cancelled an hour and a half before game-time due to rain.

Tonight we have a game scheduled, and the forecast calls for rain.

I built a fire last night after it snowed a little in the morning, and hailed a little later on.

Today contains fun-filled activities: I need to take my cat to the vet to have her sutures removed, but I don't want to put her back in the cat carrier. Poor Rumsie has been through a lot, having a tumor removed from her shoulder and then the skin pulled up tight to close the hole.


Rum sez, "Who would take this face to the vet?

Last week I was giving pain medication to a cat, and penicillin to a chicken.

Yes, this is really my life.

In case you're wondering which animal was easier to administer to, it was definitely the chicken.



Hatshepsut sez, "Brrrrrrrrrt!"

Breakfast

OC and I made some fantastic breakfast smoothies this morning. The combinations are endless, but ours were made with:

• 1 frozen banana


• 1/2 c. plain nonfat yogurt


• 1/2 c. vanilla almond milk


• 1/2 c. frozen blueberries


• 1/2 c. frozen raspberries


• several small ice cubes

The resulting tasty beverage is quite tasty, and full of protein, vitamins, antioxidants, and is low in fat. What fat there is comes from almonds, which is a healthier kind of fat than the kind that comes from animal products.

I bought the yogurt, almond milk, and blueberries at Trader Joe's, and all were very reasonably priced.

It's coming on summer, which is a great time to enjoy smoothies of all kinds, all day long. Bon Appetit!

Quoth the Raven

"Maybe you could be an art teacher. Well, if we still had art teachers."

----- My daughter, age 9


I've met more adults going back to school, and several who want to become teachers. When this recession lifts and jobs open up again, there are going to be a LOT of people vying for the same work. The veterans as well as the newly-graduated.

I went to the parent-teacher organization meeting tonight. The effort is to reorganize and regroup in order to accomplish the original mission, which is, to raise money for the school. A tough task, after the last president and parent TAMI ERIKSON, allegedly stole thousands of dollars in cash. The investigation is ongoing. Questions of restitution remain.

I wonder, how will the reputation of the PTO be restored? I know there are good people there, but the actions of one person can hurt the group for a long time. How can they ask the community for sponsorships, and the community respond after all of this? Hopefully, the result will be more involvement from parents, and more communication so that the community knows what good is being done on the behalf of children.

My daughter participated in a walk-a-thon which raised more than $10,000 dollars. It was a hot day, and the kids worked so hard and did a great job. And now, where is the money? The account has little more than $1000 in it. I wonder what Tami did with the money she allegedly stole from those kids?

List: des Livres

As I wonder why I have a headache this morning (too much coffee, or not enough?) I keep thinking it's time to keep track of my reading. I've always meant to do this. I even have a notebook to record books and movies I've read or seen, in case I ever want to regurgitate the titles in my blog. I quite simply lacked follow through. No more...

Currently Reading:

• The Iliad
  Richmond Lattimore translation
  
  
• Children of the Sun
  Alfred Crosby
  
  
• The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
  Carson McCullers
  

The mistake that I made: I watched "Love Song for Bobby Long" and THEN read The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Do this in reverse. I recommend it highly.

It is interesting the way people come around to discovering certain books. I have had the idea of reading The Iliad and then The Odyssey, and finally realized it's not going to happen until I actually do it. Then there is the question of which translation? Don't get too hung up on it. I like the Richmond Lattimore fine, although he has chosen the funkiest spellings of Greek words. The Fagles translation or the earlier Butler version would have been fine, too. If you want to read it, then pick one and go for it.

Alfred Crosby is an author I first learned of in a history class to do with the Columbian Exchange. In a fascinating excerpt from that book, we read about plants, animals, and diseases and their transport to new places for the first time with the European explorers, and the myriad results. It's more fascinating than you might think. The title above is his new book.

I first learned of Carson McCullers several years ago when another book mentioned her name. I still didn't pick up one of her books until seeing "Love Song". Now, the movie has much more meaning, and the book was great. Well, so far it is. I'm still not quite finished.

I'd love to know what other people are reading. I don't have a wide enough readership nor know people in life who write a blog, much less about books they've read. It's weird that people know what's going on with me because of this urge to share with anyone who happens along, but I know so little about them.

Facebook doesn't count.

Now Reading

Slayers and Their Vampires by Bruce McClelland. Everything you ever wanted to know about vampires, folklore, religiosity (what now?), witches, and more.

I'm not a Twilight reader, I don't understand the appeal of hairy, hairy Edward Cullen. I'd like to tie that character up to a barber's chair and give him a good buzz cut. But, I liked Buffy. If these names mean anything to you, here's something you might enjoy.

I could watch that over and over...

Lightening the Load

I have just deleted more than 4,000 emails from my Inbox and Sent folders.

I feel 4,000 pieces of paper lighter, if that makes any kind of sense...

Love Chicken

Today, we have a guest blogger. You may know her from such posts as, "Early Morning Quiz" , "Finally! Some Pictures!! , and "Forty Stone and Six Months Ago". OC is here to write about her chickens. Pictures by OC.


My chicken Cleopatra loves shiny things!
Her head is in the way because she is trying to peck the camera when it flashes!



Hatshepsut is afraid to lay an egg in the picture because I'm taking a photo of her!

She is crabby because she wants to be a mom but we don't have a rooster anymore.


I put two eggs in the grass to make it look like a chicken laid two eggs there!

Smith Rock Is Near Here

To start our spring break vacation, we went to Smith Rock for a hike.


I am a native Oregonian, but for years I did not know where Smith Rock was located. I'm not a rock climber, so that helps explain my ignorance. Now that I live in Redmond, I have noticed how Smith Rock seems to be everywhere. During the drive from Bend, you can see the rock pretty much the entire way. It's as though it were watching your every move...


In my defense, I did know some other things about Oregon. Such as, the girls grow tall here.


Also, it may be spring but it's still the desert. It is COLD in March.*

Amazingly, these limby Oregon creatures can fold themselves in order to explore "huts" along the trail. There were many huts. We did not go inside every one, but almost.


The footbridge back at the start of the hike looks like the trunk of a tree, when viewed from above. If you can manage it, the views are worth the climb. The river trail is flat and follows the river, coincidentally. There are other options, such as Misery Ridge and Burma Road. We took Misery Ridge, which meets up with the River Trail and makes for a decent 3-mile loop.


Spring break is not a good time to hike at Smith Rock if you are craving solitude. Dude, there were like, all kinds of people there and like, you know, youths or whatever. Most were good about watching their language around my kid, but boy did I feel like a grandma, being concerned about hearing a swear word or forty.


* That is okay with me. I am a knitter and have coping skills.

The Simpsons

Ned: Jeepers H. Crackers. I'd better call the Reverend.

[pushes "Rev. Lovejoy" button on phone]
[the Rev is playing with a train set]

Mrs. L: Heh heh, Ned Flanders is on the phone.

Reverend Lovejoy: [groans] Mmm...hello, Ned.

Ned: [breathless] Reverend...emergency! I -- it's the Simpson kids -- eedily -- I, uh, baptism -- oodily -- uh -- doodily doodily!

Reverend Lovejoy: Ned...have you thought about one of the other major religions? They're all pretty much the same.

[hangs up]
[his train crashes]

Oh. Damn Flanders!


----- Season 7, episode "Home Sweet Home-Diddily-Dum-Doodily"

Welcome to Finals Week, and oh yes, the Ides of March.

So, what are the Ides of March, and why do I need to beware? The Ides were simply calendar days (or, nights) on the Roman calendar when there was a full moon. It was a moveable date that happened every month. The need to beware of the Ides of March was attributed to the vision of a soothsayer in Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, who felt the day was unlucky for one Gaius Julius Caesar of Rome.



March 15, 44 BCE: Julius Caesar is assassinated by fellow Senators, including buddies Brutus and Cassius. Poor guy, after all he had done for the Republic.



One perk to being the leader of Rome included issuing coins that carried your visage. In the fifth century B.C. (or possibly earlier) bronze began to be used in central Italy as a medium of exchange valued by weight. In the second century an annually elected board of three were tasked with the casting and striking of bronze, silver, and gold, created to control the issuance of the currency.

Under Augustus the mints and the entire monetary system were reorganized so that the emperor issued the gold and silver coinage, while the bronze was left to the senate to issue. Under this system, the money changed virtually every year. Sort of makes you glad that quarter, dime, nickel, penny situation need not be relearned every year.



In other words, coins were ancient Rome's People magazine.

----- directly quoted and/or paraphrased from Roman Civilization Volume I, Selected Readings: The Republic and the Augustan Age, Ed. Lewis and Reinhold 3rd edition (my textbook from HST414 which, of course, I kept).

Speaking of holidays, did you know St. Patrick was not Irish? It's always a school day around here.

Update

LAST NIGHT: A five-minute presentation, in French, with pictures. At least there were cookies.

THIS MORNING: Cat poop smooshed under the back door. No cookies.

Bad.

THE END.

Physics

Do you remember the Gravitron at OMSI? I loved that thing. It was a tall, rectangular space enclosed in glass that housed steel framed track that looked like a miniature roller coaster, where silver balls would travel. There were numerous different tracks, and little kids like me fascinated, watching the balls travel this way and that, going one way and then all of a sudden going another, with all of the twists and turns, the steel arms that would flip over and pick up a ball to take it to another track and then rest to wait for the next; the wheels that looked like miniature ferris wheels with spaces for the balls and when it was full it finally overturned the balls onto tracks to keep falling, down, down, down. When they got to the end, there was an elevator that brought the balls back to the top and it would do it all over again.

I was reading Dooce this morning and she featured this video. She's right, it is absolutely amazing. It is better than the Gravitron, and now you know how big that is.

Sunday

I totally agree with my mom, who commented that the last post needed a picture. I don't have one, but when she wears it again - and we know that she will - I will take one of her in "the outfit" and post it.

In the mean time, here is her completely matching play outfit.



There are more pictures! Today felt like spring, and we were all outside in the back yard. Humans, cats, and chickens; the usual melange of characters.



I cleaned the laundry room, and so had the back door open to let in all the fresh air. The girl, chickens, and cats were taking advantage of the new shoots of grass and warm sunshine, depending upon their liking. Some were taking advantage of one another's snuggle factor. Especially her.



This is our biggest hen, Professor. She was not named after anyone in particular from history, she looked as though she could sport a pair of glasses and give a lecture about Boudicca, queen of the East Anglian Icenis. I guess.



History Professor!

Sunshine Kitty sez, "dont blok mai rayz, and meybe I wont poop on ur flor..."

Another Blog

My daughter dressed herself this morning. After all, she's nine and quite capable. She likes patterns, and so she paired a patterned shirt with a completely differently-patterned skirt, and even more differently-patterned tights.

After taking her to school in her outfit loud enough that it could announce its own arrival, I came home and read about another mom's decisive daughter.

Like her, I also felt like pinning a note to OC to explain the colorful outfit, thereby absolving myself of responsibility and still being a "good mom". But I was also proud of my daughter for doing exactly what she liked and feeling good about herself. I like that more than I cared about precise outfit coordination at age 9.

In the same post, it was this sentence that struck most deeply: "I want to bottle my little girl’s belief in herself and give it back to her by the pint when she hits sixteen."

--- Jessica, at Balancing Everything

Too often we are concerned with how we look rather than what it all means. There is a time and a place to look "acceptable", of course. But when our children go through stages of trying out their own thing, it's good to remember that it is good for them. Do not crush this tendency, for one day it will translate well when, for example, their own thing will be to come home and do their homework instead of hanging out in front of a convenience store with their friends.

Rejoice in all-patterned outfits! They're not so bad.

Living With a Knitter Means Never Getting Cold

In addition to the socks for OC, I have several other projects on the needles.

I like it when there are about three projects going at once. Generally, they are in different stages of production and require varying degrees of attention. This way, I have something I can knit while watching tv or carrying on a conversation, and something to travel with, and something that requires concentration.

OC is fun to knit for, not only because she is adorable but because she is so excited to have new things. Bonus: she is smaller than an adult, and so the projects for her knit up quickly.

OC picked out the colors for this cotton jumper for summer:


It will be knit in halves, then sewn together. I think the colors will suit her wonderfully.

There's a Learning Moment Here Somewhere

Generally, this is not the most glorious of things to wake up in the morning and find in your laundry room:


Since it happened back in September, I can laugh about it. A little.

The bag of cat food sat atop the washing machine, its flat surface making a lovely storage area. Except when the machine developed a mind of its own and decided to shirk its encumbrances. Cat food bag, KAPOW!

This knitting thing is sticking with me, because the sock is finished. The last of the in-progress pictures:





I have started the other sock. Four inches into the leg ribbing have gone quickly, as other knitters told me it would. Now if only the child would stop growing so she can wear these hand-knit items forever.....

Little Red Hen

This is OC and Boadicea.



Boudicca (also spelled Boadicea, Boudica) was the wife of King Prasutagus of the Celtic Iceni of East Anglia. She led a famous revolt against Roman rule in Britain in AD 60.

The Romans invaded England in AD 43. Unless the native population recognized the advantage of being part of the Empire, there could be no political security, and their interests, if not with Rome, would be with themselves. This principle of governance apparently was not appreciated by the procurator, who, as the chief financial administrator of the province, treated the inhabitants, instead, as a defeated enemy.

Tacitus recounts the complaints of the Iceni: the governor tyrannized their persons; the procurator, their possessions. "Their gangs of centurions or slaves, as the case may be, mingle violence and insult. Nothing is any longer safe from their greed and lust. In war it is the braver who takes the spoil; as things stand with us, it is mostly cowards and shirkers that rob our homes, kidnap our children and conscript our men."

Even the royal house of the Iceni was not immune. When the king died, the client relationship with Rome and status of the tribe as civitates peregrinae (Roman subjects, but not full Roman citizens) ended. Still, half the kingdom was left to Nero in the hope that the remaining possessions could thereby be preserved for his two daughters.

From Tacitus' Annals:
"Kingdom and household alike were plundered like prizes of war, the one by Roman officers, the other by Roman slaves. As a beginning, his widow Boudicca was flogged and their daughters raped. The Icenian chiefs were deprived of their hereditary estates as if the Romans had been given the whole country. The king's own relatives were treated like slaves."

Boudicca rebelled, and was joined by other tribes against the Roman army in the area at the time. The Roman soldiers took refuge in the temple (of Claudius), but after two days, it fell. Legio IX, understrength and marching south from its camp at Longthorpe some eighty miles away was ambushed and defeated. The procurator fled to Gaul, and Boudica marched on Londinium (London). As Tacitus records,

"Neither before nor since has Britain ever been in a more uneasy or dangerous state. Veterans were butchered, colonies burned to the ground, armies isolated. We had to fight for our lives before we could think of victory."

With her daughters in front of her, Boudica drove her chariot among the tribes, shouting encouragement as the assembled Britons, compressed in the defile, struggled to come onto open ground. The Romans waited, hurled their javelins, and then shouldered their way forward in wedge formation, hacking their way through the throng.

Later, the governor of Brittania, Suetonius Paullinus, lead a force that defeated the rebels. Lots of people died, end of local rebellion. It is thought that Boudica poisoned herself.

---- various articles, web

And so, we bestowed the honorous name to our biggest little red hen, who hopefully will have an easier life than her namesake.

The Occidental Tourist Discusses Hair

My hair has gone several shades of ginger.



I've actually had it this way for a while, and no one noticed. Not even my mom. Cipher in the snow, much? I'm not crying, I did this for me. And if you don't notice my pretty new hair, well, then I'll take pictures and write about it until there are compliments.

If no compliments, then I'll talk about the weather and things will be back to d'habitude here at tourist central.

The red is really not that big a deal. My hair was never one shade to begin with, but it did start out a nice blonde color. Over the years it has gotten darker, much to my horror. Someone mentioned years ago that I should try red and I laughed at the time, happy instead to stick with light blonde highlights to keep up the charade that no, nothing has changed. Same old hair as always!

Boring.

Fireplace Kitteh (or, Dakota) pays you no mind. When you want to talk about things like how this week's turkey and salmon wet food is being received, then kitteh will look you in the eye. If you are lucky.



Also, someone should really clean the hearth. At least do a quick dust before taking pictures. Good grief. My mom will think I never clean this place.

OC has the same color hair that I had, so you can see it's a lovely mix of shades. Nice self-directed compliment...that was unintended but notice I'm not deleting it?



Sable likes it when you read to him. He thinks his hair is the prettiest of all.

Water and Webcams

Central Oregon is a high desert, and I carry water with me everywhere I go. I have an exaggerated fear of dehydration.

When I drive between Redmond and Bend, there are no gas stations or public areas. It is 15 miles of wilderness! What would happen if your car broke down in the summer? Think about it.

In town, it doesn't feel the same way. There are trees, lawns, and buildings, so there must be water. But the highways and open areas....those are deathtraps.

That's why it is interesting to me that, just as one could get lost in the sagebrush, it's possible in any environment.

I wonder, are there webcams in the Badlands?

Knitting Shapes

I've turned the heel on my first sock. Forget about wondering what the purpose of life is. That is nothing compared to the magic that is turning the heel. It blows my mind that someone came up with a sock pattern in the first place.



Whoever did so was a really smart lady. I assume is was a woman, anyhow.

You are looking at the sock from the underside. That triangle shape is where the heel will fit.



The foot is not the most straightforward of body parts. You want a blanket? Knit a rectangle, and there you go! Warm. How about a sweater? Two rectangles plus tubey things with decreasing, boom! Warm. But a sock...



...that's an odd shape. What you start with (in this case) is a tube for the ankle. When you reach the heel, you have to knit straight down in a kind of wall called a heel flap. Then, you form a triangle for the heel. Once you get a certain number of rows, you pick up stitches and knit in the round, while simultaneously decreasing. Simple!

It doesn't sound simple, but when you're doing it, it is.



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