By the almanac, yesterday and today were good days for destroying noxious growth. I pulled some weeds and cut some vines and tree branches that were growing all over the top of my Simpson's Stoppers. That corner of the yard is one of my favorites for window meditation and I am not to be defeated by wild grapevines and smilax.
The next two days are for destroying weeds, not the best vibe for working with background to Camus' The Stranger, but I'll approach it with the idea that we are cutting through the myths of cultural isolation that surround the novel. The weeds I would like to destroy are the notion that Meursault has no emotions, thanks to Spark Notes, ahem, and the identification of Camus as a French writer whose novel happens to be set in Algiers, a very French place with some Arabs, rather than Algiers, a very north African place with some French transplants going about their daily lives. Thus the tension.
As I look at the almanac prognostication for the week ahead, I see that the week builds up to fertile days that I hope will give us a leg up into the senior oral commentaries the first week in March. I also notice that Daytona Bike Week is not until the second week in March, so there is hope that I could go to the vintage races and see the hand-shifters working their elbows around the third curve. That would mean taking a day off work, which I never do any more for anything but my beautiful niece and nephew, Martha age 3 1/2 who just last weekend pooped on the big person's potty, and Sacha age 1 1/4 who has trumped his already physically precocious sister's deadlines for crawling and walking. Nobel prizes to come.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Flying saucers
Two weeks ago, ten saucers arrived in the post. They are Wedgwood Stonehenge Midwinter, a plain white stoneware from the 1960's that was my mother's everyday ware also. It was still in production when I set up housekeeping in the 1980's, but no longer. It came in other colors, I found out later, and I have collected a few serving pieces and party plates from the Sun pattern as well.
I ordered the saucers when I realized, with horror, that I was down to six. My mother advised me to stock twelve of everything in my everyday ware. It seemed like a lot at the time, in a house with two people, but I quickly realized she was right. We use a lot of saucers, and they get cracked and eventually break. Sometimes they get dropped. That is what happened two weeks ago, two days after the saucers arrived. I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of something breaking downstairs. I admit I didn't rush down to see what had been broken. It turned out that my husband was feeding the cats when he dropped three saucers all at once. The cats scattered and their breakfast was delayed due to the cat equivalent of post traumatic stress.
My husband dreaded that he might have broken three of the new ones, but we confirmed that the new ones were still in the dishwasher. Also, it was easy to see that the three he had broken were old, with glaze crazed from use and age, and they had a few little brown stains on the edges from a rusted dishwasher basket we replaced several years ago. I laughed because instead of buying six, to fill out my set to twelve, I had gone ahead and bought all ten that were available from the eBay seller with the best price and customer satisfaction rating. Breaking three of them brought the number of saucers in the house to thirteen-- a baker's dozen, my mother would say.
I ordered the saucers when I realized, with horror, that I was down to six. My mother advised me to stock twelve of everything in my everyday ware. It seemed like a lot at the time, in a house with two people, but I quickly realized she was right. We use a lot of saucers, and they get cracked and eventually break. Sometimes they get dropped. That is what happened two weeks ago, two days after the saucers arrived. I woke up Saturday morning to the sound of something breaking downstairs. I admit I didn't rush down to see what had been broken. It turned out that my husband was feeding the cats when he dropped three saucers all at once. The cats scattered and their breakfast was delayed due to the cat equivalent of post traumatic stress.
My husband dreaded that he might have broken three of the new ones, but we confirmed that the new ones were still in the dishwasher. Also, it was easy to see that the three he had broken were old, with glaze crazed from use and age, and they had a few little brown stains on the edges from a rusted dishwasher basket we replaced several years ago. I laughed because instead of buying six, to fill out my set to twelve, I had gone ahead and bought all ten that were available from the eBay seller with the best price and customer satisfaction rating. Breaking three of them brought the number of saucers in the house to thirteen-- a baker's dozen, my mother would say.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Home improvement
We just found out that our 3 bedroom, 2 story house has been appraised at having 4 bedrooms and 3 stories. We're wondering when we added the 4th bedroom and the 3rd story. We really should pay better attention.
Monday, February 18, 2013
In the woods
Yesterday I made a second trip into the woods to remove ardisia. I filled up a can, as a did a couple of weeks ago, and put it out on the curb. Sandwiched in between two nights of freezing temperatures, yesterday seemed a good choice for going where snakes and ticks might be sleeping. The poison ivy, like most things, had put out a few new leaves, thinking it was spring, so I could see where it was and wasn't. I'll know tomorrow if I was successful in avoiding its oil.
The woods stretch across the back of the property and reach forward on either side, with the back lawn in the middle. Last time I cleared on the south side, near the house. Because there is no fence, I cleared some of our neighbors' ardisia as well before I realized where I was. Yesterday I cleared on the back northwest corner, behind the compost bin. In addition to the ardisia, I found a nandina growing next to a young oak tree. It had already dropped its berries so I saved it for another day. As my can was filling, I could see another big clump of ardisia loaded with berries beyond the old fence that marks the western boundary of our property. There is an open place in the fence and I can walk right through with my can if I wish. No one has ever said no when I asked to clear plants that were impacting my yard. One time I dug up a poison ivy vine that was growing high into the branches of our neighbors' live oak and dropping berries into my flower bed.
I plan to clear a path through the woods from one side to the other. I have only been back there a few times in the nine years we have lived here. The first time was a revelation. There was a big network of burrows on the southwest corner, probably rabbit holes. Right on top of it was a pile of fence posts and rolls of chain link fencing. Perhaps it was left over from the small dog enclosure that used to be under a tree out back. It was a miserable little space, with a wooden doghouse crumbling. I took pleasure in dismantling it and digging up the posts. I dragged the remnants out of the woods and used the best of the posts and fencing to make three sides of a big compost bin in the back northwest corner, where it is concealed by the woods.
In the south side of the woods is the place where Lily is buried with her favorite toy, a piece of rope about seven inches long, and near her is Jeoffrey's skull. After the 2004 hurricanes, our neighbors found Jeff's remains. They were delicate in their handling of the discovery. First they brought us his collar and asked if we recognized it. They had seen our notice about Jeff's disappearance on the stop sign at the corner. Then they told us they had found more, and they took us to their back yard where they found Jeff's skull. There was the flat forehead and the broad cheeks, and the unmistakeable broken canine tooth. We laughed, thinking of his fighting ways and hoping the end was quick, not lying broken listening to us walk around every house in his territory calling his name.
I have been thinking about Jeff and Lily a lot lately as I see Nick and Daisy running across the yard for sheer joy. Jeff and Lily didn't run. They both had heart conditions and walked with a steady pace instead. Lily carried her pet rope around the house in this way every day for years, except for the year it disappeared. She took it out through the cat door, around the outside of the house, and left it on the front door step. She sang the whole time. The only other time we heard her sing, aside from carrying the pet rope around, was when our friends chanted from the Koran in our living room. Lily sang right along with them. The pet rope disappeared for a year when Bob put it in his pocket one Thanksgiving. He didn't wear those pants again until the next Thanksgiving, and there was the pet rope. He had forgotten he put it there, tidying up for guests, and so the mystery was solved. Lily took up carrying it around and singing as if it had only been missing a few days and not months.
The woods stretch across the back of the property and reach forward on either side, with the back lawn in the middle. Last time I cleared on the south side, near the house. Because there is no fence, I cleared some of our neighbors' ardisia as well before I realized where I was. Yesterday I cleared on the back northwest corner, behind the compost bin. In addition to the ardisia, I found a nandina growing next to a young oak tree. It had already dropped its berries so I saved it for another day. As my can was filling, I could see another big clump of ardisia loaded with berries beyond the old fence that marks the western boundary of our property. There is an open place in the fence and I can walk right through with my can if I wish. No one has ever said no when I asked to clear plants that were impacting my yard. One time I dug up a poison ivy vine that was growing high into the branches of our neighbors' live oak and dropping berries into my flower bed.
I plan to clear a path through the woods from one side to the other. I have only been back there a few times in the nine years we have lived here. The first time was a revelation. There was a big network of burrows on the southwest corner, probably rabbit holes. Right on top of it was a pile of fence posts and rolls of chain link fencing. Perhaps it was left over from the small dog enclosure that used to be under a tree out back. It was a miserable little space, with a wooden doghouse crumbling. I took pleasure in dismantling it and digging up the posts. I dragged the remnants out of the woods and used the best of the posts and fencing to make three sides of a big compost bin in the back northwest corner, where it is concealed by the woods.
In the south side of the woods is the place where Lily is buried with her favorite toy, a piece of rope about seven inches long, and near her is Jeoffrey's skull. After the 2004 hurricanes, our neighbors found Jeff's remains. They were delicate in their handling of the discovery. First they brought us his collar and asked if we recognized it. They had seen our notice about Jeff's disappearance on the stop sign at the corner. Then they told us they had found more, and they took us to their back yard where they found Jeff's skull. There was the flat forehead and the broad cheeks, and the unmistakeable broken canine tooth. We laughed, thinking of his fighting ways and hoping the end was quick, not lying broken listening to us walk around every house in his territory calling his name.
I have been thinking about Jeff and Lily a lot lately as I see Nick and Daisy running across the yard for sheer joy. Jeff and Lily didn't run. They both had heart conditions and walked with a steady pace instead. Lily carried her pet rope around the house in this way every day for years, except for the year it disappeared. She took it out through the cat door, around the outside of the house, and left it on the front door step. She sang the whole time. The only other time we heard her sing, aside from carrying the pet rope around, was when our friends chanted from the Koran in our living room. Lily sang right along with them. The pet rope disappeared for a year when Bob put it in his pocket one Thanksgiving. He didn't wear those pants again until the next Thanksgiving, and there was the pet rope. He had forgotten he put it there, tidying up for guests, and so the mystery was solved. Lily took up carrying it around and singing as if it had only been missing a few days and not months.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Our Irish Poet
My seniors are moving toward their oral commentary with our Irish poet, Eavan Boland. Together, we chose 18 poems within the 30 line upper limit. Only one have we ejected. I thought we had decided to eject 2 until we conferred last week and they said, no, we're keeping that one! I'm so pleased that they have had a good experience with Boland. I chose her because I like to do new things, we can't have enough Irish writers, and I was curious about her. It has been such a rewarding experience for me to prepare these poems with the seniors. I have not established contact with her (as I did with Tal Ben Shahar a few years ago) but I think of it. I'm sure she has plenty of fans across IB land.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
The bathroom stalker
Be you human or feline, if you go through a doorway or open a closet in this house, the youngest cats Nick and Daisy will both be there shortly. They are not starved for entertainment. They just like to see what their people are doing.
Nick and Daisy are cats #5 and #6 for us since 1995. What a contrast with our second cat, Lily, and our third cat, Jeoffrey. Lily was a lady, only 6 pounds, but she tore open the face of a gentle greyhound next door, impaling herself on a fencepost at the end of the episode. The x-ray revealed that she had delicately curved whorls on her pelvis, the like of which the vet had never seen. Soon after that ordeal, Lily was a featherweight rock for my husband during some dark times at work.
Within a couple of weeks of bringing our third cat home from the Waffle House in Baldwin, we could see that Jeff had thrown himself into exploring our territory. He had started in quarantine on the screened porch, had his shots, had his kitten-reduction surgery, ignored the surgery, and refreshed his tomcat life in his new surroundings. I came home from school one afternoon to hear him in the branches of a sweet gum tree at the front corner of our yard. I brought out the tallest ladder we had. Fully extended, it reached 11 feet, and standing on the third rung from the top brought my hand within reach of Jeff. I could not get close enough to tuck him under one arm. I told him he would have to climb onto my shoulder. We had only known each other for two or three weeks. I explained to him what he needed to do, and then I explained again. He listened, and calculated, and hesitated. I don't know how I earned his trust, or why he did not carve canyons in my skin on his way down the tree. It took a long time for him to agree that his best option was to climb down my arm onto my shoulder. Down my arm he came, with the balance of a dancer, onto my shoulder. Then he let me cradle him and we came down the ladder together. From that moment at the bottom of the ladder we were bound.
Nick and Daisy are cats #5 and #6 for us since 1995. What a contrast with our second cat, Lily, and our third cat, Jeoffrey. Lily was a lady, only 6 pounds, but she tore open the face of a gentle greyhound next door, impaling herself on a fencepost at the end of the episode. The x-ray revealed that she had delicately curved whorls on her pelvis, the like of which the vet had never seen. Soon after that ordeal, Lily was a featherweight rock for my husband during some dark times at work.
Within a couple of weeks of bringing our third cat home from the Waffle House in Baldwin, we could see that Jeff had thrown himself into exploring our territory. He had started in quarantine on the screened porch, had his shots, had his kitten-reduction surgery, ignored the surgery, and refreshed his tomcat life in his new surroundings. I came home from school one afternoon to hear him in the branches of a sweet gum tree at the front corner of our yard. I brought out the tallest ladder we had. Fully extended, it reached 11 feet, and standing on the third rung from the top brought my hand within reach of Jeff. I could not get close enough to tuck him under one arm. I told him he would have to climb onto my shoulder. We had only known each other for two or three weeks. I explained to him what he needed to do, and then I explained again. He listened, and calculated, and hesitated. I don't know how I earned his trust, or why he did not carve canyons in my skin on his way down the tree. It took a long time for him to agree that his best option was to climb down my arm onto my shoulder. Down my arm he came, with the balance of a dancer, onto my shoulder. Then he let me cradle him and we came down the ladder together. From that moment at the bottom of the ladder we were bound.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Sheets and searches
Why does the world exist? I gave my husband Jim Holt's book for Christmas. He has been reading it steadily, with regular reports on his progress. Finally yesterday he said, this book is making me sad. When I got it for him, I thought it sounded a lot like the quantum physics book he enjoyed a few years ago, but instead it seems I gave him a metaphysical downer. I knew the author had suffered some losses before writing the book, but the reviews led me to believe that his reflections were not morose.
Meanwhile, as I was making our dinner salad, one of the cats threw up a hairball somewhere in the house. I could hear the far away muffled sounds of hacking. I looked all over the floor, upstairs and down, and did not find it. As the proverb goes, when the housekeeper is ready, a hairball appears, but this time not until later. I was filling the water bowls when I saw it on our bed. I had just made the decision to wait until tomorrow night to wash a load of clothes. I have preparations to make for tomorrow's classes. Perhaps the proverb should go, when a tightly packed evening approaches, a laundry crisis appears.
The loss of time comes in many forms, tragic and trivial.
Meanwhile, as I was making our dinner salad, one of the cats threw up a hairball somewhere in the house. I could hear the far away muffled sounds of hacking. I looked all over the floor, upstairs and down, and did not find it. As the proverb goes, when the housekeeper is ready, a hairball appears, but this time not until later. I was filling the water bowls when I saw it on our bed. I had just made the decision to wait until tomorrow night to wash a load of clothes. I have preparations to make for tomorrow's classes. Perhaps the proverb should go, when a tightly packed evening approaches, a laundry crisis appears.
The loss of time comes in many forms, tragic and trivial.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Happy new year
Today we have broken plates, cleaned the floors (again) within an inch of their lives, and kept the kitchen busy with food for friends and colleagues. Sure those efforts will keep the kitchen god happy for another year. We spread money along the mantel and the kitchen counter. Thank you to kitchen gods, bedroom gods, bathroom gods, front door gods, and back porch gods for blessing our house. We will continue to bust our butts in return for your graces.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Nicky style
We are used to seeing El Gato Negro hanging around the yard during the holidays now, but the past two weekends some other cats have been coming through. Last weekend a fluffy black cat was staring back at me from just outside the dining room window, right up next to the house. It was almost Rose's twin, but the face was different -- beady yellow eyes and puffy cheeks. As soon as it saw me looking, it bolted.
This morning a large grey cat with white paws and muscular jaws walked through the yard. Nick was following him, and I realized this is what Nick does. He escorts visitors off the property. I saw him do it with EGN three weeks ago. We watched the grey cat walk slowly across the grass and behind a flower bed, with Nick following at a safe but purposeful distance.
Nick is not a fighter; he's a watch cat. This approach to guarding his territory is saving us hundreds of dollars in veterinary bills so far.
If it were Jeoffrey, our first male cat, he would pick a fight, disappear for a day, and then be off to the vet for a round of antibiotics. Jeff would stay outside all night from time to time to let the possums and raccoons know who's boss. We named him for the cat who kept Christopher Smart company in the asylum. Jeff had a white throat that gave him a Renaissance look. If he had an earring he could pass for a poet. Jeff was an undercover agent and a brawler. When he died during the hurricanes of 2004, every kind of animal moved into the yard, realizing he was no longer on patrol. The only foe he couldn't defeat was a Jack Russell terrier who turned from a chaser to a killer. Jeff had an enlarged heart that couldn't pump blood fast enough when he exerted himself; otherwise he could have outfought the terrier. We always suspected he would die fighting, and he did.
This morning a large grey cat with white paws and muscular jaws walked through the yard. Nick was following him, and I realized this is what Nick does. He escorts visitors off the property. I saw him do it with EGN three weeks ago. We watched the grey cat walk slowly across the grass and behind a flower bed, with Nick following at a safe but purposeful distance.
Nick is not a fighter; he's a watch cat. This approach to guarding his territory is saving us hundreds of dollars in veterinary bills so far.
If it were Jeoffrey, our first male cat, he would pick a fight, disappear for a day, and then be off to the vet for a round of antibiotics. Jeff would stay outside all night from time to time to let the possums and raccoons know who's boss. We named him for the cat who kept Christopher Smart company in the asylum. Jeff had a white throat that gave him a Renaissance look. If he had an earring he could pass for a poet. Jeff was an undercover agent and a brawler. When he died during the hurricanes of 2004, every kind of animal moved into the yard, realizing he was no longer on patrol. The only foe he couldn't defeat was a Jack Russell terrier who turned from a chaser to a killer. Jeff had an enlarged heart that couldn't pump blood fast enough when he exerted himself; otherwise he could have outfought the terrier. We always suspected he would die fighting, and he did.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
architecture
Waking up from a dream two nights ago, I realized the architecture in my dreams is one of the most vivid details I remember. Classrooms, schools, and houses are never the ones I see in daylight, but they appear in dream after dream. When I put them together I see that the dream homes have an area that extends far up or far back. An attic room expands to be as large or larger than the living space downstairs, full of artifacts from two and three generations ago. Or the master bedroom in the back of the house is so far back as to be desert island retreat, with low ceilings, and when reached it is an unbreachable inner sanctum with blue curtains. Those back rooms are among my favorite dream locations.
The dream that prompted this observation two nights ago was a Sunday night dream. Usually these dreams happen before the first day of school in August, or after the winter break, or after spring break, but this was just another Sunday night. I could not find my classroom, and it was raining, and I was being dropped off by my husband and friends from out of town, and I was late. (I am frequently late in my dreams, but I am rarely late when I am not dreaming.) I had no shoes, so I walked barefoot across asphalt and grass and concrete sidewalk anyway, driven by the necessity of being in my classroom when school starts. I walked down long hallways looking for my room. It was the newest part of the school, classrooms with inviting doorways and windows looking out onto the landscaped lawn. I reached what I thought was my room but another teacher's name was on the door. I assumed I was lost and confused. Only later, after I had woken up and re-entered the dream did I realize I was in the right place but my room had been given to another teacher.
If asked, I could give the dimensions of the rooms and doors, describe the windows that looked over the lawn, and show the landscapers the view from the door of my... former... classroom. I could show them how far it is from the classroom door through the hallway to the door that leads to the lawn. The angles of the intersecting hallways. I could show them where I was standing when I showed up, barefoot, with no classroom, ready to teach.
The dream that prompted this observation two nights ago was a Sunday night dream. Usually these dreams happen before the first day of school in August, or after the winter break, or after spring break, but this was just another Sunday night. I could not find my classroom, and it was raining, and I was being dropped off by my husband and friends from out of town, and I was late. (I am frequently late in my dreams, but I am rarely late when I am not dreaming.) I had no shoes, so I walked barefoot across asphalt and grass and concrete sidewalk anyway, driven by the necessity of being in my classroom when school starts. I walked down long hallways looking for my room. It was the newest part of the school, classrooms with inviting doorways and windows looking out onto the landscaped lawn. I reached what I thought was my room but another teacher's name was on the door. I assumed I was lost and confused. Only later, after I had woken up and re-entered the dream did I realize I was in the right place but my room had been given to another teacher.
If asked, I could give the dimensions of the rooms and doors, describe the windows that looked over the lawn, and show the landscapers the view from the door of my... former... classroom. I could show them how far it is from the classroom door through the hallway to the door that leads to the lawn. The angles of the intersecting hallways. I could show them where I was standing when I showed up, barefoot, with no classroom, ready to teach.
Monday, February 4, 2013
pet med dilemma
What would you do for your cat?
My veterinarian recommends flea and heartworm medication for my cats. There is one cat whose skin is so sensitive that she can only tolerate one product. We're looking at 16 years of reactions.
We give all our cats the same medication. It's mild and effective for heartworm prevention, which is more important to us than flea abatement. We're putting poison on our cats at our doctor's recommendation, so we would like it to be the least toxic possible.
Here's the dilemma. When I ask my clinic to refill the prescription, the receptionist acts like a gatekeeper. We don't recommend this product and we don't sell it. It's not as effective as ... ___ ... product. Okay, I respond, then I will order it online. Thank you.
Please hold for a few minutes while I ask, the receptionist says. She comes back and says, okay, we have some and we'll sell it to you. When I pick it up, I have to make sure I have documentation of the online supplier's price for price matching or I pay thirty-five dollars more.
Of course I would rather give my local clinic the business. They are excellent doctors and staff. Our cats get the best, most personal professional care.
There have been times when my clinic has said, no, we don't carry that any more. So I order through the online supplier. Invariably my clinic then says, when they receive the prescription request, Oh! We have that and we will do price matching to keep your business.
So what would you do? Order online and be the customer who took them at their word, when they said they don't carry that product, and be sought after by your local clinic? Or try to order it from your local clinic and be frowned at and counseled and ultimately allowed to patronize your local business because you are a valued but problem-causing customer?
My husband says ask them to flag the prescription so we don't get the rigamarole every time.
Honestly, we just want to follow our doctor's directions for protecting our cats against flea allergies and heartworm without their hair falling out.
Absolutely I would put up with this aggravation over the the pain of losing a feline friend any day.
My veterinarian recommends flea and heartworm medication for my cats. There is one cat whose skin is so sensitive that she can only tolerate one product. We're looking at 16 years of reactions.
We give all our cats the same medication. It's mild and effective for heartworm prevention, which is more important to us than flea abatement. We're putting poison on our cats at our doctor's recommendation, so we would like it to be the least toxic possible.
Here's the dilemma. When I ask my clinic to refill the prescription, the receptionist acts like a gatekeeper. We don't recommend this product and we don't sell it. It's not as effective as ... ___ ... product. Okay, I respond, then I will order it online. Thank you.
Please hold for a few minutes while I ask, the receptionist says. She comes back and says, okay, we have some and we'll sell it to you. When I pick it up, I have to make sure I have documentation of the online supplier's price for price matching or I pay thirty-five dollars more.
Of course I would rather give my local clinic the business. They are excellent doctors and staff. Our cats get the best, most personal professional care.
There have been times when my clinic has said, no, we don't carry that any more. So I order through the online supplier. Invariably my clinic then says, when they receive the prescription request, Oh! We have that and we will do price matching to keep your business.
So what would you do? Order online and be the customer who took them at their word, when they said they don't carry that product, and be sought after by your local clinic? Or try to order it from your local clinic and be frowned at and counseled and ultimately allowed to patronize your local business because you are a valued but problem-causing customer?
My husband says ask them to flag the prescription so we don't get the rigamarole every time.
Honestly, we just want to follow our doctor's directions for protecting our cats against flea allergies and heartworm without their hair falling out.
Absolutely I would put up with this aggravation over the the pain of losing a feline friend any day.
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