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

ready . . . aim

In this Country anyone accused of a crime deserves a fair and impartial trial. Not only deserves one, our Constitution guarantees it.

A suspect has the right to actually see their accuser, and question same (along with their motives). Innocent until proven guilty is our standard. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed for you; maybe not the best lawyer in the world but still legal representation, and furnished free of charge. And in my humble opinion, better a thousand guilty go free than one innocent be incarcerated.

All that being said, providing aid and/or comfort to the enemy is treason. Shooting unarmed civilians, without provocation, is murder. Plain and simple. Doesn’t matter the motivation of the perp, treason and murder are crimes, and punishable to the full extent of the law.

But sometimes it seems our society has lost sight of achieving what should always be the end result of every legal proceeding: justice for all. Including the victims of such crimes.

In gardens where these dead lay interred, the very stones cry out for retribution. And I volunteer for firing squad duty.