A Thanksgiving to Remember

Ruby Jean Pitts
44 Lindon St.
Anniston, Alabama
30 Nov. 1944

Dear Aunt Maydale:

You know that Buddy came home last week. We all wanted to give him a wonderful Thanksgiving. We'd been saving coupons forever, stashing them in the Mammy cookie jar. Soon as we got word that he was coming home we put on our hats and gloves and rode the streetcar to the butcher shop. We gave him our coupons and came out with the finest piece of beef this side of Texas.
Oh, Auntie, it was beautiful, don't know when I've seen a piece of beef that looked so good, our mouths were watering all the way home. We put it in the icebox and then all day yesterday we picked roashineers and everything else the V garden holds, though that wasn't much considering the time of year, but it's been a late winter and still pretty enough, so there were a few things out there.
We got onions and potatoes from the cellar and then we went into the pantry and pulled out canned apples for making fried pies, Auntie you know how you go on about my fried pies. And there was tomatoes, okra, beets, watermelon pickles, snap beans, everything we could find that we know Buddy likes.
We let Buddy sleep late, Lord knows the boy looks like he could use more than one good night. You should have seen us tiptoeing around the house trying to be quiet but getting a fit of the giggles at just about everything. Anyway, we started cooking long about sunup, I'd started some bread raising yesterday and the kitchen smelled so good. We were talking about other Thanksgivings. Even though I'm thirteen now I can't remember much from before this war. Seems like we've always been at war.
Speaking of which, it took our last coupon to buy butter. We had decided we wanted real butter for the bread, but it took a while to find some. Every place we tried somebody would ask if we didn't know there's a war on, but it didn't stop us and finally we found some. You should have seen us on our way home, we took off our shoes down at the bottom of the hill and walked barefoot carrying our treasures. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a trip to town and back as much as that one. But then today when we brought out the butter and set it on the table Grandma said if we'd kept the churn we wouldn't have had to buy it.
She's right, but nobody knows where the churn got to, we haven't used it in years, I think it must be the same place as the lemonade crock, wherever that is. Anyway, she went off into the parlor mumbling about never missing something until you need it. But there was no help for it, so we kept on a cooking.
We put the beef in the blue-speckled pan you gave us for Christmas last year and added potatoes and carrots and onions around it, put the cover on and set it in the oven. All morning the smells of cooking were driving us crazy with hunger, but we didn't eat, we wanted to save ourselves for the big meal. Although I think Miralyn must have snuck some of the cornbread, but she's little so we didn't say anything to her.
Long about one o'clock the roast was ready and everything else was ready. Buddy was up by then. We made him and the rest of the fellers go into the yard. Raymond came over, too, you know how he idealizes Buddy. They were sitting out there smoking and spitting and telling stories. I wished I could have been out there with them, but there were things to do still, so I got the big platter down from the top cupboard. When I pulled the roast out of the oven and took off the cover the cloud of steam that came out smelled so good I almost fainted!
It looked so pretty, the potatoes just going brown and the carrots cooked but not soggy, the onions you could almost see through.
Martha put the best linen on the dining table and borrowed a couple of chairs from Mrs. King down the hill. It took four trips to get everything on the table. By the time we finished it looked like we'd cooked enough to feed Coxie's Army. When it was all set, we took off our aprons and marched outside.
The boys joked about not being hungry. Buddy even said he'd wait until we fed the babies, but we knew he was just putting on Sunday manners, and we finally persuaded them it was time to eat. Daddy said we'd say grace in the yard, since there was more room. So we all got in a circle and held hands and Daddy prayed one of the most beautiful prayers I've ever heard. He thanked God, first for Buddy being home safe and sound, and then for everything else he could think of, from the sky overhead to the fertile soil under our feet. Then we all sang Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine. We girls were teary, and it was so wonderful.
We all hugged each other and then went into the house, laughing and joking, the boys jostling each other for position. Everybody stopped short, though, at the door to the dining room. I thought they were admiring the candles and flowers and food, but I was hungry so I pushed past them and you wouldn't believe what I saw.
Old Blue was sprawled out asleep under the table, and if a dog could wear a smile, he had one. The roast, our beautiful roast beef, was gone. I'll give you three guesses where it went and the first two don't count. I yelled at that dog, called him every dirty word I'd ever heard and I think I even invented a few. He skedaddled out of there right quick. We all stood there staring, absolutely speechless. Daddy kept clearing his throat, like something was stuck way down inside.
And then Buddy started laughing. He laughed until the tears rolled down his face. Then Daddy started laughing, too. Grace laughed so hard she had to sit down.
I said I failed to see the humor in the situation. Buddy said you couldn't blame a dog for being what he was. He said some boys in Europe reminded him a lot of that dog. Grandma said we might as well eat what was there. So we did.
The potatoes were passable and the bread good and the butter was wonderful. I guess on the whole the meal was a success. An hour later we were all still sitting around the table laughing and talking. And then Daddy said we should pray again. So we all stood up and got real close to each other and he thanked God again for the day and the food and our dear Buddy being home.
Auntie, I guess the secret of this day was not the roast we didn't have, or the food we did, but that we are all together again.
Someday I'm gonna laugh about this, but not today. And I'm gonna kill that dog if he ever comes out from under the house.

Lovingly,

Your Ruby Jean

you can't judge a book by its cover

More years ago than I care to remember, back in the day when people who knew about software programming were a rather elite group, I was in Washington DC to present a design package to my customer. Three of us, my boss, another designer, and myself (the only female in the group) went to the desk at the Springfield Hilton to check in. Our flight from DFW had been delayed more than once due to weather, and we were all quite tired. The other two were making plans for meeting later on to have a drink in the lounge, but I still had to unpack and then use my collapsible traveling iron on the suit I planned to wear at the meeting the next day, and said all I wanted was to go to my room and collapse. Bill checked in, Clancy checked in, and then it was my turn. But just as I approached the desk, the clerk turned around and went to the room back behind the counter. As the elevator doors closed, Bill shouted they’d see me in the morning. And there I stood, tired, far from home, alone, ignored.

Now, I’m not normally short tempered, but my feet were beginning to feel like they’d been hours in a medieval torture device, and when the clerk had not come back in a couple of minutes, I rang the bell. He came out and looked down his nose at me and said “yes?” “I’d like to check in” I said. You should have seen his face. “Oh, I thought you were with one of those guys” he sneered. Several responses immediately came to mind, among them: “oh, yeah, they’d be likely to pick up a hooker wearing these shoes” or “don’t you think if I was with them I’d be gone by now?” or, better yet, “you obviously in your life have been associated with only one type of working girl.” But I said none of those, simply put my gold card and a copy of my room confirmation on the counter, and waited. The word “sorry” never came out of his mouth; for that matter, he didn’t act the least bit recalcitrant for his lapse in customer service, but by then all I cared about was getting a room. Finally, nerves shot, key in hand, I schlepped myself and my one carry-on to a numbered door on the second floor (which by the way was not serviced by the elevator but instead up a loooooong flight of stairs). There were bugs in the bathtub, the temperature of the water in the faucet never got beyond tepid, and when I threw the bedspread on the chair and turned back the blanket found sheets that either had not been changed since three residents ago or were totally beyond the help of even straight Clorox.

But I soldiered on, did what I had to do to get my attire ready for the next day, called the desk and asked for a wakeup, then turned on my travel alarm and set it on the bedside table. Which was a good thing, because the wakeup clerk was also the snotty desk clerk, and he exacted his revenge for my discovery of his shortcomings by not recording my request. (At the time, ironing boards and irons and hair dryers and coffee pots and bedside clocks were not standard in the rooms, so if you’ve read this far, you’ve figured out how many years ago this took place.) The rest of the trip was a success, the customer was happy, making only two minor changes to the proffered design, and three days later we were back in Dallas.

By now you’re asking yourself what’s the point of this blog entry? “There are more things in Heaven and earth, dear Horatio, than are dreamt of in our petty human philosophies.” Sometimes things are so far outside our comfort zone that their existence is hard to reconcile with day to day normal.

Looking across the group of attendees at yesterday’s DeSoto Veterans Day celebration, I realized there were two ladies sitting unaccompanied. During the hour long program the Veterans were never asked to stand for recognition, so I had no idea if the two were wives or Vets or both or simply paying their respects. The program ended, and I quickly made my way across the aisle to the woman closest to me. I discovered from her answer to my well-formed question that she was, indeed, the wife of a Veteran, but also a Vet, herself. I thanked her for her service and got a smile that will warm my heart for at least a week. How many times, I wondered, has she been recognized for her contribution to our freedom and our way of life? From the size of her hug, obviously, not a lot. (The other lady got away before I could get to her, so I do not know her story; maybe next year.)

Flash forward three hours to Champions Cove. Most of the guys there were wearing ball caps that proudly displayed their military affiliation and years of service. I do not wear a ball cap. I was never given one and frankly have not through the years been able to justify the expense of buying something, other than clothes (and SHOES), for myself alone. I do, however, at such events, wear two buttons in my left lapel, both identifying myself as a Vet. But they are both small and hard to read and, besides that, it’s not politically correct to stare at a woman’s chest. One of the residents and I were talking after the movie, and he told me a couple of things about his tour in Vietnam. To give him time to recover from a particularly intense moment, I said, “One of the things I remember most about being in Okinawa is the odor associated with the planes full of babies during the airlift. The smell of human poop is determined by what you eat, and a diet of rice and fish gives definitely different results from one of beef and corn.” He dried his eyes, laughed, and then asked, “You’re a Vet, too?” My confirmation sent us off on another tangent and it was a good five minutes before we ended our conversation and said goodbye, no longer strangers but two people sharing a common, albeit dissimilar, background.

You can't judge a book by its cover, and you can't discern a Vet by the cut of their jeans. With that in mind, on this Veteran's Day, I honor three very important people who helped shape my life. Virginia Lois Galloway Branson. Virginia (Susie) Howton Wilson. Noreen Rose Arao. Thank you. We traveled different roads, together and apart, but our journeys were similar and our destination the same. We're still here, and I am so very, very proud of you. I hope someone else this weekend will thank you for your service, but in case they don't, never doubt that you have my undying gratitude. We few, we largely unrecognized mostly forgotten but still happy few - - thank you, my sisters in arms.

five minutes - fifty years

The James Martin High School band is not just good, they're mostly great, and at times absolutely awesome. Last night's performance was one of the best.

This year's program focuses on JFK. Yes, I know I'm old. And my forgetter is way better than my rememberer. But seeing the images as they evolved on the field and hearing the music, as they segued from the Beach Boys to the Back-Bay-Harvard accent of our young President to the last poignant note of the finale, sent me back like it was yesterday, not 50 years ago.

Those fateful five minutes tick by in my head in slow motion: the office runner standing at the door to our Physics classroom and delivering the unbelievable news; Diane Whitehead's near-hysterical response; Bobby Holley's pasty white face; Doctor Youngblood allowing us sixty seconds of shock before getting us back on track with the lesson of the day (but I don't remember anything else he said). And then a few short hours later Miss Rosebud Johnson's decision that theatre tradition of our show must go on trumped grief and therefore no fall play performances would be cancelled (after all, she said, the only time the world stopped was when President Roosevelt died, and JFK was certainly no FDR). My father echoed her thoughts, saying to me that on that fateful 40's day he cried as though someone in his own family had died. His eyes and mine were dry as we watched the boots-backwards rider-less horse and black draped caisson move through the streets of DC.

Oh, there would be other events in my life that upon recollection evoke gut-deep profound sadness, chief among them Cryton and my parents and sister's home-goings, the Beirut Barracks bombing, Columbia, Challenger, and 9-11. It doesn't matter whose it is or where it comes from, pain is still pain, and all grief deserves respect. But there were too many other things going on in the fall of '63, and my world did not stop spinning. Last night, thanks to Mr. David Carbone's vision and the Martin Band's execution of same, as I drove home, I found the time to grieve.

As I write this, Slater and the band are on a bus bound for San Antonio. I wish them the best as they perform for a State-wide audience. While I know it is extremely important to them, it doesn't matter to me if they win, place, or just show up and stay on their feet. I thank them for their creativity in finding time to couple classroom studies with ten weeks of practicing from pre-dawn 'til way-past-dark, their diligence and determination to get it right, the resulting excellent performances from this band of brothers and sisters, the warriors hearts of parents and drivers and movers and stagers and fans and supporters. I thank them all for a new five minutes in my memory bank.

night of the living dead?

Over the course of the last five years we have noticed some changes to the way Halloween is celebrated (?) down here in Suthren Country. Instead of cute kids wearing homemade costumes, carrying kitchey plastic orange pumpkins, toddling along the sidewalk holding hands with each other or with a parent, we now see multitudes of teenagers, some with just a token smear of makeup on their face, but overwhelmingly without costume, who emerge locust-like from the pickup trucks and flatbed trailers that line up from one end of our street to the other, emergency flashers blazing, high-decibel bass notes thumping competitively.

The way-too-old-to-be-out-there-doing-that visitors stampede the porch, pushing roughly and often literally falling all over each other in their zeal to be first. Apparently having never heard much less uttered the phrase ‘trick or treat’ they shove either a ratty pillowcase or a dirty well-used plastic grocery store bag in my face and rudely grunt an unintelligible demand. (I have also noticed their vocabularies are totally bereft of the words ‘thank you.’)

Last year, due to the high number of walking dead, I ran out of candy just shy of the official end time, and so spent the last few minutes dispensing nickels, which by the way some sneeringly declined to accept. (Who in their right mind turns down money?) At the conclusion of the hours posted for this city I gratefully came inside, locked up, set the alarm, and turned off the front porch light. But despite the fact that there were no lamps on anywhere in the house, at ten pm we were still hearing people beating on our door, sometimes with so much force that the windows shook.

I came out the next morning to find all my decorations either broken or missing entirely, a swath of empty candy wrappers adorning the street, sidewalk, and yards, like so much flotsam after a hurricane.

I've had enough. This year I’m skipping it all together. Because the darlings tend to walk between a parked car and the garage as they rush from one residence to the next, I have told Jim to pull up as close to the house as possible when he comes home from work on Thursday. As of noon, my car will be in the garage, all my fall decorations will be down, with all the little pretty chotchkies I normally keep all year on my porch and in the yard stored for safekeeping. Way before the appointed hour we will barricade ourselves in the bedroom, hope for the best, and pray we survive unscathed.

So, my friends, say goodbye to Mister Scarecrow; his days of hanging on my door are numbered. Two, to be exact.

 

limbo

Stephanie and Elizabeth (in Elizabeth’s car) had just driven away from our meeting spot. I, in my car, with thoughts of going to JoAnn’s to try to find sewing machine suitable thread to match the mint green embroidery thread I’d bought there a few weeks ago for my latest crafty project, moved from parking space onto mall perimeter road and turned east. Suddenly, out of nowhere, CRASH!!! BAM!!!!!!! Grinding of metal on metal!!!!! I’ve been tee-boned.

Elizabeth turned her car around and they came back to the scene of the accident. I sat in the car having my first-ever-full-blown-honest-to-gosh panic attack, shaking so badly I couldn’t speak. (I’m surprised I didn’t break teeth from the ferocity of the shivers.) I put on my flashers and opened my door, but did not get out of the car.

The next several minutes are just totally gone from my recollection. But suddenly, almost before I knew it, EMS was there, Cedar Hill police and fire were there, and then three mall cops joined the swarm of red and blue flashing lights.

EMS took my blood pressure. I told him, as he put the cuff on my left arm, “I normally run about 115 over 75.” He laughed and said, “You’re gonna be a little higher than that today.” And he was right, but it was only 140 over 85, which as far as I’m concerned, speaks volumes about my health in general. Cuff off and deemed ok by my gallant first responder, I stepped out of the car. Of course I had bumps and bruises, only one of which was bothering me at the time (ALL of which reared their ugly selves in pure vengeance a long 72 hours later) but nothing that required immediate medical attention, and so I signed the release denying transport. Only then did I walk around and look at the other side of my car.

All in all, it took about 30 minutes to give my statement five times (twice to city police and three separate times to each mall cop). The chief responding city police officer gave me a card containing relevant info about the other driver.  Officer Malone, dear sweet man, even picked up the big piece of my car that was laying on the pavement, and since the passenger side doors won’t open, took it around to the driver’s side and laid it in the back seat. And let me say right here, right now, there are wonderful police all over, but Saturday in Cedar Hill I became a real fan of CHPD. And said so on Mayor Franke’s facebook page.

But back to the other driver. She was an extremely nice youngster, and I credit her not only with keeping her wits about her but also with fearlessly acting in the best interest of everyone. Sure, she caused the accident, but if you live long enough and drive long enough, you’re eventually going to be in a traffic mishap. Hanna’s parents should be proud. If she were my daughter, I certainly would be!!

Once cleared to leave the scene, Elizabeth followed me home, fearing to let me make the trip totally alone. I staved off the tears by telling myself to just keep it together, keep it together, just a few more minutes, just keep it together, repeating the mantra over and over. Wouldn’t you know, every traffic light from Uptown Village to my house was red, and Saturday afternoon traffic at its peak. The trip here seemed interminable. But we finally pulled up in the drive. After reassuring Elizabeth I did NOT want to go to a hospital, we hugged, and she was on her way. And I was into my house, strangely quiet with the television off, only the sounds of Jim snoring in the bedroom.

Called my insurance company. Of course, it being a weekend afternoon, no one was there, so left a message. And then changed my clothes. No, I did not need to put on clean underwear. Mother was wrong.

And then I just collapsed on the sofa, and sat listening to the rain, realizing how much worse things could have been, and considering the possible scenarios for my future, all of them appearing as bleak as the weather.

Monday morning made an appointment with my insurance company; two hours later all the paperwork was done as far as the State is concerned, and I had an estimate from a local body shop. Monday afternoon gave a recorded statement to the other insurance company. Tuesday morning went to the other company’s adjuster. Yep, everybody agreed, my car is totaled. Wednesday passed with no word from anyone. Ditto Thursday. Friday morning I called the other company, but of course the lady assigned to my claim was not there, and I had to leave a message. She called me three hours later and informed me that someone else was now handling the case, it’s still a matter of whether or not they want to accept liability, yada yada yada, and nothing else can be done until we get to that point. But, oh by the way, they have no idea when that might be.

It really doesn't look all that bad, and it's drivable, but the wind whistles through the cracks so loud it's hard to hear the radio unless I turn the volume up enough that I become a noise nuisance to the neighborhood, so I just don't turn it on anymore. As Jim is so fond of saying, you're not paranoid when they really are out to get you. I'm not paranoid. I'm not. But any trip I have to make now in the car is done with constant prayer that I'll get wherever I have to go safely and back home again without incident, and my nerves are shot by the time I return. I am slowly losing the soreness in my left shoulder caused by the seat belt, the bruises on my wrist and knee have turned an ugly healing brown, and the back ache can be mitigated by Aleve. But sudden noises are my undoing; a ringing phone sends me to the ceiling.

I feel victimized. Not by the other driver, but by the insurance companies. No one speaks for me. No one is my advocate. All these years paying all that money for premiums only to find out my company won’t do anything for me unless I’m willing to pay out more cash; and of course the other company’s job is to make sure they delay delay delay anything and everything for as long as possible. Maybe they all hope I’ll just go away? Or better yet, die? I’m retired and have plenty of time to take care of what I must do, but I can only imagine what a nightmare it would be if I had to go to work each day and at the same time still try to take care of a situation like this. I guess it’s my job to just sit and bide; for the rest of my life, if necessary. I am in limbo, waiting for someone, anyone, to do the right thing, and make a decision. Somebody just please tell me SOMETHING!!!!!

In light of this past week, I now understand the reasons behind the latest government shutdown. When nobody will do the right thing and everybody wants only their way and each side refuses to even talk to the other, it's the citizen in the middle who gets stuck with the pain and the suffering and the economic loss. This week I'm the guy in the middle. Today's limbo is not a good place to be. Last night I finally cried.

two seconds

Received another thank you note from Precious Granddaughter. I laughed when I read her words that she bets I’m tired of getting them. Au contraire, mon coeur. Just knowing that she felt thanks was marvelous. That she actually wrote a note by hand and put a stamp on the envelope and then got it to the post office speaks more than volumes about her caring nature.

Don’t misunderstand, I love when a thank you comes by text message, or email, but there’s something so ultra special about real mail, snail mail, call it what you will, the physical tangible kind of mail, the kind you can hold to your cheek, and smile, and say a prayer for the sender, put in a memory book, and years from now take it out and still feel the love that went into the sending.
Which is why I buy and send birthday cards. Unfortunately I learned many years ago that sending a birthday card to grandchildren means I better put a check in the envelope. At least when it’s cashed I’ll know they got it; otherwise I’ll wonder if it was received, or lays mouldering in some letter carrier’s garage.

And am I a caring person who realizes the power of those two little words? Not nearly often enough. Case in point. Was in DeSoto last week, to retrieve the Constitution Week poster at the library. Walking back to my car, remembered a July conversation at City Hall reception desk, and so dropped in just to say howdy to the wonderful woman who works at that post. Nope, no other reason, it’s just simply I know that sometimes even a job you love can be thankless, especially when it seems nobody realizes, much less cares, what you do.

With her smile in my mind, followed an elderly gentleman accompanied by a young woman (well, to me she was young) out the door. Realizing they were taking up the whole sidewalk, and that perhaps I might be in a hurry, the young woman said something like, “Daddy, let the lady by.” But I did not rush along. Instead, I walked next to them, and, seeing the logo on the ball cap he wore, asked the man, “Are you a Vet?” “Yes, ma’am!” he loudly proudly declared. And then he stopped and dug into his pocket, came out with his wallet, and showed me his VA card. “Thank you for your service!” I said. His answering smile was brilliant, but the look in his daughter’s eyes was priceless.
So how long does it take to say “thank you”? Maybe a second? If you’re Southern and drawl “thank y’all” then make it three. But no matter how long it takes, it’s worth the doing. It's the little things that count.

Of course, saying thank you isn’t the whole story. There’s a “you’re welcome” somewhere in the mix, an acknowledgement of something done and well received.

And so, to make a long story even longer, here’s the real reason for this discourse on what’s wrong (or right) with the world.

Dear sweet neighbor, whose grass I’ve been cutting every week for two months, you’re welcome. Even though you’ve never actually thanked me, you’re welcome. (Of course I realize that saying ”thank you” would mean you’d have to remove that cellular growth from your ear for two seconds. I wonder that your children ever get your attention.) But perhaps the reason you don’t say thank you is that you are not actually grateful for my service? Perhaps you look at the weed-less expanse of freshly clipped lawn and think to yourself, “damn that busybody neighbor, wish she’d just leave it, I need an excuse to get outside and away from the kids and work on my tan.” Call it second guessing, but, with that in mind, dear sweet neighbor, I will not be cutting your grass anymore.

And now, before the opportunity passes by, I'll take two seconds to go to facebook and post a big thank you to hubby for doing his own dishes two nights this week. Because it's the little things that count.

we don't always get what we want

It was summer. The one time we were all together in Birmingham. Denise and Hayes had flown in from Fort Worth, Jim and I had driven in from Wilmington. Mom suggested Jim take some photos of the four generations together. Such a good idea. We posed for a few inside, with Mom sitting in her chair in the den, but then Jim said the light would be better outside, so we all trooped out to the front porch swing.

Before we left Mom handed me an old packing box. Inside were some of her handcrafted items. Foot warmers and lap robes and baby blankets, enough for each grandchild. And a peach and ecru bookmark for me. She said I should put it in my Bible and every time I looked at it, say a prayer for her.

Also in the big box was a shoe box. Inside it was a blue plastic bag, containing more items but these she specifically said I was to hold onto until the day Haysie Daisy got married. A heavy crocheted white purse, a delicate white hand-made-lace bouquet holder, and another crocheted bookmark, but this one in white with a pale blue ribbon. She said the purse and flower holder would be the something old, and the bookmark was for Hayes’ something blue.

I took it home. And for the next twenty plus years each time we moved, from house to house, and state to state, that old shoebox was one of the things I always packed first; the last time, I put it for safekeeping in Mom’s white luggage hat box. And that’s where it stayed after we moved here from Allen, next month will be thirteen years.

Since the time she gave it to me, I added only two items to the Hayes collection: Mom’s pearl collar, and a small gold and white bride’s Bible.

Several years ago, Hayes introduced us to Alex. After we got home that same day, I took out the shoebox and showed it to Jim. I told him that if anything happened that I should not be around for the wedding (because we KNEW this was the real thing and only a matter of time) he should make sure the shoebox got to Hayes. He agreed. I wondered if he’d remember.

Earlier this year Denise and Hayes came here for a short visit. Hayes told me she and Alex had set the date. I brought down the shoebox and gave her all the things in it, still nestled in the same white tissue paper and blue plastic bag. (Mom said it had to be blue so the white things would stay white. And she was right; remarkably, all these years, they did.)

Last Friday at the wedding, I thought briefly about THE BOX, but didn't see any of the items. Oh, well. The most important thing was that I had handed them over, and it was of course Bride's choice what she did with them.

But in the middle of the reception festivities, darling granddaughter took me aside, and pulled the bookmark from inside her gorgeous wedding gown. She had worn it all night. And of course, after I’d seen it, I cried. She cried, too, and then put it back, next to her heart. 

We don’t always get what we want, but with Providence, we always get what we need.

problem part 2

To continue the previous theme. Consider the following, a play-by-play of an hour in the life of yours truly.

I’m at Brookshire’s in Red Oak, standing in the pasta aisle, looking for anchovy paste. A gentleman stops just behind me and slightly to my right and says "excuse me." My left hand clamps down on my purse, which is zipped closed, and strapped into the child carrier seat portion of the grocery cart. I look at him and he says “Where is the salad dressing?” I point up and two aisles over where a prominent sign hanging from the ceiling says SALAD DRESSING and tell him “aisle 5.” He says thank you and rapidly moves away.

I have not been able to find the item I want, and stop one of the clerks. Now, there is a large number of clerks at this particular Brookshire’s and ALL of them are aware of what the word “service” really means. (Unlike most stores these days where the clerks run the other way if they even THINK you’re getting ready to ask them a question.) The clerk I asked said she didn’t know and then recruited two more clerks to try to help me find my item. Well, unfortunately, the answer was that the store does not carry anchovy paste. So, a good ten minutes after I started my search, I thanked the three of them for their help and sailed over to the spice island, half a store away.

Standing there debating whether or not to buy the Morton & Bassett all natural salt free no msg no preservatives non-irradiated Herbs from Provence with lavender, the aforementioned “gentleman” again comes up to me and says “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m the one you helped about the salad dressing. I wonder if you could give me a jump for my car when you leave? I have the cables, I just need some juice.”

Hmmmmm. The antennae go up. “I’m sorry,” I replied. “You should probably ask somebody else, I have no idea when I’ll be ready to leave. I’m looking for ingredients for the gourmet dinner I plan to cook tonight for my husband.” Gentleman looks me straight in the face and says “Oh, yeah, well, I’ll see you later.” And then he moves away.

Antennae now are not just up, they’re waving madly. Consider that when I go shopping I am very careful about my appearance. I never wear any jewelry other than a plain wedding band and nondescript watch, am always completely covered showing as little skin as possible, do not walk with phone in hand, wear sensible shoes, and do not consider myself to have an approachable look. I have no idea why this guy is targeting me. Maybe it’s because I have predominantly gray hair and no cheetah on my back? Whatever.

But I’m on a mission, and so continue looking for, and eventually find, white pepper. Short list completed, with everything in the cart that I need for the green curry chicken and jasmine rice on the menu du jour, I head for the checkout. But not to the under 20 line.

This is a “green” store and I always take my own bags; not only does it help the environment, it gives me a five cent cash credit for each bag the store does not have to furnish; also, although there is always carry-out staff on duty, I normally tote my own, and usually go to Lisa’s register. Today, however, I’m deviating from the norm and go through a full service line. When it’s my turn, I tell the casher, “I’m going to need David today.” She nods, rings up my items, and while I’m writing a check for purchase (not because I didn’t have the cash, but to prolong the time I’m there) David comes in from his latest trip to the parking lot. Cashier tells him I want him to take my stuff out. Of course he’s ready and willing.

Having been not just a loyal customer but a real fan for the past several years, I know most of the staff by name, and they know me. The lady in charge of the bakery and I talk about croissants; the lady in the meat market and I share recipes for pork tenderloin; the guys in the produce section talk with me about when to use butter lettuce and when to use iceberg; the store managers always ask what I’m cooking today. I consider all of these my friends, and maintain there’s a lot to be said for shopping in your own neighborhood.

Even though our normal interaction involves little more than casual comments about the Red Oak football team, that latest Cowboys faux pas, A&M’s Johnny (you get the picture), as David and I leave the store, I relate to him what has happened over the course of the last 30 minutes. I laugh and remark that I’m probably just being paranoid. He smiles and gently puts his big hand on my shoulder, and says, “Ms Thibodeau, I’ll go with you any time, you don’t need a reason.” He stows my two bags in the trunk of my car, stands there until I lock my doors and start the engine, and then waves as I drive away.

All the way home I constantly check the rearview mirror to see who is following. Because if there’s anything suspicious, I’m not stopping at my house but driving straight to city hall (a block farther up the street). No one behind me, I turn in to my drive and then, in what over time has become normal practice, sit in the car, engine running, for a few more minutes, just to make sure. Nope, I’m safe at home. Later that night, I tell hubby the story. He says, “You’re not being paranoid if they’re really out to get you.”

OK, so call me crazy. Call me paranoid. But don’t call me irresponsible. It’s my job to take care of myself. And, with a little help from my friends, this is how I roll.

what's the problem?

So the bad news is, hubby went out to get into the truck Tuesday morning, on the way to work, and discovered some unknown individual had during the previous night tried to break into the vehicle. Despite the motion detector flood lights on our garage, the rear window had been pried open, to the point it was almost completely off track. But the good news is, evidently, the perp saw the prominent yellow anti-theft device on the steering wheel; or perhaps the alarm served as the deterrent; whatever the reason, said individual evidently decided it was just too much trouble, and went away without actually breaking the window.

 

There have been other incidents through the years we’ve lived here in Suthren Country. The main example is, while hubby was away on military duty, several Sunday mornings I went out to go to church and discovered my car had overnight mysteriously developed a flat tire. No, not slashed, or harmed irreparably to the point of having to buy a new one, the air had simply been let out. Now, how did I know that was the problem? Because each time I also discovered that the cap that twists onto the valve stem had been replaced and twisted on too tight, and as a result was broken. I took to keeping cans of flat fix in the car and in the garage, purchased a portable tire inflator, and bought a couple of packages of valve stem caps at the local auto parts store. And learned to never try to leave late for church. Ha!!

The incidents stopped when I began parking my car differently, so that all sides of it were prominently visible in the light of previously mentioned garage floods. Oh, by the way, the other thing I discovered was that on all the nights when the incidents occurred, someone had also broken the closest street lamp. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Maliciously broken street lights are not only bad for our city budget, but make it harder for the local police patrol to spot potential problems. Which, of course, was the whole idea.

 

What constitutes terrorism? Anything that makes me afraid to live my life normally. Anything that has the potential for harm to my life or my property is, as far as I’m concerned, a terrorist act. But how do you combat the unknown? Constant vigilance is the only answer. I must always be aware of the possibility that somebody out there somewhere has no respect for me or mine. Hyper awareness is no longer hype, it’s the norm.

habu

Saw a recent local news report about a youngster who got into an automobile and not only started the engine but put the vehicle in gear and subsequently ran over and killed a sibling. The incident ended only when the vehicle crashed into a neighbor’s fence. The parents and grandparents were devastated. A neighbor, when interviewed by the bleed-lead roving reporter, could only shake his head and wonder how such a thing could happen. For me, the question was answered within 24 hours.

Elizabeth and I had planned that I would pick her up for one of our DAR-related outings, but as it happened, she was already out and about and at the last minute decided to come by here and let me ride with her. She pulled her car into my drive, but because we have two vehicles, there wasn’t enough space for her to pull in entirely, and so her car was catywampus across the sidewalk with the rear of the caddie sticking out into the street.

As I walked to her car, I noticed an SUV parked in front of my neighbor’s house. Two adult neighbors and a visiting adult woman were standing on the sidewalk, visiting woman handing money to neighbor woman.

Just as I opened the door to Elizabeth’s car, I heard the SUV engine rev, incredibly loud and horribly up close, and three adults yelling “NO!! NO!! NO!!”

Seems visiting mama had left a toddler alone in the SUV. With the motor running. And toddler, being a normal toddler, decided to play. And so he was out of the child restraint seat, and into the front, and then down into the floorboard, and onto the accelerator.

Standing there between the two vehicles, the sound of that engine roaring in my ears, my mind barely had time to register what was happening, much less consider a means of escape.

I threw myself into Elizabeth’s car and slammed shut the front door. Now, frankly, a Cadillac is one of the better made cars on the market and heavier than almost all other passenger vehicles, but that one door would have provided very little protection if the SUV had rocketed forward.

Looking in that direction, I saw SUV mama pull the curly-headed tot out onto the sidewalk with her. Oh, by the way, mama did not kill the engine.

Elizabeth looked at me with ashen face (probably only a shade or two lighter than my own), and we just sat there for a minute, both of us shaking with a combination of fear and relief. I don’t know what she was actually thinking at the time, and I honestly don’t remember my thoughts for those few seconds, but finally, she looked at me and said, “I guess we better get out of here before they really do run us over.”

And that’s how it can happen, just that lightning quick, just that potentially lethal. I can see the headlines now - - SUV morfs into habu.

me-me-my-my-now

Did you ever have the opportunity to watch a baby chicken hatching? Did you, like me, the first time feel so sorry for the chick that you helped it out of its shell? And then did you watch it die? The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Only by allowing the chick to struggle does it gain the strength to live.

For the past several days I have been throwing leftover bread (bagels, English muffins, wheat toast, pizza crust, etc.) into the back yard. Rather than watch it mold, and knowing that it will not be eaten, I had the choice of either bagging the stuff and putting it in the freezer or letting it “do some good.” And so the crows became quite used to visiting my back yard each morning for breakfast. Imagine my surprise when, on day four, even with no more bread for their consumption, they still gathered in the yard and sat expectantly waiting for their handout. Now, crows are not dumb, actually one of the smartest in the avian kingdom. When they had been there for several minutes and no food appeared, they set up a hue and cry, raucous as only crows can be. It took a while for them to decide there were no goodies forthcoming, and they finally flew away en masse.

Recently my friend recommended to me the book “Toxic Charity.” In it, the aspect of focusing on material handouts is explored. It seems we, in our efforts to be the good guys and help those less fortunate than ourselves, actually have created a generation of people who are so dependent on welfare and the kindness of strangers that they have become not only unwilling to work but no longer consider themselves able to work. Getting out and finding a job has become anathema to their mindset, choosing instead to allow others to pay their light bills each month and furnish school uniforms and supplies and meals for their children. I’m not talking about the one-time thing from a parent who was laid off and simply is not capable this year of buying those things – I’m talking about the folks who were admitted to the list one year, and then, every subsequent year, show up at the giveaways rather than budgeting for the expenses they know the children will incur. OK, I’ll admit it, I happen to think school uniforms are a huge mistake, but then, this is my blog and that’s my opinion.

I am also reminded of a charity I was blessed to be a part of several years ago that handed out brown bags to the needy of a certain community. And not just a brown bag with a banana and a sandwich for lunch, but first a nice sit-down breakfast FOLLOWED by grocery-size brown bags containing enough food to get the individual by for a week. I discovered that several of the participants were stopping outside and breaking down the food packets, some taking all of one item, others taking all of another, totally defeating the whole concept of healthy balanced meals planned by our resident nutritionist. A couple of months later, these same participants went to the director and complained that they didn’t like dried beans and felt something else should be substituted. The director patiently listened to the complaint and said, “Ok, we can see about getting a substitute item, what would you recommend?” Well, no one was vocal about what they’d rather have, but with careful questioning the director elicited the response that they didn’t want those old dried beans that you had to soak overnight in water and then spend a few hours cooking; come down to it, they didn’t want food you had to cook at all, they wanted gift certificates to area fast food restaurants.

Oh, yeah, that’s exactly what expanding waistlines and soaring blood pressure counts and diabetic occurrences need – high cholesterol high sodium high sugar empty calorie fast food. Despite the good intentions of the staff, the malcontents soon demanded and got a meeting with the director’s boss, laying out their complaints, and explaining that their wants and needs were simply not in line with the offering of the program. The staff met several times, trying to figure out a way to do exactly what the whiners wanted, but there was just no way. When informed of the decision, one of the unhappy people said they’d get a lawyer and sue the whole shebang, and then they’d see what was what and who was most important. The upshot was that within 6 months the entire program had been shut down. No lawsuit resulted, of course.

The crows flew away. Likewise, the malcontents moved on to greener pastures. And the community, sadly, no longer has an outreach. But that’s just the price of doing business in a me-me-my-my-now-now world.

bad day for varmints

At wally world this morning, I thanked my cashier for working today and then pushed my cart toward the doors closest to my car. Just ahead of me walked a gentleman, ubiquitous cell phone embedded in his ear, accompanied by a teenage boy pushing a cart containing a few items but for the most part totally occupied by two toddler girls. At the cart corral, as I always do, I turned to smile at the greeter and wish her a good morning. She returned my smile and wished me a blest day. The other customers continued through the almost imperceptible scanner posts and toward the exit door. Suddenly all hell broke loose. A young(ish) female dressed in running shoes and sweats took the left while a young(ish) man, similarly attired, took the right, flanking the previously mentioned quartet just inside the doors, and totally blocking the exit. Another woman immediately in front of me stood as we watched the dynamic running shoes duo begin to question the teenage boy. The words, for the most part, were quiet and almost totally unintelligible but I did distinctly hear running shoe guy say to teenage guy “Let me see what’s in your pockets.” By this time there were others in line behind me, all we like sheep queued up for the door marked “exit.” The greeter came to me and said in a quiet voice, “Ma’am, you can go out the other door, if you wouldn’t mind.” Well, of course I didn’t mind, but as I pushed off in that direction had to wait for yet another group coming in the “enter” door before I could continue on my way.

Now, I knew, and I’m sure you did, too, that almost all stores these days have scanners at the doors, meant to pick up on security devices not properly disabled by a cashier. But did you know that wally world now employs plain clothes security? Nope, me neither. Not until today.

On the way home I happened to notice four separate locations where skunk road kill wafted dead but still pungent aromas toward the sky.

On the whole, I’d say it was a bad day for varmints in Desoto.

on y va

In every heart there is a room,

A sanctuary safe and strong,

To heal the wounds from lovers past

Until a new one comes along.

I spoke to you in cautious tones;

You answered me with no pretense.

And still I feel I said too much -

My silence is my self-defense.

Yet every time I’ve held a rose

It seems I only felt the thorns.

And so it goes, and so it goes,

And so will you soon, I suppose,

But if my silence made you leave

Then that would be my worst mistake.

So I will share this room with you

And you can have this heart to break.

And this is why my eyes are closed;

It’s just as well, for all I’ve seen.

And so it goes, and so it goes,

And I'm the only one who knows.

So I will choose to be with you

(That’s if the choice were mine to make).

But you can make decisions, too,

And you can have this heart to break.

And so it goes, and so it goes,

And you’re the only one who knows.

put up or shut up?

Anybody past the age of 10 undoubtedly has said or done something at one time or another in their life that, looking back, causes them shame. What gets me is that sometimes people who were raised in a particular culture can be terribly unforgiving of someone raised in another culture. In the South, prior to Wallace’s school-house-door-stand, our way of life was not just a way of life but so deeply ingrained that reactions to stimuli were done without blinking, much less thinking, about why we did what we did, or said what we said.

In one of our treasured few alone times, Dad had told me about his upbringing in rural Alabama. He was not a bad man, by any stretch of the imagination, but he said there were things in his past that he deeply regretted, particularly the way he, as a teenager, had interacted with “persons of color.” He very carefully described to me how his actions, upon reflection, caused him mental anguish, and I took it all to heart, especially when he told me that the color of a person’s skin had nothing to do with the color of their heart, and that the black race was not the Mark of Cain, but an environmental evolution. Unfortunately, Mom did not share those opinions in their entirety. Having been a servant/slave herself, I understood why the chalk on our back fence meant transients could safely knock on our door and get a handout, that we had charity for those in less fortunate circumstances. The charity, however, did not extend to everyone. When I was twelve, she commented about the black gentleman going through our trash can in the alley, and told me to demand he leave. I responded with the sure and certain fact that there was nothing wrong with what he was doing, that he deserved a chance. She was incensed at my temerity, and demanded again I tell him to leave. My refusal to obey was accompanied by the further thought that I didn’t understand her, as she was no better than that man. Through livid lips she sent me into exile. When brother came home, he noticed, and asked, “What did she do this time?” Mom’s answer did not exactly sit well with Bro, and he tried to defend me, saying “Well, you know, that’s what they’re teaching in school these days.” Being politically correct was not an acceptable excuse. When Dad got home, her lecture to him about his daughter’s disrespect resulted in the last time he ever raised his hand to me, but with each lash, I saw his tears, and I knew the whipping really did hurt him more than it hurt me. I came to understand that it was not so much what I had said to Mom but the way I had said it.

A few days later, Dad commented, in a quiet aside, “You know, most people would actually rather have a hand up than a hand out.” I knew what he meant, having seen his equal opportunity employment practices in action way before the rest of the chamber of commerce caught up. I think it was only natural that when an article about the deplorable conditions in 60’s Birmingham appeared in Life magazine, I wrote a letter to the editor. Surprisingly enough, considering my age, they considered it for publication. But, also because of my age, I suspect, they sent a letter giving the schedule for when it would appear in print. Keep in mind, any mail coming to our house was opened prior to the recipient seeing it. “What did you write to them?” mom yelled! “I told her about the article I had seen in the magazine in the school library, and said my response was a firsthand agreement with their take on current race relations in our fair city. You don’t even want to know the punishment I got about that particular disgrace. Mom said "somebody" would burn a cross on our lawn. Dad was more worried "somebody" would burn down our house. A quick telegram to the publishers resulted in the letter getting into print but credited to an anonymous source (yes, they could do that back in those days). I kept the letter and that particular edition of the magazine for years, knowing that in my heart I was right. I also learned that no matter the intent, sometimes actions have repercussions transcending a good heart. For the remainder of the years I lived in that house, I walked in two worlds, the one outside our home and the one inside the walls.

Fast forward fourteen years. One fine morning in Basic Training, the instructor of the hour said, “OK, all of you who are colored stand up.” Six black sisters and I rose to our feet. The incredulous sniggers from a couple of them was quickly quieted, however, when the instructor then said, “OK, all of you who are transparent stand up.” The seven of us were told to sit down. And then the instructor said, “OK, let’s try it again. All of you who are colored stand up.” Everyone in the room immediately rose.

So where’s this all leading? Sometimes it’s better to stand up and be heard, but other times it’s better to sit down and be quiet. Paula, Paula, Paula, you shoulda quit while you were ahead.

ghosts

Woke to the sound of Ernie’s tag rattling in the garage, a precursor to the previously ubiquitous bark. But not so. Instead it was the guy next door fumbling his keys and getting into his truck to answer an early morning work call. Guess that proves one of two things, either the mind has a tendency to recall deeply ingrained patterns even when the stimulus is not actually present, or it’s really, really quiet in our hood at 3 am.

Still sometimes feel the non-existent touch of a little paw and the sound of “mom-mom-mom” in my ear. I’m amazed at how empty my days now seem. Still go about the normal routines of vacuuming, dusting, laundry, dry cleaners, groceries, meals, DAR projects, lawn mowing, hedge trimming, moving the garbage/recycle containers to the street and back, etc., but I had not until now realized just how much of my life was involved, one way or another, with kitty, and how many hours I was actively engaged in his care. When I get so lonesome I could cry and miss the three amigos so very much, I go into the kitchen and make something irresistibly yummy and incredibly complex and exhaustingly time-consuming, and by the time I’ve finished I’m so tired I’m ready for nothing more energy-consuming than a game of sofa solitaire. Which, by the way, I didn’t play much in the past few years because KTT always wanted to lay on top of the cards. He had a thing about paper.

A couple of my friends regularly bombard my fb page with entreaties from animal shelters in the Tri-State area, particularly those babies left behind after recent devastations in Texas and Oklahoma. I am aware of how great is the need for adoption, but, honestly, looking at the faces of some of those dear little ones just makes me want to cry or go curl up with my head under the covers and sleep until the feeling passes. The heart wants what the heart wants but the brain knows I’m not capable right now of making the commitment. When I adopt it doesn’t mean just emptying a litter box at least once every day, or putting out food and water on a regular basis, or making time daily to toss a ball in the back yard, or attaching the leash and putting on my shoes and walking around the block twice until puppy finds a spot suitable to his liking. For me it’s more than just paying a few bucks and coming home with a pet; it’s adding another member to the family.

All things considered, just for today, I’ll settle for the ghost dog in the garage.

mindful of quotes

At 2 am Friday the brain popped into gear and I began flipping through the TV program guide (you know, the sort of mindless activity you do when you haven't yet decided if you're actually going to get out of bed or if turning over and going back to sleep is a viable option), and there it was, a rerun of The Closer. And the story line? A brand new kitten, named Joel, brought to Brenda Lee her by her loving husband, Fritz, to replace the recently departed Kitty in her life.

I immediately put the TV on mute, and then swung my feet over, automatically looking first to ensure I didn't step on KTT, same as I have every morning for the last 18 years, but, of course, he wasn't there. And never will be again. But the coincidence was not lost on me, and it made me wonder if perhaps the universe is telling me I was too hasty in saying "never."

But, no, despite my intense yearning for another pet to share my world, it's just not feasible this year. We want to go to San Diego for G’s USMC celebration. Travel plans will be so much easier if there is no little buddy at home to arrange for.

Got up Sunday morning and, in the dim nightlight, as I made my way from bedroom to kitchen, spotted a mound on the floor behind Jim’s chair. I immediately wondered what KTT was doing there. Not kitty, of course, only an Army helmet, left there on Saturday night. An hour later, as Jim was filling the cooler with ice and bottles of water for another fun-filled day with The Guard (yeah, right, I hear you), I pointed at the helmet and relayed the thought sequence to him. He said, yes, he keeps expecting KTT to jump on the bed in the middle of the night. Drat!!

So what have I learned this past week? I can put on my shoes by myself. I can clip my toenails without help. Empty laundry baskets, sadly, stay that way for quite some time. Long years of training still find me getting up at oh dark thirty, even tho there’s no kitty or puppy to feed - and love. My daytime hours are spent in the quietest house in the world.

As is normal for me when I write this blog, quotes from other way more astute authors come to mind. In particular, from a favorite novel: McCrae looked at Captain Call and said, “It’s been quite a party.” But even better, from Dr. Seuss, “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

valiant to the end

And so today we at our house end an era. Eighteen years ago someone threw into our Hampstead yard a five-week-old kitten. Jim loudly proclaimed he was allergic to cats. But I had prayed for one. And, oh, thank you, Saint Francis, look at my answer. A kitty that grew, and GREW, AND GREW. We soon learned that climbing the outside trellis was not exactly hazardous to his health but certainly taxing to mine. And so he came inside, never again to venture out into the green, green grass of our two homes.

An alarm clock that never needed winding, and could not be silenced without actually rising from my bed, whether I wanted to or not, and heading for the kitchen to put a fresh can of drek into a little blue bowl. He acknowledged no calendar, week days and week ends were all the same. For four years, he was the only thing during the week that made me speak aloud. Heck, if it hadn’t been for kitteh, I’d have had no conversation at all except for Sunday School and Church. In those days, when no one cared if I was alive or dead, much less bothered to even check on me, my precious little ball of purr gave me a reason to keep on keeping on. He kept me warm on winter nights as he cuddled next to me, a veritable miniature furnace. Three or four times each day he demanded I stop whatever I was doing and take care of his needs. “FEED ME, SEYMOUR” comes readily to mind. And each evening, if I dared be late to bed, he would (not so) gently nudge me in that direction.

When Jim came home from deployments and resumed lead dog status, Lucky was not exactly happy with having to move from pillow to bottom of the bed, but did so, grudgingly, only occasionally taking retribution with a nip on the toes of any unsuspecting foot. (That’s about the time he became known in my blog as Kitty The Terrible, or KTT for short.)

Anytime I came in the door, whether it was after five minutes of checking the mail, four hours of buying groceries, or three days of a trip to the Border, he acted as if I’d been gone two weeks. It was always walking with me, step by step, between my feet, anywhere I went; jumping into my arms whenever I sat down; anything he could do to affirm his devotion and command my complete attention. I guess that’s what I’ll miss the most, someone to say “hey, I’m glad you're back, where’ve you been?”

Damn but I hate this.

He never tore up anything in the house, but he did have a penchant for throwing up on any freshly-vacuumed rug. And I have the scars to prove how deeply claws can delve into flesh when the wheels of the office chair rolled over an unsuspecting tail. But on the whole, it was a mutually enjoyable experience. He because he got to rule the big house, me because I got to call him lil’ buddy.

Last night I put him up onto the bed next to me, and we sat in companionable silence for about an hour, me gently scratching his noggin, he laying barely breathing in his accustomed place at my left side. Every now and then, this no longer most vocal of cats would turn his head and look at me and utter just a tiny pitiful mew. I could only tell him things would be better in the morning. Finally, he stood, legs trembling with the Herculean effort, and asked to get down on the floor.

Water bowls placed conveniently all over the house went unnoticed the last 24 hours, litter box unused since Sunday, food and treat bowls untouched since Saturday. Yes, it was time. I had given him permission to go on whenever he saw fit, but he held back. Why, I don’t know.

Around 5:30 this morning Jim gently put him into the carrier, and closed but did not lock the door. Lucky stayed right there, never moving from the playroom turned sanctuary. Just before Jim walked out the door, I said, “Tell him goodbye.” Through tears he shed unashamedly, Jim said, “I don’t want to.” And then he hurried to the truck and joined the daily commute, secure in the knowledge that I would take care of things after he left. Just as I did with Bert, and two years later, Ernie. Somehow, it seems a lifetime ago.

Damn, I hate being the responsible adult.

Prince Valiant was not exactly a prince about his going, but he most definitely was valiant. Trust me, he did not go gently into that good night. It took both a doctor and a technician at VCA DeSoto to effect the result; but they are loving, and kind, and respectful of the will to live, and I knew from experience they were the ones to be trusted with the task.

I hope that when it is my time to go, someone will be as loving and kind and respectful of my wishes not to prolong the inevitable. To that end, I have exacted a promise from a friend to make it so, and have absolute and complete trust it will be as I desire.

Returning home, I put the empty carrier, two 25-lb boxes of litter, and two bags chock full of food and treats next to the garage door. (Jim will take it all to work tomorrow and give to a co-worker.) And then I vacuumed the floor, and laundered the sofa cover and bed scarf, removing all traces of kitty hair from the house. Emptied, for the last time, the big litter box with the filters on top, then put it out on the curb for someone in the neighborhood to take. Bagged up all his toys, his two combs, his three brushes, and placed it out of sight in the garage. Next to the bag of Ernie toys, still sitting mute witness to a love that does not die but simply moves from one plane to another. They may be gone from my physical presence, but there are indelible footprints on my heart.

I need to mow the lawn, but that mindless chore would only mean another hour to dwell in the past, and think of other days, happier times. We have no plans to add another little friend to our household this year, or any other year, for that matter, but I cannot, as yet, bear to give any of them away.

No, sweet friends, do not even suggest it. There can be no replacement. I will take time to grieve, for, indeed, that is my right. If counseling has taught me anything at all it is that it’s ok to be wherever I’m at whenever I’m there. And that times like these are never gotten over, but simply gotten through.

After I returned from Ernie’s transition, I blogged “Stop All The Clocks.” Today, lines learned (can it be?) fifty years ago in high school English Lit classes come to mind, just as the late Miss Ann Moon and the late Mrs. Leona Skelton told me they would. And so I place them here, as epitaph to my now departed fine furry feline friend.

“Now cracks a noble heart – good night, Sweet Prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 5, Scene 2