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Season Changes

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I have been home, recovering from surgery, for two months. While recuperating, I realized that life has continued and my lack of participation has not stopped the march of time. I missed the end of the summer season. The farm stands that offered corn, watermelon and cantaloupes now are full of pumpkins and squash.  The lush green canopy of trees have become swirling red, yellow and orange leaves, providing a colorful carpet upon the ground. There have even been changes in my personal life. Prior to returning to work I decided it was time for a new hair style. I am now revisiting my short and curly look. There is one more obvious change in my life; for the first time in over thirty five years, I have no cat underfoot.

I don’t plan on making this a memorial to Scout, but I do want to share a bit about her. When I purchased my home eighteen years ago, she turned up in my yard. Whenever I was outside she would be there, bouncing and jumping around. For being such a tiny kitten she was spending her time with the big cats as part of a feral colony. I was not looking for another cat as I already had two residing with me. I reconsidered when thinking about the age of one, who was nineteen at the time. I thought for sure I would lose her sometime in the near future and rescuing Scout would allow me to return to life with two cats again. My elderly cat lived to see twenty two. For several years I was the crazy cat lady with three cats.  

Scout spent years unapologetically continuing to show her feral roots. She was often referred to as the invisible cat as she would make herself scarce if I had visitors. During her life with me she shared space with a total of three other different cats and she was left when it was time for each of them to cross the Rainbow Bridge. For the last two years of her life, she was my “one and only” and she easily adapted to life without competition for food and affection. She finally came out of her shell and acknowledged that she was comfortable with receiving attention from my guests. In the past two months, as I recuperated, she had been my constant companion. I noticed her weight loss but attributed it to the fact that she had reached the age of eighteen and time was taking its toll.

I think that there is something to human psychology and spending time together that has you overlook gradual changes. Those who have not seen someone for a period of time can readily pick up on them. Scout continued to lose weight and her appetite increased. I didn’t initially notice as she maintained her normal routine. She would wake me each morning and would talk to me as she led me into the kitchen. She was affectionate as ever and I would pet her, listen to her purr but I could feel her bones under her skin. Her coat remained shiny and silky. A vet visit confirmed that her organs were well but she had developed a mass. I knew that a tough decision lay ahead of me. I resented the fact that I had to return to work. If I remained home I could monitor her and not feel like I was cutting her life short.

I finally came to the conclusion that I was denying the true state of her health and wasn’t doing her any favors by not taking the responsible steps. I continued to vacillate until the final moments. Once she was gone I realized that I had a sense of relief. She loved me unconditionally and trusted me. For years she knew she would be fed and the litter box would be clean. She knew she would be safe, warm and loved. This was the final step in our relationship. The change I dreaded has happened and I go on. There is positive side, I realize that the loss of Scout allows me to offer a safe haven to another homeless cat in the future. I also recognize there is a greater lesson. Sometimes the changes we dread the most, propel us to a new environment filled with opportunity and unexpected rewards and goodness. The loss of a loved one creates a figurative void in our hearts. I have come to understand that grief can expand your heart to a point that it feels like it will burst. It feels as if it has been stretched, creating an even larger void.  When the time is right, there is a possibility that we can be blessed by something else that will fill that void. It won’t be the same, nor should it. As we continue to live and breathe, our hearts are still beating and capable of love. It’s up to us to be open to it.

My Grandfather’s Legacy

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Some of the fondest memories of my grandfather are the two of us comfortably seated in the overstuffed swivel rocker in the living room. My father had reupholstered it in an Americana pattern that was popular at the time. I would be sitting in my grandfather’s lap and he would recite humorous verses keeping time with the rocking. He had made the move to live with us. How wonderful was that, to have a grandparent full time to love and entertain you?  It was wonderful until I became a teenager and resented having an additional disciplinarian in the house. I suppose it was a rite of passage but one I have grown to regret.

I question why I didn’t appreciate the courageous man he was, while in my youth. It was hard for me to imagine him as a teenager, bravely coming to America from Italy. I recall the stories he told me about his ventures in his new country. I enjoyed the humorous nature of his tales. He and his brother had lived in the attic of a boarding house. One night during a storm, an icy mixture came through the window close to where my grandfather laid his head. The next morning he couldn’t move and quickly realized his hair was frozen to the bed frame. He was both resilient and feisty. He also had shared the story surrounding one of his first jobs. While working in the tin factory, there was a movement to unionize the workers. It was during this period he found himself cornered in an elevator with an imposing and threatening figure. This intimidating man asked him if he was for or against unionization. Not knowing which side this individual was on, but thinking quickly on his feet, my grandfather replied that he “no spoke the English”.

At a certain point in his life, the challenges he faced became much more difficult. Married and blessed with two daughters he would lose his wife and newborn son within a week of each other. Finding love again, he was to become a widower once more shortly thereafter when leukemia claimed his second wife. For the next 50 years he would make his journey without a life partner. There might have been a time when he was bitter but that was not present in the man I knew.

Some of the memories I have remain so clear. He could peel fruit with the precision of a surgeon. He enjoyed gathering with his friends for a Sunday afternoon game of pinochle. After dinner he would often have a cup of coffee with a drop of anisette. These were the things that one would know from sharing the same living space but there were other things that I wouldn’t have known without some prompting. I was given an assignment in a public speaking course while in college. We were tasked with interviewing an individual who had experienced a historical event or timeframe. I will always be grateful for my wise instructor who ultimately would give me the best of all gifts.  By choosing my grandfather as the subject matter I learned a part of my family history that might have gone unspoken and unknown. My grandfather’s family lived in the Marquis’ house, located in an olive grove by the Adriatic Sea. My grandfather claimed that it was “devilishment” that had him immigrate to the States. I had a great aunt that lost her life during a bombing in World War II. None of this would have been known to me without asking. I have the good fortune of still being in possession of that cassette tape from long ago.

You might be wondering what the point is, beyond my fond memories of Grandpop. I have come to learn that everyone has a story. There are those who quietly relish the idea of having someone show an interest and ask what that story might be. There are things I will never know about my family’s heritage. So much that I could of, would of, should of plagues me. I suggest you ask for those stories; listen to those tales. Once that voice is permanently silenced it will be too late. What “devilishment” is just below the surface waiting to be uncovered?

Morning Ritual

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I have never been a morning person. I do feel that it might be more pronounced now than when I was younger. I am not an early riser and I need an alarm. That doesn’t necessarily mean that I am ready to roll out of bed when it sounds and announces that I have a schedule to keep. If I had to place blame why I have an aversion to get moving in the morning I would suggest it might be that mentally I am ready for retirement. I have grown weary of trading my time for others daily and long for the day that it will truly be just that, my time.

Currently my commute takes a bit over half an hour. Where some might deal with the congestion of an interstate or metropolitan area, I cross a mountain. I have had to find a way to create a positive mindset that would have me arrive at work ready to meet the day. This is especially important when I find myself behind farm equipment or a tractor trailer that crosses the mountain at 20 mph. Those are the days that I must convince myself that going so slowly offers me a better chance to appreciate the surrounding scenery. In order to endure the trip, I have devised a morning routine. Although my plan is personal to me, I am not embarrassed to admit what I do to keep my mood in check. I have devised this over time and it was so subtle in its inception that I didn’t initially realize that I had established a ritual.

My success has come from recognizing what puts a smile on my face. Once established, those were the things I began to look for as I made my trek toward the mountain. It begins with my neighbor walking his dog. He has a joyful countenance about him and always crosses to the other side of the street when he sees me coming. I am sure he does that to maintain a modicum of safety although my driving has never endangered him. We both smile and wave. Toby, his golden retriever, wears a smile on one end and a constantly wagging tail on the other. Once beyond my neighborhood and jetting down the main drag, I encounter Richard the waver. He lives in a mobile home along the way and has a great deal of time on his hands as his disability has kept him out of the workforce. He can be found on his porch, waving to all the passing vehicles. If the weather is frigid he can be found wrapped in a Sherpa blanket with it fashioned as a hood over his head for warmth. Warmer weather has him sitting, sans shirt, wearing a pair of sunglasses. Days that I think it might be too dark for him to see me wave back, I will tap my horn.

Next I move beyond the human element and focus on all creatures great and small. It’s not enough to watch for animals but I have gone even further and bestowed various monikers upon them. I start with a horse that I have named appropriately, Old Paint. His dappled coat blends with the mottled wall of an outbuilding where he poses while soaking up the morning sun. Across the road I look for a tuxedo kitty in the picture window. One morning I noticed Kitty outside, pawing at a door. It had the frantic look of an indoor cat that accidently found itself outside. After witnessing the cat’s unfortunate plight it felt natural to turn an eye toward the house on my daily trip. It’s rare that I don’t find this same cat perched in the window with a curtain backdrop. Rounding out my journey toward the mountain is the appearance of Blackie. Lacking any originality, I’ve named a black cat that I see on the porch of a white farm house. There appears to be a feeding station set up for the various cats residing on the farm but Blackie is the cat that catches my eye. It also makes me smile as that was my father’s nickname and I wonder how he would feel having a cat named for him.

At this point you might be wondering why I unabashedly shared this somewhat absurd activity with you. Do I find going to work such a depressing event that I must distract myself? No, it’s not so terrible but truthfully I would rather wake up on my own and spend my time writing, reading or doing something else creative with my hands. Since employment is the reality, and I am grateful for the income, I like to take it up a notch, again to make the day start in a positive mode. This is my way of making that proverbial lemon aid out of lemons. It’s not a bad habit to have, seeing the good in any event that might seem challenging or unpleasant. Life is too short to wallow in the mire. I suggest that the practice of seeking joy will improve the quality of life. If you don’t believe me, start naming random animals and see what it does for your demeanor.