Suzy Says

Happy Fourth!

My English father used to say that England should really the be one to celebrate the Fourth of July. After all, they were finally free of America and all its problems, which have not diminished in the two centuries since we became independent. I often wonder what Dad would think of the things that have happened in this country in the nearly 20 (!) years since we lost him.

My American mother’s ancestors arrived in Massachusetts more than a century before this was a country, building a house in 1641 which still stands today as the oldest wooden frame house in the country. Perhaps it’s fitting that the land where my childhood home was built was given to a Revolutionary War soldier in compensation for his service.

My brother is named Jonathan, for the first Fairbanks to land in what would one day be America. Both the original Jonathan and the current one have enjoyed making trouble in their own ways. Rumor has it that Original got in trouble for wearing silver buckles on his shoes, something frowned on by his Puritan neighbors. Current once motorized our sister’s tricycle and encouraged her to ride it. She and the enhanced form of transportation both ended up in the neighbor’s pool. The neighbors, who had to drain and clean their pool, took it better than our parents did. Megan, the one-time tricycle driver without a license, has Fairbanks as her middle name. So the legacy lives on.

Today I celebrate both sides of my heritage. Happy Independence Day!

A YEAR AGO: Earthquakes and foxes.

FIVE YEARS AGO: An alarming and mysterious smell at Stately Suzy Manor. I am afraid to tell you what the belatedly discovered cause was.

TEN YEARS AGO: File under miscellaneous.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: I always love tales from the ambulance.

Ginger and Jonathan at our childhood home

I came across this photo recently of my brother and our dog Ginger at our childhood home in upstate New York.

The photo gives a clear view of our route to the school bus stop, at the Nagels’ farm, just across the road from the Morgans’ house, on the upper right hand side. Given that our driveway was about a quarter of a mile long, I think it was close to half a mile to the bus stop, rain, shine, or snow. I clearly remember following the path we made in the snow. Sometimes we would walk past the five acres of pine trees, which housed our tree house and the large enclosure for the wounded* Snowy Owl who lived there for many years. We chose a Christmas tree there every year to cut down and bring home.

It was only recently that I wondered why my mother, who never worked, did not drive us to the bus stop, or to school, for that matter.

Ginger did not follow us to the bus stop, though he was never far from Jonathan’s side, and rescued him a couple of times, Lassie-style, from falling through a snow bank and into the nearby creek. Ginger never had much use for females of any kind, though he had a soft spot for the Nagels’ dog Daisy, who was actually allowed to play on our land. Ginger was welcome at the Nagels’ farm, where he obligingly removed the rat population from the barn.

Everyone needs a hobby, and Ginger’s was killing things. He was very efficient, from the few times I saw him in action. A swift neck break and it was all over. He also took his guardian duties seriously, even silly females like Mom, Megan, and me. When Dad was home, Ginger slept on the landing of the stairs, but when he was away, Ginger slept stretched out across the front door. No one was getting in without his knowledge.

Ginger was devoted to Dad. After all, Dad found him.

For some reason, Dad used to load us into the car and take us grocery shopping on Saturday mornings. We would also go to the library and anywhere else that was necessary, like the hardware or feed store. Again, it’s only in the last couple of years that I wondered why he didn’t just go alone, which would have been much easier.

On this particular day, we arrived at the Victory Market to discover that they had animals up for adoption, an arrangement that Jonathan would refer to as a “pity pit” as an adult. Jonathan would adopt the unforgettable Jed** the Wonder Dog from a pity pit on the other side of the country about 20 years later. Dad warned us that we could look at the animals, but we were not, under any circumstances, taking one home.

Of course, we would have agreed to just about anything to go and pet the puppies and kittens. One of those puppies jumped into Dad’s arms and stuck his wet, cold nose into Dad’s neck. Ginger came home with us that day, and was a beloved part of the family. He had his quirks, but we all do, and we all loved him. He was a great dog for kids who played outside as much as we did, year-round.

We were all shocked and saddened when Ginger was accidentally killed by hunters, but it was hardest, I think, for my father. I still remember the stricken look on his face. He immediately set off over the fields alone, where I suspect he wept and mourned his old friend where he could not be seen. He refused to get another dog** until Megan rescued Jesse, the last dog Dad would own, many years later. But that’s another story.

*Like Ginger, the owl was shot by hunters. Unlike Ginger, he survived. He was equally beautiful and fearsome.

**Jed has been gone for 13 years, and Jonathan has never adopted another dog. I don’t think he ever will. Jed was a once in a lifetime dog.

A YEAR AGO: Dodge’s daring (and destructive) escape.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A fun day off with my sister.

TEN YEARS AGO: A long day for my little sister.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Watching TV shows about a fictional hospital in an actual hospital.

I don’t really think of myself as a baker. I can’t remember the last time I made a cake. I don’t even have cake pans, which probably makes it unlikely that I will be doing so any time soon. I am no Erica! She can make anything. I always joke with her that Jessica is the logical conclusion to her ultra craftiness. “I’m going to make a human being! And she’s going to be awesome!” And she is.

I am good at making Montreal* style bagels, somewhat surprising since I do not have a wood-fired oven and have never lived in Montreal or have any Quebec background at all. Also because it is a lengthy process, and you know how patient I am not. I have streamlined the process as much as possible, having learned a few things along the way, like proper shaping technique. I am pleased to say that they almost never come apart during the boiling process. And there’s something meditative about rolling them in my hands while looking out of the kitchen window at the mighty redwoods and passing wildlife. Here is the most recent batch:

Recently, I tried my hand at lumpia Shanghai, a kind of Filipino egg roll. I was a little intimidated by the rolling technique, but it was easier than I thought. I did not deep fry them as the recipe said, just lightly fried them. They were not at all greasy, and the filling was a wonderful, savory combination of juicy ground pork and crunchy water chestnuts and celery:

I also skipped the suggested accompaniment of banana ketchup, which just sounds weird to me. I made a dipping sauce of sesame oil, soy sauce, rice vinegar, a few sesame seeds, and a dash of brown sugar and called it good. And it was.

Another new baking endeavor was cinnamon rolls, made from a friend’s father’s recipe. They turned out well, though the recipe was somewhat vague in places. It didn’t say what thickness the dough should be before rolling, or how much sugar and cinnamon to mix together for the filling (it just says, “A mixture of sugar and a generous amount of cinnamon”). It called for a mixture of Crisco and margarine, which horrified me, so I substituted butter. Despite all this, they were great:

It’s a little late in the year for resolutions, but it’s good to work on being a more confident baker. Who knows, maybe I’ll get around to making a cake before my next birthday!

*Lately I’ve been watching a TV show filmed in Montreal called “Bad Blood”, starring Kim Coates. I have loved him since he was a bad guy (he is pretty much always a bad guy) in the late ‘80s-early 90s “Street Legal”, a TV show I would like to revisit. “Bad Blood” is a fictional riff on a real Montreal mob empire, and very entertaining.

A YEAR AGO: The cats were enjoying their new home. I note that now Audrey is upstairs all the time and the boys are downstairs or on the bed. The dishes and litter box are upstairs now, too.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Remembering a long-ago trip to Paris.

TEN YEARS AGO: Road work and attempted laundry.

I have a new addition to the bedroom:

I love the color of the cushion – it’s more of a sage in real life than it appears in these photos – and the clean lines of the wrought iron legs and sides. It’s handy to sit on while putting on or taking off shoes, and I think it makes the room look more finished. Audrey noticed that it’s the same color of her eyes and is quite becoming to her:

My good friend A decided that it needed a sheep fur throw, which was sent to me all the way from Poland. It certainly has an air of 70s glam, like Burt Reynolds should be lying on it. Or Dodge should be sitting next to it:

The Medical Director at the clinic where I work is quite the Dodge fan. Sometimes he stops by my office to ask how Dodge is and to see the latest pictures of him being handsome. This morning, I discovered that Dodge has a new hobby: licking the water off the curtain after I shower. I have also seen him covering up after Clyde leaves the litter box, clearly thinking that Clyde did not do a sufficiently through job of hiding all traces. It’s especially comic, since Dodge is standing entirely outside of the litter box at the time. He is such a character.

Here he is with Clyde, loitering with intent and thinking up some trouble to get into:

They always find it, too.

TEN YEARS AGO: The water trenching project was not without complications.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: I should have known better than to go in the house. Now I do.

It’s no secret to you, faithful readers, that our heroine tends to get up early, even when it’s unnecessary*. It’s supposed to be better for you to more or less stay on schedule all week instead of staying up late and sleeping in on the weekends. All I know is, it’s different to just wake up rather than get woken up by the alarm. And on the weekends, I make coffee and go back to bed with it, so it’s not like I’m getting up and staying up.

So I do leave the house pretty early in the morning. In the winter, it’s usually night time black when I head out of the lotus gates, but this time of year, it’s light out, with the birds singing loudly and brightly. I have noticed quite a few fawns lately, playing in and near the road under the nervous, yet watchful eye of their mothers, and calves staying close to their own mothers in the wildflower-strewn meadow. Sometimes a raven swoops across the road, or a Steller’s Jay flashes a brilliant blue wing in the dark woods.

In general, other than wildlife, this Ridge is less inhabited and less travelled than the old one. I almost never see another car on my way to work, and I rarely have to wait at the intersection of Ridge and highway:

for another car to pass by before continuing my way workward.

I was quite surprised one morning to come around one of the Ridge’s many curves to find a truck sitting there. Its lights and engine were on, and the truck bed was full of wood. I rolled down my passenger side window so I could ask the driver how s/he was doing once I pulled up alongside the truck.

Once I did so, I looked across and saw the driver was asleep, either temporarily or permanently. I parked my car and got out to investigate.

I knocked on the window and woke up the driver (or parker). He did not roll down his window, but I asked if he was OK anyway. He nodded. I was not convinced on this point, so I pressed a little further, asking, “Are you sure?” Again he nodded, so I gave up at that point and got back in the car. His eyes were already closed.

I felt bad leaving him there, and hoped he wouldn’t get hit by another car and that he could find his way home safely. Six o’clock in the morning seems like an early hour to be incapacitated. My sister thinks it might have been opiates rather than alcohol at that hour, since they tend to make people sleepy. Who knows? I just hope the rest of his journey was safe.

A YEAR AGO: The novelty of house keys and getting to know my new appliances.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Encounters with wildlife, one way and another.

TEN YEARS AGO: Audrey felt lonely and I felt guilty. Still do!

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Heading to the hospital to visit Mom.

*Recently, Megan was going kayaking down the scenic Hooterville River. She had to get up early to do so because of the tides, and texted me:

I do find it amazing that she goes from 12 hour night shifts to daytime every week. Half the week she’s sleeping in the day and working in the night and then reverses it for the rest of the week. Like voluntary jet lag!

Then

Now

My little Clyde turned ten on June 8. According to a cat age calculator, that makes us about the same age in human years, with Clyde at 56 and me at 58. No matter how old he gets – and I am expecting a minimum of another ten years – he will always be my baby boy.

A lot has happened since I first met Clyde and his inimitable brother Roscoe a decade ago. Even at the age of six weeks, their personalities were clear. Roscoe was dignified, sitting quietly at my feet, and Clyde climbed into my arms, purring and asking me to take them both home. How could I say no?

My time with Roscoe was short, but he left indelible paw prints on my heart and five years after losing him, I still think of him every day. I believe Clyde saw what happened to his brother. For days afterwards, he looked out the window towards the woods, and was very quiet and shaken up, way more than he was when he defeated the Slobber Monster. He stopped wanting to go outside after Roscoe vanished, and again, this is not how he reacted to near death himself at the fangs of the Slobber Monster. Just like it’s worse to see a loved one suffer than to suffer yourself, perhaps it’s worse to see your beloved brother killed than to nearly be killed yourself.

Clyde is a sensitive boy at the best of times, and I think we were both strongly affected by Roscoe’s loss. When we moved last year, Clyde and I both hated the chaos, both at the old house and the new one. On Moving Day itself, he was so unnerved by the whole thing that when I left him out of his carrier, he tried to climb back in.

Fortunately, the Moving Mess has long been vanquished, and Clyde is used to his new home. He has a close and loving relationship with Dodge, the stray Siamese I adopted a couple of years ago, after he followed a colleague home from the car dealership in the Big Town. Dodge took one look at Clyde and fell in love with him, just like I did. And it didn’t take long for them to get close and stay that way:

They cuddle and play together, and give each other baths. It’s a joy to watch them.

Happy birthday, little guy! Here’s to the next ten years! I love you, sweet boy.

A YEAR AGO: The boys did the heavy lifting in getting me set up in my new, beautiful house. Still can’t believe I actually live there!

FIVE YEARS AGO: A fabulous Junapalooza.

TEN YEARS AGO: A battle of wills with Audrey.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Fearing Mom’s impending death. We lost her a couple of months later.

My birthday dawned sunny and beautiful. It was nice to wake up to sunlight instead of darkness. Remarkably, dedicated food fan Clyde let me sleep in, his little gift to me. Of course there was the usual Cat Care™ after I got up, but there was also time to take coffee back to bed while I listened to the birds singing and watched the wind ruffling the trees outside my bedroom window. It was really nice to have an obligation-free day.

Dinner was BBQ from a local hostelry. It was supposed to have macaroni and cheese and slaw, but arrived with beans and what may have been some kind of slaw. It seemed mostly like salad with some cabbage in it. The ribs were good, though I actually prefer the ones I make, with a dry rub and tangy Carolina style sauce. I have been on a bit of a roll in the kitchen lately and I am sorry to say that I often like what I make more than what I can buy, a disappointment to my secretly lazy nature.

Still, it was nice to have dinner made by someone else, and the cats and I settled in on the couch to watch an excellent print of Sunset Boulevard with some sparkling wine at hand. For me, not the cats. I have seen it before, but it struck me on this viewing how it’s so much about forbidden love – Norma’s for Joe, Joe’s for Betty (and vice versa), even Max’s for Norma. We all enjoyed the movie in its glorious black and white.

The next day, I had a leisurely morning – not quite as glamorous as the late Princess Margaret’s usual morning ritual – and then went out to the Village, where I got a fabulous pizza for dinner and stopped by the farmers’ market. It’s still early in the season, but I got some Itachi cucumbers, blueberries, and a loaf of sourdough bread.

There were lots of presents this year, including a red begonia, a bouquet of wildflowers, chocolate, and a gift certificate to the local bookshop, which has already been spent. It was a happy birthday.

A YEAR AGO: Unpacking in the middle of the night. Never fun at any time.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Working at working.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: I’m really sorry the photos have been lost on this post. The trauma cake was amazing and I’d love to see the photo of me with baby Jessica. Sigh.

I gave myself a lovely gift for my birthday: a couple of days off. Really two and half, since I left early on my birthday eve to spend some time with Angelika.

It was a flawless late spring day, the kind of day when even someone as grumpy and jaded as Audrey* feels glad to be alive. The sky was the deep blue that you only see in California, the ocean looked tropical, and the sides of the road were alive with multicolored wildflowers and fluttering butterflies. It was a beautiful drive to Angelika’s place. The sign outside her little salon sums up Angelika’s philosophy:

It was blissful indeed to sit in her chair and catch up on each other’s news. I didn’t have enough cut off when I had the color done in March, so I decided to cut three inches off. Daring! It is still about an inch below my collarbone, but it feels much thicker and healthier. Angelika cut some long layers into my hair for movement. Megan got the good Mom hair** and I got the less glorious Dad hair.

While Angelika worked, she had the door to her salon open. It’s a converted pump house, just the right size for one sink and one chair and two friends. Through the door, we could see birds taking baths and getting refreshing sips of water in the fountain:

When I left, Angelika gave me a beautiful card, a succulent in a pretty pot, and a tube of conditioner to keep my hair pretty. She is such a wonderful friend!

There is no cell reception at Angelika’s house, so when I got to where there was reception, I pulled over to check my texts. I was expecting some time sensitive info about a work thing (which I got and took care of), but also had a text from Megan saying that Rob’s car had broken down at one of the hardware and lumber stores in town.
I suggested that I pick him up, and she was thrilled, since it was the only day that week she didn’t have to go town herself. I was really happy to finally do something for them; they do so much for me.

Arriving at the store, I failed to find Rob. I texted and called him with no result. I texted Megan and she suggested he might be at the car parts store. I headed there, but partway there, Megan texted me to say he was in the lumber part of the first store. I started back to Point A, but had reckoned without the weekly farmers’ market, blocking off the street I needed. Fortunately, I know secret alleys and byways, so I took that way, noting this unexpected piece of art along the way:

This time, I was successful in finding Rob. He showed me the defective part, which looked like some kind of hose contraption to my untutored eye. He had arranged with the store to leave his car there overnight. We went to order a new part, and it was set to arrive by 8:00 the following morning. We had a nice drive home together. I was so glad I could help him out. It was a great beginning to my birthday celebrations.

*My friend Patrisha is Staff to Audrey’s mother, Quince, and describes her in her rich Scots accent as “a huffy miss”. Though mother and daughter may be far apart in miles, they are close in age and temperament.
**Despite her many cancer treatments, Mom never lost all her hair. She just got regular person hair. When she died of breast cancer at the age of 73, she still had very little grey in her hair.

A YEAR AGO: I got internet for my birthday! The best birthday present ever!

FIVE YEARS AGO: A bad birthday.

TEN YEARS AGO: A really bad birthday, losing my beautiful cat June on my birthday night. I still miss her. She was so beautiful.

The loss of The Beautiful Harriet put everything else out of my mini mind, and I forgot to tell you about my visit to the family property a couple of weeks ago, now known as the good old days when we still had Harriet.

It was still early-ish in the season, but lettuce:

herbs, and strawberries:

were ready already.

The trees were flaunting peachlets:

And pearlets:

The raspberries (in the foreground) were flourishing, though not yet berrying, and the cherry tree (in the background) in its majestic netting cathedral had a good crop of still-green cherries.

Inside the greenhouse, we scared a lizard, who fled into the tomato starts. I am pleased to announce that the Meyer lemon tree is doing quite well:

The flowers smell enchanting, and Megan says the fruit is delicious. I’m looking forward to trying one.

The lemon blossoms weren’t the only things that smelled good. The peppermint striped rose Erica gave us before her departure smells as incredible as it looks:

There is deer-defying lavender on the other side to discourage nibbling:

Looking around the garden with my sister reminded me of how Dad and I used to walk around his garden in Wimbledon before dinner, with a glass of wine in hand, admiring the plants and flowers and seeing what had changed from the day before. I had such a good time catching up with Megan and Rob that the time flew by, and before I knew it, I had been there for two hours. I also managed to get a sunburn. Silly me! It was worth it, though.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Audrey did not enjoy her trip to the vet, and I did not enjoy the bill. We never do.

The Beautiful Harriet, May 7, 2020

We lost The Beautiful Harriet just two days after Megan’s birthday.

Megan was working, and Rob saw Harriet make a strange movement and then seem to be partly paralyzed. Her pupils were fixed and dilated. He knew there was no hope of recovery, so he held her lovingly until she breathed her last, knowing that she was safe and loved.

Rob wisely waited until Megan got home from her long night shift, meeting her at the car and telling her the news as they walked back to their place together. Although Harriet was 19, her death was unexpected. I was shocked and saddened to hear the news. She hadn’t been sick or in decline, she was just old, about 92 in human years.

I went to the family estate after work that day. We all met at the chinquapin tree where Harriet’s sister Ramona and little Henry Etta are, along with Jed the Wonder Dog. Harriet is in good company in this pretty place:

She was still beautiful and her magic pelt was still magic, even in death. We petted her amazingly soft fur and told her we loved her. Rob had already prepared her resting place, quite deep but narrow enough that she would be safe and snug. Megan and I carefully rewrapped Harriet in a soft lavender towel, and then Megan lovingly settled Harriet in, tucking the towel in around our beloved girl.

We all took turns gently sifting the rich red earth over her, saying farewell and again telling her we loved her. Here is Rob finishing filling in the resting spot:

We covered it with leaves and it looks tranquil and serene:

Harriet had a long and happy life. She and Ramona lived with Megan and Rob from the time they were kittens, and were always loved and cared for. I am glad she had a peaceful end, at home, being held by someone who had loved her all her life, and that we were able to lay her to rest with our own hands with love.
Sleep easy, beautiful Harriet. You are loved and missed and will always be in our hearts.

A YEAR AGO: The great move to my current beautiful abode.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A fantastic birthday party for Megan, including the best practical joke ever.

TEN YEARS AGO: There’s nothing more fun than some quality girl time.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Some quality time with the wonderful, beautiful Rita.

I should really have my own radio show. People are always telling me their deepest, darkest secrets, even strangers. Maybe especially strangers. Back when I used to fly to London once or twice a year, people were always talking to me, even when I had the then-equivalent of earbuds in and was reading.

Sometimes when I’m in staff meetings, I look around me and think about the many things I know about my co-workers.

This one’s relative murdered two of the town’s most popular residents and led law enforcement on a long manhunt before dying in a hail of police bullets.

This one was President Obama’s teacher in college and is still his friend.

This one has five generations of her family living. This is only possible with some seriously precocious parenting.

This one’s father was driving the car which killed his wife and seriously injured his grandchild and himself when he got into an accident. He was a homicide detective.

This one had a long ago fling with one of the docs who still works here.

This one has a mail order bride.

This one is married to an ex con half her age who cheated on her before and during their marriage. She attempted suicide over him but was unsuccessful.

And then there’s me.

A YEAR AGO: Almost moved! I still can’t believe I live in this beautiful place.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Car talk.

TEN YEARS AGO: You never know where you’ll find a cat! With a guest appearance by Audrey’s gorgeous sister June. I miss her and Roscoe every day.

There haven’t been a lot of dull moments for Megan at work lately. She has worked in the emergency room of our local hospital for many years now, and just when you think you’ve seen it all, it turns out you haven’t.

A woman showed up carrying a blanket, which later turned out to contain a two week old fawn. She wanted Megan to help her with the fawn, and Megan told her to take it back where she found it. Mother deer will go in search of food and then come back. If you see a baby deer, leave it alone.

Well, she had picked it up 30 miles away.

Megan’s Plan B was that the woman keep the fawn overnight and contact Woodlands Wildlife and Parks & Recreation in the morning to get help. The woman left, and left Megan wondering why she thought the ER could do anything for, you know, a wild animal. Do they need a “Humans Only” sign on the door, like the “Please park off highway” sign at Gowman’s?

Later that evening, Megan met Monica in the hospital parking lot and noticed a blanket by the bus stop. Guess who?

So this person took the fawn, drove it 30 miles, and then abandoned it.

Megan convinced Monica to take it home, where she cared for it until Woodlands Wildlife came to get it. They said the fawn was weak, but would probably make it, thanks to Megan and Monica. And you thought they only rescued dogs!

On another occasion, someone came in and said her friend’s neck looked a little strange. Megan took a look, and it certainly did. Friend had had the same spinal surgery Rob has twice endured, though with less successful results and presumably at a less reputable establishment, since her sutures had failed spectacularly, allowing for an unobstructed view of the spine and all the inner workings associated with it.

Megan was fascinated, yet horrified as she alerted the doctors to the situation, agreeing that it did indeed look a little strange and trying to keep everyone calm. Let’s hope the repair job is more successful than the original patch job.

The Powers That Be who run our hospital – all men – decided a couple of months ago that they would no longer deliver babies. So pregnant women living on the coast have to drive an hour and a half over winding and sometimes snowy and icy or even closed roads to get there. Great idea, right? They said that the 100 or so births a year did not justify keeping the department open. That works out to a couple of births a week in any given year, right? As I said to Megan, if there was an average of two heart attacks a week, would they get rid of defibrillators?

It didn’t take long for a baby to be born in the emergency room.

There was no equipment, no staff specializing in this service, the baby was early and mother had no prenatal care, claiming she didn’t know she was pregnant. Maybe she was too busy taking care of the nine month old baby she already had to notice. This birth was fast and unexpected, and Megan caught the baby, who was given the same name as our brother. Mom and baby were transferred out, but it was complicated by rainy weather. Not ideal for anyone, though the PTB considered that it “went off without a hitch”. Of course, they weren’t there and they never will be.

When Megan was getting ready to go to work for her next shift after that one, I said that I hoped she would have an easier night. She said, “If I don’t end up with a face full of amniotic fluid, it’s all good.”

A YEAR AGO: Dealing with the past so I could start my future.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Small town fun.

TEN YEARS AGO: A bad day for our heroine.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: I still think I’d enjoy Eloise’s lifestyle.

Sunday afternoon with Dodge

Since I don’t know Dodge’s actual birthday, I gave him my American grandfather’s birthday, May 11. Hoho, as we called him for his frequent and distinctive laugh, loved cats, and I have many pictures of him with long-ago cats, especially Smoky, the grey cat he and Nana had when Mom was young. They loved that cat so much that they still had his bed up in their attic when I myself was young, more than 30 years later.

Hoho was always a bit of a rascal too, so I think he would have enjoyed knowing Dodge, the former street cat.

This summer marks two years since Dodge followed my co-worker Susan home from the car dealership and made his way into my heart and home. He was two or three then, so that means he’s four or five now.

He certainly looks healthier and happier now than he did when he first appeared. Then he was painfully thin in both body and fur:

Now he is, as Megan puts it, 100% plush. His fur is so soft and thick!

He is also such a happy boy. I have never had a less neurotic cat, despite his unfortunate start in life. He is not very interested in food, despite being starved. Maybe just knowing there’s always food now is enough for him. He is friendly to anyone and everyone, and still has his endearing habit of jumping up while simultaneously rubbing against you. He has an incredibly loud purr, and is very attached to Clyde.

Clyde loves him right back. When Dodge has escaped from the house, Clyde looked for him anxiously and when he came back in, sniffed him all over carefully to make sure his little brother was safe and sound. They often curl up together:

and play together. I think Clyde is very happy to have Dodge in his life after losing his unforgettable brother Roscoe, and I feel the same way. As soon as Dodge took one look at Clyde, he was determined they’d be friends, and he was right.

As for Audrey….well, she takes a dim view of the interloper. To be fair, she is also not a big Clyde fan, despite his always elegant attire and incredible cuddliness and cuteness. I really think she only tolerates me for the food, treats, and litterbox services I provide. Audrey is nondenominational in her overall grumpitude.

A YEAR AGO: Nothing like a flood in the bathroom to make you feel like it’s time to move!

FIVE YEARS AGO: Attempting to come to terms with the grind.

TEN YEARS AGO: An evening with Audrey.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO A bemused witness to a somewhat surreal fashion show for dogs. Yes, dogs. Yes, with tiaras.

Mother’s Day has rolled around again, bringing with it all those complicated emotions.

Since I took over writing all my work’s Facebook posts, maybe a year and a half or a couple of years ago, I have had to surmount challenges like writing something uplifting about domestic violence and teen date rape (I did it!), and this year I had the bright idea of collecting photos of the babies born to our staff over the past couple of years to celebrate these hard-working mothers on Mother’s Day. Looking at the pictures and writing all the cheery captions was a little upsetting to someone whose mother was never all that crazy about her. She never really seemed to love me, or at least not in a way that I could see or feel.

I don’t know if it was me, or because she was abandoned at birth, literally left on the orphanage steps, which has to have a huge psychological effect on anyone. Having said that, her adoptive parents adored her and always told her they chose her out of all the children in all the world, and that parents who gave birth to their own kids just had to take what they got, which is true, and also a great outlook on adoption.

They adopted Mom at the age of three and fostered her before that, so she couldn’t have had many memories before that time, but maybe the feeling (and fact) of abandonment was just hard-wired in her DNA.

Mom never had the slightest interest in her birth parents, but I do. When I got that Ancestry DNA kit from Erica, I have to admit that I was hoping to find that Mom had siblings out there or some kind of relatives that I was unaware of, but nada, nothing, zippo. This was disappointing to me. Our family tree is more like a twig. Mom was an only child, Dad’s sister was mentally challenged or whatever they call it now, and never married or had children. So no uncles or cousins for me, and Megan, Jonathan, and I do not have children, either.

I never wanted to be a mother, and I am perfectly fine with not being one. But Mother’s Day still brings up so much grief. Sadness that my mother never loved me, or at least not that I could tell; sadness for my grandmother, who endured seven miscarriages before adopting Mom; sadness for the girl who felt she had no other option but to leave her newborn on the steps of an orphanage one fine spring day. Whether you are a mother or not, Mother’s Day is never simple.

My happiness at seeing an email from Cammy, a friend of many years, quickly turned to sadness when I saw that she was alerting me to the untimely and unexpected death of a mutual friend, Randy. I literally gasped out loud when I read the news.

Randy wasn’t much older than I am, and we were just joking around together on Facebook a couple of weeks earlier about the unseasonable, and to Randy’s mind, unreasonable, snow he was still getting where he lived in Chicago. I have noticed over the years as my expertise in the field of death has unfortunately grown* that people always say, “But I just saw him” as if that made the fact of their being gone forever impossible. It does make it more surreal and unbelievable.

When I wished him happy birthday at the end of March, I had no idea it would be his last, and from what he said, it doesn’t sound like he did, either: “Thanks for the birthday wishes. The best present would be for all to be around for many more. Let’s hope this craziness passes quickly and we can all celebrate together.”

I learned from his wife that Randy had died within ten days of being diagnosed with mesothelioma. Like my former brother-in-law, Mike, it seems that Randy died quickly (and hopefully peacefully) of something that can be a lingering and horrible, suffocating end. His family was with him and I hope he slipped away easily and without fear.

For those of us left behind, it’s hard to imagine that we will never again see those blazing blue, twinkling blue eyes, ask him for advice, hear his infectious laugh, or get one of his comforting hugs. Randy loved his family with all of his heart, and in our friendship, there was something fatherly as well.

I am lucky to have known and loved him, and to have had Randy touch my life. He will always be in my heart and my memories.

*People always unhelpfully inform me that you have to expect increasing visits from the Reaper as time goes on, but a) I’m not that old, still in my 50s; and 2) This Reaper bullshit started with me when I was 15. I lost all my grandparents within one year, and both of my grandfathers within three weeks. I was barely 16 when they were gone.

A YEAR AGO: I may have missed the Derby (gasp), but I did make it to a fabulous BBQ at Rio’s place.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A new Royal Princess, a new ‘do, and the Derby – what more could a girl want?

TEN YEARS AGO: Dad’s amazing Honey-Mustard Chicken. Try it, you’ll like it!

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Plumbing problems

It’s that magical time of year when the long, slow curve in Little River is a haze of green as the trees on each side flaunt their new leaves. Spring leaves have a brilliance that is lost by summer, and these trees also lose their leaves in winter, so it’s a delight to watch them bud and then burst forth in all their verdant glory as the year progresses. There are banks of calla lilies unfurling their white blooms under the trees in the spring, like out of season snow.

These days, it’s light enough in the mornings for me to see the leaves on my way to work, which is a small pleasure in and of itself. Mornings are glorious this time of year, in sunlight:

and in fog:

It’s also rhododendron time, when the woods are frilled with pink:

Arriving home last week, i noticed that there are wild irises scattered among the ferns beside my house:

There is beauty everywhere this time of year.

A YEAR AGO: I found the beautiful house where I now live. I still can’t believe I live in this lovely place.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Dogs and cats. Cats and dogs. Past and present. Present and past.

TEN YEARS AGO: The mystery of the window boxes in the night.

I tend to do my cooking for the week on Saturday, making dishes I can heat up after work during the week. About the last thing I want to do after driving, working, and arriving home to take care of cats and removing faux adult armor so painstakingly applied that morning is slicing and dicing. I have a limited supply of patience and niceness, and it’s running on empty by the end of the work day. Basically, I just want to heat something up, watch a little TV, and go to bed and read.

Sometimes I do special projects on the weekends, like making Montreal-style bagels. I have actually gotten pretty good at making these, though they are a time consuming and messy process. I live 3,000 miles from the nearest commercially available Montreal bagels, so if I want them (and I do), I have to make them myself.

Recently, I tried my hand at strawberry granola, from a recipe in the New York Times. It came out perfect the first time, and I wouldn’t change a thing:

While I was combining the dried strawberries with the cooled granola mixture, I noticed several deer wandering down the driveway, outside the kitchen window. They were completely unafraid, nibbling here and there. They had a couple of young ones with them, at the stage where they were shedding their spots. the biggest deer peeked in the window at me, and for a moment, my little green eyes met his huge, liquid brown ones. Then he and his family headed off into the woods. A little moment of magic.

Another success was a first-time attempt at making Carolina-style ribs. I like the tangy style of barbecue sauce rather than the thick, sweet, sticky one. I made a rub and applied it the night before, letting it marinate overnight, and then baking the ribs for a few hours the next night. They turned out great, and I will not change a thing the next time I make them, and there will be a next time. It’s fun to try new recipes along with the tried and true.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Farewell to Marco, the gentle giant. We still miss you, sweet boy.

TEN YEARS AGO: Well, this is still true. Between a writing project and writing social media posts fro work, my blog has been neglected lately. Seems two posts a week is about all I can do these days.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Again, all these things are still true. A girl can dream…

During the week, I get up in the early morning darkness. Most days, I wake up before the alarm goes off, and I am almost invariably disappointed that it’s already time to get up. Sometimes I lie there for a few minutes, wondering why it’s always time to get up, but mostly I just get up, turn off the alarm, put away my sleep mask and earplugs, and get on with it.

The first order of business is always cat care, and I have the invaluable Clyde to remind me of this very important fact. Even though my record of giving the cats food and water twice a day is unblemished, Clyde, like his Staff, tends to fear the worst and feels that it doesn’t hurt for me to get a reminder. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to understand that his getting under my feet and yowling makes it take longer to achieve the desired result. All this before coffee, my friends.

I’m usually out of the house within an hour of getting up, and that includes the application of faux adult armor, including make-up and hair styling.

On the weekends, it’s a different story, though.

I wake up when it’s light out. Cat care still comes first, but then I make coffee, bring it back upstairs, and get back into bed. On Saturdays, I read Savage Love and on Sundays I read PostSecret before attending to my fan mail. These are long-standing traditions.

It’s nice to sit in bed and enjoy the serene views from the windows and the sounds of silence:

I can (and do) spend hours in bed, reading book reviews and recipes, writing, and hanging out with the cats, who are clearly glad that I’m home for a change just encourage this kind of slothitude. People who think cats are aloof and distant have never met my cats.

Audrey generally curls up right next me, somewhat surprising for a cat of her general grumpitude. She even purrs, though she also growls when Dodge is anywhere near. Despite that, there is sometimes a temporary truce, though only when the bed is messy:

Usually, the boys are curled up together, with Audrey growling softly beside me just to remind them that she can barely tolerate their existence.

Eventually, I get up and do some cooking for the week – I like to make things I can heat up after work – but I really enjoy my weekend ritual.

A YEAR AGO: An amazing outing with the girls, learning about female lighthouse keepers – at a lighthouse.

FIVE YEARS AGO: A delightful celebration of Jessica’s birthday, with zebras, giraffes, surfers, and patisserie. What more could a girl want?

TEN YEARS AGO: I can’t believe it’s been ten years since we rescued Star! I’m pretty sure she knew that day that she was home. She was a mama’s girl from Day One! Some things never change.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: An emotional recipe. And a charmimg memory.

My blog turns 19 today, on 420. Despite the fact that I live in Weed Central, I only noticed recently that my blog’s birthday is the same day as the pot-tastic celebration of 420. There are many tales and theories about how it happened and how it got its name, so take your pick and smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em, especially now it’s legal*.

Sadly for me, I have no interest in the County’s most famous product. It has never agreed with me, making me paranoid and nervous instead of mellow and relaxed. I recently tried CBD oil on John’s recommendation – he finds it calms his panic attacks – but, you guessed it, same result. Give me a glass of wine or a fancy cocktail any evening. No one can be uncheered with a glass of champagne in her hand.

Here’s to your 19th birthday, little blog! Keep on sparkling!

*My father the research scientist always thought it should be legal, and despite the fact that he was an enthusiastic consumer of adult beverages, he also felt that alcohol contributed to far more crimes than weed ever did.

A YEAR AGO: My blog’s birthday.

FIVE YEARS AGO:Comparing the past and the present on my blog’s birthday. Guess who won?

TEN YEARS AGO: Marking the blog birthday, of course!

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: You’ll never guess!

I’m not tracking them the way I did a few years ago, but lately, I have been trying to notice the perfect moments in each day.

When I lived in San Francisco, I never stopped noticing its beauty, and I am the same way here. Every day when I reach the ocean, or as I think of it, the intersection between home and work*:

I am delighted by its beauty. The ocean is ever-changing, and is as beautiful to me when it’s wild and stormy as when it’s blue and serene. It’s just a different kind of beautiful.

I love seeing a wide swath of silver when my friend the moon beams over the dark sea. Even though the moon and I go way back, she has been surprising me with her versatile beauty these days.

One morning – most of the year, it’s dark as night when I get up at 5 am – I was charmed by the sight of silvery moonbeams falling through the slats on my window blinds onto the bed, like I was the heroine of a film noir. Later that week, when I got to the ocean, I wondered what the blaze of orange was in the sky. It turned out to be the copper moon, coming in and out of misty slate blue clouds and making it really hard for me to focus on the road. I kept sneaking peeks to my left as I drove to work that morning.

There is something about driving across the Big River bridge:

that always fills me with a certain bien-être. Maybe it’s something about the ocean meeting the river there, or the curve of the bridge, but I usually find myself relaxing into the beauty when I cross it. On my way home from work one day, I was struck by the perfect sight of ravens, gracefully and slowly surfing the thermals together, hovering above the bridge with the afternoon sun glistening from their iridescent wings.

I am lucky to live somewhere so beautiful.

*On my way home, I always feel I have successfully left the world behind when I turn onto the Ridge from the highway.

A YEAR AGO: A creepy visitor.

FIVE YEARS AGO: Learning about Hooterville’s storied past.

TEN YEARS AGO: An adventure with my sister and the late, great Schatzi. We will never stop missing her.

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO: Some random notes.