A Tail of One Kitty

As am I, lucky is the being that gets to live in this house.  Just around the end of the holidays there was going to be a change in the household though.
Maggie, the 15(ish) year old Cardigan corgi was getting ready for her trip the Rainbow Bridge. She was my little sister in diabetes and in the absence of Mark, I was always more than glad to get down on the floor with her to test her blood and give her her shots.
Getting back up again was another story but Maggie was my pal. And I miss her.
Just around that time, a wee black cat started coming around. It was small, had beautiful eyes and the sweetest little face, a nubbin of a tail and a pretty bad limp. It was also blacker than black but looked like it would feel like velvet if one were to pet it.
We started to refer to it as Bob, in reference to its tail, and Mark began leaving dry food for it up on a table on the front porch so that little dogs could not get to it. In truth, had they really wanted, they could've jumped onto a chair and then onto the table but it was winter so it just had to be out of their line of sight.
Soon, Mark began to put out some wet food by the chicken coop in the back (since kitty was taking shelter in one of the storage buildings in the alley) and it would show up pretty zippy-quick once the food was out. It had a healthy appetite even if it looked kinda beat-up and so Mark and Suzie decided that we should rescue this wee feral cat. At the very least, do the responsible thing and get her fixed. I can't count how many animals they have rescued over the years.
Mark went and got a trap.
First catch, our own cat, Charlie. He is normally very chill, and is in fact, the bridge between the felines and canines in the house. He is also the reason that Zeus, the little piebald dachshund, stands up on his hind legs and boxes like a cat - but Charlie did walk around in a bit of a WTF huff for a couple of hours. Fortunately, he's not one to hold grudges.
Next catch - a neighborhood cat we call, Slim. Again, not the black cat we were hoping to trap - although they were all black cats.
Third try was the charm! Mark took it to our vet, turns out it was, in fact, a she, maybe seven months old, and they had a look at her leg and appointments were made for her to be spayed in a couple of days and then after a bit see if they could do something with that poor little leg that had been broken and then healed all wrong.
Mark brought her back and let her go in the upstairs room that was, at that moment, mostly empty of furniture. She was going to have to hang in there for a couple of days until her appointment to be spayed.
She is so, so dark that Mark would go to check on her and she was usually hiding under one of the couple of pieces of furniture in the room but she could get lost just being in the shadow.
We found out very quickly, when Mark tried to catch her to put her in the carry-case to go to the vet, that young as she was, she clearly understood the concept of centrifugal force and even with just the three working legs she could run around the wall, up to the ceiling and as long as she kept going around as fast as she was able, she could stay up there. 
Miraculously, and somewhat aided by the lack of furniture, Mark was able to grab her and put her in the case. Not without some blood being spilled. Mark's. Little girl had serious claws.
When Mark brought her home, she was put in their son's room (he's a grown man and doesn't live here anymore but as a wise Montanan he does come home for Christmas and if he can, some time in the summer) so she could sleep off the anesthesia as the other room was now being redecorated.
Mark went to check on her and after a while, he ran out and said, "She's gone. I have turned that room upside down and she has disappeared."
Well, that's just impossible. All the windows were shut, only one door, Mark had moved and looked under and/or behind every piece of furniture in that room.
After a bit, Mark & I were downstairs in the kitchen and thought we heard a couple of faint thumps somewhere around us. We looked at each other and realized she had moved the cover of the heat register on the floor upstairs  and post-spaying, was now wandering through the heating ducts like some sort of kitty Houdini.
Mark was able to lure her out with food. He then spent the next day on his stomach duct taping all of the heat registers down.
Bob was then let to wander about and check everything out. She spent a couple of days in the basement and would wander up in the evening to peep around the corner to watch the nice man who gives her food as he cooked people food. Ultimately, it was harder getting down there to feed her and perhaps equally decisive, Mick, the largest of the three black cats wasn't having it. The basement and Mark's office are really his main hangs and he had no interest in making any changes.
Once we got her back upstairs, I think she approved of how the new room was coming along, took up residence and soon we just began referring to it as "Bob's room".
There was still the matter of the leg - not sure how Mark got her this time but off she went to have her leg operated on and she was returned to her room and the door was kept closed for a few hours again, while the anesthesia wore off and she was then again allowed to wander about with her new pink cast. It did make her much easier to find.
For a while, it became her habit to perhaps spend the day in Drew's room and then at about 7pm return to her room and sit in the middle of the doorway, pink cast sticking straight out into the hallway.
I would often come and sit on the bench in the hall and just talk to her. Only a handful of feet separated us and as long as I didn't try to make any moves, she was fine with that.
Poor Zeus, he loves everything and everyone and wants to be her BFF more than anything but he must be patient. And he is trying ever so hard. So far, Charlie is the only living soul who has been able to get close to her.
It was time to get her cast changed - I watched Mark steady himself and wearing long sleeves and gloves, went in to get her into the carry-case. He came out several minutes later, empty handed, looking as though he'd accidentally gotten caught up in some sporting event. Think, rugby, not golf.
I asked if he needed some help and so we, two people in our 60's, steeled ourselves and went back into her room to do battle with like, a three-pound kitten. Who basically can fly.
The fact that there was now furniture in the room and decorating had been done, made this rather more difficult than the almost impossible task it had been before. After watching her fly around the walls, she finally went under the desk - boxed in on three sides, Mark was able to grab her and I was in the exactly right spot with the case when Mark spun around so in she went, the door closed and our lives stopped flashing before our eyes.
A few days later poor little Bob had some intestinal distress but I believe Mark went and got another trap to get her over to the vet. Happily, the problem was sorted out quickly and back she came.
Finally, the day came when Mark was going to take Bob in to have her cast removed, hopefully for the last time (it was) but this was going to mean one last catch and release.
Forward we go, step by step, we try the "here, I'll flush her out from under the couch to your end" - nope. When she was making her next loop around the room I was going to try to catch her in the case but as she came by - she jumped right over me and did a lap around the room on the wall. She hit the ground, Mark went for a tackle - D'oh! She then made that one tactical error and hid under the desk again.
Mark grabbed her, same deal, I was right there with the case, in she goes and in the split second before we could close the door (and because this ain't her first time at this rodeo) she shoots right back out but what she doesn't know is how good and fast Mark was at softball so he caught her and again right back in the case and the door was locked. All of this, from the time Mark got her from under the desk to getting her into the case for the second time, happened in probably less than 5 seconds.
If we have to do this again (and we will), I'm definitely going to film it.
I Googled bobtail cats and there is really such a thing as an American bobtail cat. In the description there is a notation that they are quite smart and can escape from a room with no door and windows, plus a couple of other attributes and there's no doubt that that's our girl. We'd wondered if she'd lost her tail when she broke her foot but it looks like she was actually born with this tail.
And so, she is getting the hang of having four legs and is pretty much the princess of the house. She likes to hide and just watch what's going on. She spends most of her day hiding behind a piece of furniture under the east window of the dining room, which affords her two (duct taped) heat registers (one at each end) upon which to sit, some good positioning for watching what everyone else is doing but is a small enough space that only she can be there.
She is braver every day and now eats on the old Roeper stove in the pantry like the other two cats. She comes closer and closer to check out what's up and still likes to come into the kitchen to watch Mark cook.
She has not allowed any of her people to touch or pet her yet - although she's fine with Mark opening her cans of food inches from her head. I can get within a couple of feet and just talk to her in calm tones. Zeus is trying so very hard to be patient - he can get reasonably close to her. Not as close as he'd like though. My dog, Peggy (a doxie/beagle mix) is interested but a bit more aloof. Mick has been appearing in different parts of the house to try to show her who is boss and Mark says now he's just grumpy. "Oh, so he's reached the stage of 'acceptance'" I said. And then there's Charlie, the only one to have gotten her trust, or as much as she's willing to give just now.
She likes to look out the windows, initially Suzie thought that maybe she was sad at having to be inside, I'm pretty sure she was thinking "there but for the grace of the giant cat head go I".
There have been warm days, doors have been wide open, she can go be feral again, but she's no dummy. She's warm and dry, always has food and there is a ton of love from all creatures great and small to give to her as soon (or if) she feels ready to accept it. Much like Zeus, we are all waiting patiently for the day that she might let us pet her - but maybe she needs to still stay away for now to maintain her "feral" cred.

Please meet our little Bob:

Emojicons

NOW I feel old. For most of my life, I’ve more often than not been the person to whom others came when they had questions about pop culture - “celebrities”, music, lexicon and the like.  I may have to use a cane these days, my balance and gait over the years have deteriorated from Igor to Joe Cocker, but were I to be questioned as to my ability to “Whip & Nay Nay” I can answer in the affirmative with a “Watch me!”. 

All that aside, I’m afraid the emoji/emoticon movement has left the train station without me.  I cast no aspersions on those who use these symbols – it’s like organized religion, camping, yoga pants and kale – I enjoy that they exist because they bring joy, comfort and/or grace into the lives of many people of whom I am fond  - but please don’t try to involve me.  

I like words. And punctuation (not the kind which when put together are supposed to form some sort of a message – like using a “p” that is apparently meant to be someone sticking their tongue out at you – but it’s sideways -  so I initially thought it was “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”).

I understand that hieroglyphs were quite helpful to the Egyptians between 3500 BCE – 400 CE but even they dropped this writing system (“Mike, Come here – what do you think that hieroglyph is? Camel? Is it camel? ).  I saw a comment on someone’s post recently that was completely in emojis. I have no idea what most of these little signs mean individually, let alone strung together. There are so many of them. They’re tiny and quite open to interpretation – what does that face mean? Elation? Ennui? Gas? 

I’m also not big on the abbreviations, the LOLs or ROTFLMAO, etc. If someone has posted something that I find particularly funny then I like to give them the respect due and indicate, verbally, that it has made me laugh in an audible fashion, at the very least. 

I do like “WTF” however, I use the F-word enough as it is so it’s nice to have another option. Anyway, I feel that “WTF!” conveys more immediate shock and incredulity than spelling it out for some reason.

Suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, a pause over an innocent “Like” made a number of very colourful images pop up. A sort of smiley face acid flashback:

For those of you with whom I Facebook, and for the avoidance of confusion, I include herewith a translation of what I mean if I ever use one of these deals:

Like: I will continue to use this, as before, for almost everything: I like you, I like your update, video, article, cause; I support you in your efforts, I did not mean that I “liked” the fact that the person died but the obituary is lovely, and, Oh honey, you posted this thing 17 hours ago and no one has “liked” it yet? Here ya go.

Heart: Still gonna use < + 3.

1st Face: The meds are beginning to work

2nd Face: Are. You. Shitting. Me?

3rd Face: The meds are wearing off

4th Face: THIS is why we can’t have nice things…

So, while I myself will continue to communicate with words – you crazy emojiphiles, off ya go, have at it!  

For the longest time I could not imagine a scenario in which I would want to send someone a cartoon image of a pile of poo.  It's all become crystal clear now though given this current election cycle...

Two Whips And A Horn

A couple of weeks ago, Dee's elder son had a traffic violation for which he needed to appear in court.  Dee went to support Alex & I went to support them both.  Fortunately I have had very little experience being in court but I suppose that this being a hot morning in the South that it caused visions of Atticus Finch & chifferobes to dance through my head.

Everyone else appeared normally dressed and then Alex's lawyer arrived.  He was in a pink & white seersucker suit and white bucks, wearing a diamond earring and carrying his white boater and briefcase.  I wondered if perhaps there was to be a "Music Man" flash mob later of which we were unaware (although I'm a realist and somehow knew the chances of that were quite small indeed). It wasn't the seersucker suit per se, I have a friend in Montana that can rock the seersucker/white buck/white boater like nobody's business but it's always been the blue & white and he may even have the tan & white but I didn't think that the pink & white had ever been made in adult sizes since the last time I can ever remember seeing it, it was the pattern of the matching bathrobes from Best & Company my younger siblings & I wore in the summer of 1965.  I should also mention that the lawyer bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Haney from "Green Acres".

But in the end, what matters is years of doing business and making contacts - the details were sorted out quickly and fairly and off we went.

Meantime, a few days later, back at the farm, Dee solved the mystery of the missing guinea hens. A couple of the guinea chicks had started disappearing but there was no dog nor hound nor cat nor coyote nor fox, (fine - I'll stop saying "nor") that could get in or out of that coop. Dee went in one morning and found the culprit - a very large black snake (about 9 ft. it turned out) that now just had 2 large bumps in it (of now ex-guinea hens) hindering its ability to escape.  

As I've mentioned, Dee loves all animals and despite the fact that this serial killer had already murdered a handful or so of her new guinea hens, she put the snake in a sack (it was too full to put up much of a fight - but still - it was pretty huge) and let it go somewhere else on the farm. Knowing absolutely nothing about nature but being a natural cynic, I wondered if it mightn't just slither right back up the hill. Do snakes have a sense of direction? A memory? Did it emerge from its food coma thinking, "Hey, I think there's a great new restaurant with tender guinea fowl somewhere in this neighbourhood"?

Last Saturday, with trips and other conflicts, Dee & I suddenly realized that we were the only two to take the hounds out for exercise. Normally, D & I ride in one golf cart with a couple (to several) others helping us on horseback (as the riders are able to go more quickly after any hound/hounds that take a mind to run off from the rest of the group). And so, armed with naught but 2 golf carts, 2 whips and a horn, the two of us decided we would take the hounds for their walkout and just to up the difficulty factor and only for their second outing, we added PUPPIES!

I suppose if anyone had been driving down the county road that day and didn't know what was going on it probably looked like a couple of ladies of a certain age being "little rascals on our Little Rascals" and having a crazed motorized wheelchair rodeo of some sort.  Anyway, we were well pleased with ourselves when we returned with the same amount of hounds with which we left.  Extra points were awarded (by us to us - 'cause why not?) for the facility in which we got them in and out of the trailer and into the kennel as well. Huzzah!

I then went down to my house to start to make lasagna for dinner that night and realized that I had meant to grab a Pyrex pan from Dee's house so back up I went in the golf cart now accompanied by my Mexican Canine-American housemate, Carmella, the chihuahua.  On the way back down I was doing pretty well driving with one hand, balancing the pan and the tiny dog while opening the throttle to give the cart a bit more gas and then saw something black laying across the drive and thought, "Well, look at that big old black stic..SNAKE!!" 

I am happy to report that no chihuahuas, snakes or Pyrex dishes were harmed in the stunt driving that was required at just that moment.  I totally think it was the serial killer snake though. Ever notice the reptilian onomatopoeia of the word recidivist? MmmHmm...

On a less homicidal note, Dee & I think that "Two Whips and a Horn" would be a great name for a B&B and/or Pub catering to the Hunt crowd.

Alas, it might also be a good name for an S&M Club so the marketing would really be everything...

Jesus is coming for you - and he has back-up dancers!

I was a hostage of the Catholic Church for my first 17 years.  Our father was a Protestant - although not Protestant enough to ever be able to answer the question of which sub-denomination - just standard issue Protestant, I guess.  Our mother was Catholic so our parents' marriage was considered "mixed" and they had to sign over any and all children to the Catholic Church.  It was the law.

In 8th grade, I declared myself to be an Atheist.  Mother, naturally, had a fit and so, in my Libra way - I compromised (hedging my bets anyway - just in case) and met her halfway with Agnostic.  At the end of that year, which concluded our middle school years, there was a graduation ceremony. Founded in 1881, the Convent is New York's oldest private school for girls (mummy & her sister had attended Sacred Heart as well), we were big on ceremony and tradition. 

The graduation was held in the courtyard. Originally, this landmark building, the Otto Kahn mansion, had been the largest single family dwelling in New York city.  The acoustics are quite good - The Philharmonic, Enrico Caruso and George Gershwin had performed there when Mr. Kahn and his family lived in the building and Lady Gaga (an alum) filmed A Very GaGa Thanksgiving in that courtyard and other spaces in the buildings.

Medals for excellence were awarded in many different areas ('cause you can't have tradition and ceremony without medals of honour).  Suddenly, the Head of Middle School announced, "And the award for Religion goes to Pam Adams".  Well, I was certainly shocked as hell and Mother started laughing - which of course could be heard by all 40 or so of the other, non-hysterical parents.  Damn those acoustics.

I have no problem with religion, per se.  I am, in truth, honestly happy for those who are genuinely comforted by their faith. I myself use Valium. I feel rather confident in thinking that there is no organized, recognized religion (none of this Charlie Manson, Devil worship, Taliban, fringe group, whatever bullshit) whose deity commands them to go out and kill, maim, rape and pillage in his/her name. In fact, that "not killing" one is pretty much #1 on the hit parade we call the 10 Commandments. And yet, religion has been the cause of an ass-load (technical military term) of wars.

Of course another commandment is the taking of His name in vain, etc.  Jesus wept, man - Catholics are the worst at this one.

I also don't think that it should be fear of eternal damnation that compels people to act with respect, empathy and kindness towards each other.

Though clearly no religious scholar - there are a few things that I have learned either first hand and/or remember from school, church, Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell that really are just good common sense and manners. The world wouldn't be in quite the clusterfuck it is currently if we all practiced what we preached.

First, and I really cannot stress this any more often than I already do - the Religious Right is neither.  It is truly appalling and the hypocrisy is wrong - shockingly wrong. Sure, they talk the talk - but walk the walk? Well, according to what I recall of the teachings of the Bible - really not so much. Spewing hatred and then hiding behind a religion goes against the tenets of most religions as well as the basic laws of civility.

If you believe the brochure - we are all created equal, in His image, God doesn't make mistakes (but really, ego much on that one?) and so on.  Apparently the Religious Right and their ilk did not get this memo because unless we look like them and think like them, we are not their equal and never will be.

Treat people the same way you would like to be treated.   Well, Jesus H. Christ, again if we are any different than they - we are the ones who are wrong (but clearly have a much tighter grip on reality) and also damned to hell (which given what counts as a "good Christian" these days is sounding better all the time).  Although it wouldn't hurt anyone to hold a door open for someone, let someone into the line of traffic, simply say, "please" and "thank you".

Then there's The Westboro Baptist Church who picket the funerals of anyone either known or presumed to be gay or the funerals of veterans who have fought so that we all might have the right to freedom of speech.  No matter how hateful. Their choice of words (as well as their inability to spell, punctuate, or just form an intelligent thought) speaks volumes.  Very Christian indeed.

Judge not lest ye be judged - let he who is without sin cast the first stone - the whole glass house deal.  Okay, I guess that I am technically breaking this one myself even as I type - but they started it.

In this last week, the Supreme Court came down with some historic decisions - the invalidation of parts of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, striking down the Defense of Marriage Act of 1996 and lifting Prop 8 in California. Judge Antonin Scalia proved himself to be both racist (declaring the Voting Rights Act a perpetuation of racial entitlement) and homophobic (voting for DOMA to be upheld).

I cannot say how very much I hope that one of these days one of those "Rapture" thingies actually does happen. I know that I'm not going anywhere and neither are my friends but it's a good way to round up some of the loonies.

But you, Justice Scalia? You and all of the others who are more concerned with limiting peoples' civil rights and furthering inequality than upholding the founding principle of the United States AND Christianity - that all men are created equal. And by "men" we mean all of mankind (yes, including women) and by "all" we don't just mean white, heterosexual and Christian.  Jesus tap-dancing Christ - I don't know what the fu...Wait, what's that?  Oh look! It's Jesus, Bojangles, Sammy Davis, Jr., Gregory Hines, Alvin Ailey, Michael Bennett & Jerome Robbins (in the front row anyway).  Oh, honey - be afraid, be very afraid - Jesus is coming for you and he has back-up dancers!  

And-a 5, 6, 7, 8...

Who Let The Cows Out - Moo, Moo, Moo, Moo-Moo?

Just kidding - I'm pretty sure they are supposed to be there. I don't really have much interaction with the Bovine Brethren but from what I have been able to glean, they really aren't given to "wilding". In fact, I have become so accustomed to being the only house up on a hill that if I happen to see shadows moving, I wonder just what the hell is going on? It's always cows - who are rather more ninja-like than one might imagine.


The cows are moved around the farm from field to field (and they are scattered all about as it is - I don't know how they keep track) because...well, I'm sure there is a good reason - the grass is always greener in the other pasture? One can never really take the New York out of the New Yorker.


Generally cows only moo-ve into my perview when we are exercising the hounds. The hounds are just curious and want to sniff around and say "hi" and the cows, for the most part, would prefer that they not do that. One time, about 8 or so cows came running down to one of the gates we were about to open and cross as if to say "Yeah, no - we don't want to share any of this field today". When it became apparent to the cows that the hounds, horses and people were indeed going to be coming into their pasture - they literally looked at each other and in their very best Monty Python re-enactment, did the "Run Away! Run Away!" battle scene from Holy Grail.


Recently, Dee had to travel on business and so I was to lead the next three walkouts. I am getting a bit more confident and am often now able to make a sound come out of the horn that doesn't sound like a desperate cry for help from a living thing.


The first walkout, I had forgotten to ask where the horn was and couldn't find it in any of the usual places (it was, in fact, hung where it should be, I had just never noticed it there before) and had also forgotten to ask about "treats" so this session was done hornless & treatless (Dee doesn't always give them treats while we're out - but I figured since I was the substitute teacher that some canine graft & corruption in the form of small bone-shaped biscuits would've been helpful). 

We came to the last field and pond and since there were quite a few cows already at the pond, decided it might be best to just lead the hounds away from that pond. I then looked down the hill to see an ass-load (agricultural unit of measurement) of cows being led into the field. Jesus tap-dancing Christ! A quick consult with the riders and we decided that I would call the hounds behind me but rather than give the command to "go", I would just move slowly down the hill diagonally away from the incoming crowd with most of the riders keeping between the cows and hounds. It worked! The hounds followed my cart and moving as a unit everyone got to the bottom of the hill without any confusion or tears. 

I was well pleased with that maneuver (probably not as impressive to the veterans but I enjoyed it).


The second walkout was pretty stress free (but crazy hot) until the end. We got all of the hounds into the trailer to take them back up to the kennel except for Ice-T (I am not changing any of the animals' names until or unless I am advised they have lawyers on retainer). Normally behaved like a gentleman, Ice-T decided to channel his inner rapper and run back into the field. Dee truly loves every one of her creatures, great & small, from the horses down to the bees so I had NO intention of telling her we had lost one of her hounds, I yelled to the poor, exhausted, blazing hot riders "No one leaves until we get T back here!"

Oh dear, it's just occurred to me that technically I may have been holding a half dozen or so people hostage at that point. 

Well, what does one do when faced with a short, round woman of a certain age who is brandishing a whip and is covered in sweat, dust and pond scum, and currently has Bette Davis eyes - and not the good kind of which Kim Carnes sang either. I'm thinking more "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" eyes or "Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte" peepers. Well, we finally got T back but by that point we could only get him into the cab of the truck. Have you ever tried to drive a truck with a trailer full of hounds behind you and a foxhound sitting on your lap?  Well, I have.


By the third walkout, the temperature had been steadily climbing every day and that alone could've caused the spontaneous combustion of any living thing but just as I pulled on the front door, not only was I hit by the heat but also by a smell that I could only think was one large dead thing (something in the Woolly Mammoth size range) OR a large amount of smaller dead things. Turns out it's fertilizer time. New York, in the height of summer, with the sanitation people on strike, isn't even in the same class of stink. 

Fortunately, with the exception of a continual wish for a gas mask, that walkout went well. Dee was returning that afternoon leaving me no time in which to find alternate living arrangements had it not.

Tomorrow we ride (I cart) at dawn (well, not dawn so much as 90 minutes earlier than usual) 'cause that heat isn't going anywhere anytime soon.  

Onward & sideways!

I'm Sorry, I Was Not Aware There Would Be Backing Up...

I had a very sheltered upbringing - on the Upper East Side of New York. I was very fortunate to have been afforded a most excellent education at The Convent of the Sacred Heart on 91st Street & Fifth Avenue. It was an unusual time to be growing up anyway - the times they were indeed a-changing.

The academic program was, and still is, of the highest order and though I don't know if such a thing even exists anymore, I vaguely remember a very tepid sort of Home Economics class (or club, maybe?) I just know that I didn't have to take it. The reason this course was not emphasized was that it was just presumed that a young lady of the Sacred Heart would have staff.

Another elective that was not offered (although I don't believe it was offered at either Spence or Nightingale - two other private girls schools in the immediate area) was driving. As New Yorkers, we mostly walked and/or were driven. Getting one's driving license just wasn't the milestone for us that it was for, you know, everyone else in the world. Or America at least. 

The first driving license I had was in the mid-1980's when I first lived on Anguilla (the northern most of the Leeward Islands). There we drove in "American" cars (steering wheel on the left) BUT as Anguilla is a British dependent territory (British West Indies) we drove on the left side of the road.


This is helpful nowhere.

The first American driving license was issued to me in the early 1990's in Montana when I was splitting my year between Missoula and Anguilla. I then spent the next decade driving on the right hand side of the road for half of the year and the left hand side for the other half.

Because of the impediments that came with driving on Anguilla - goats leaping into the middle of the road from out of nowhere, pot-holes that could swallow a small car and confused tourists trying to negotiate the roundabouts AND remember that they need to stay on the left hand side of the road, I have always been a very vigilant driver but because so many others are not, I am also a very anxious driver.

To be honest, it is not always the other driver, most of my life is anxiety driven.

I don't like driving on highways, don't like driving fast, not a fan of the windy road, get claustrophobic if I am surrounded by a lot of traffic, am now quite night-blind and still, to this day, when I am in a new place, I have to remember to drive on the right-hand side of the road until I get used to it.

Arkansas, it turns out, appears to be mostly winding two lane highways. I am now quite confident in making my way from home to our small town and its environs but it will still be a while before I can do the drive to Fayetteville. A) There is construction going on and those flashing lights and stripedy barrels only serve to confuse me (on top of the anxiety), 2) There is a LOT of traffic and C, D, E & F) I don't know where anything is.

Anyway, my friend Alex (also not his real name and coincidentally my friend Dee's older son (still not her name either)) is having some transportation issues just now and needs a lift to and from work. For the most part Dee takes him in the morning and I collect him in the afternoon. A couple of weeks ago I got a call asking if I might go for Alex in the truck as he had something large to bring home.

Holy crap - the White Rhino! The first time I'd seen Dee in over 30 years - she pulled up to the airport in this giant white truck, opened her door, slid out and then disappeared from sight for a few seconds before she came around the front of the truck. It's taken a while and I am now reasonably proficient at getting in and out of the passenger side with a modicum of dignity and a minimum of swearing but it is one big-ass truck.

I went up to Dee's house to swap my golf cart for the White Rhino and it had already been considerately parked in a manner that allowed me to just get in and drive. No having to reverse out and negotiate the parking area - just climb in and off I go. Well, the whole thing scared the crap out of me but it was time to suck it up and in the words of the philosopher, Nike, "Just do it!"

I would just briefly like to mention, as an aside, that if it is normal for your vehicle to have lights on that usually signify that something might be wrong, a heads-up could probably be helpful in the elimination of visions of the vehicle exploding before the completion of the task. There are almost no vehicles from this century on the compound so almost everything has its own eccentricities - as do many of the best people...

I pulled into the drive of Alex's job and he directed me to follow him around this building so he could load-in his stuff. Once the task was completed he said, "OK, just turn the truck around and I'll meet you over there" gesturing vaguely in the direction in which we had come.


Umm - what's that now? Just turn the truck around? Like, go backwards and then forward again? Well, it had never crossed my mind that I would have to turn this mother around - but then again, I reckoned that anything short of an actual building that might be behind me would not win in a confrontation with The White Rhino and so I wrestled that gear shift to R and then back over to D and we were outta there. 

Once I knew we were on our way back to the farm and that we would be in Drive for the rest of the trip I was able to enjoy the powerful feeling of driving a big old truck. I totally get it. Sitting eleventy feet above the ground and thinking: 

"I am The White Rhino - bow to me!"

My Kingdom for an Anchovy!

When I moved here, I was aware that the farm is in a pretty rural area.  This is one of the many things that I love.  My view is stunning in every direction and generally peace and quiet abide.  On a clear night, in the absence of ambient light, you can see almost every star ever discovered and practically read by the light of the full moon. When the moon is new however, finding your car can be a challenge as you walk, Harpo Marx-like, knees bent, taking tiny steps with hands gesturing frantically in front of you wishing you had bat sonar. 

The area in which I live is considered Northwestern Arkansas, abbreviated as NWA.  I cannot say how long it will be before images of Dr. Dre & Ice Cube stop popping into my mind every time I hear "NWA".

We are about 5 miles from town (pop. 2346) and about 30 miles from Town (where the University is located).  We have a lovely little downtown.  There is a traffic thingy that looks meant to be in the spirit of a roundabout but is really a rather confusing polygon of some sort.  There was some stunt driving involved during my first attempt at circumnavigating this 5th circle of Hell and I believe that poor Dee may have seen a lot of her life flashing before her eyes but admirably kept her calm and we tried it again.

We have a McDonald's, a Sonic & a Pizza Hut. About 100 feet from the Pizza Hut there is another little pizza place that is called, That Little Pizza Place.  Needless to say, this can lead to conversations of the "Who's on first?" variety.  

We have a Walmart (this is Arkansas, it's the law) and although I had really been a Target girl in the past, I am becoming quite fond of our Walmart.  Hey, on Mothers' Day morning I was able to get a wifi router and get connected again to the rest of America.  I just wish Pepperidge Farm double chocolate Milano cookies would stop falling into my basket.

Then we have our grocery store.  It is a chain store and I'd been to the one in "Town" before as it's on the way to/from the airport and that one is really nice. Ours is well, a bit less so. The people who work there are lovely, it's not that, it is the fact that either Mr. Magoo or Jackson Pollock is responsible for the layout of the store. There seems to be a little bit of everything on every aisle so the shopping experience is a cross between Concentration:

"Wait, I saw some of these things on another aisle.  Um three aisles over?" 

"No, I'm sorry, it was two aisles over.  And the board goes back." 

& Jeopardy: "I'll take Things Only I Know on Which Aisle They Reside for $400, Alex". 

If you pay close attention though there are little gems to be found.  There is a significant Mexican population here so there are bottles of Coke & Fanta from Mexico made with REAL sugar not the HFCS crap.  It means nothing to me, I've been on diet soda since 1963 but for someone who does enjoy "the real thing" - it is here.

Three different types of Panko bread crumbs - on three separate aisles. Who knew?

We're ass-deep (technical retail terminology) in Vidalia onions just now which seem to have elbowed the plain old regular yellow onions into obscurity.  I'm sure they'll be back though.

Early on, I decided to make a Caesar salad.  It's probably my favourite salad and as long as I have the required ingredients - I make a pretty good one.  Romaine lettuce - check, garlic, lemons, cracked black pepper, check, check, check.  Olive oil, Fresh eggs, Parmesan cheese & Worcestershire - got 'em.  Anchovies?  Anchovies?  Well, on the aisle that one might normally find anchovies, I found the usual suspects: tuna, clams (smoked & not), oysters (also smoked & not), sardines - a few different varieties.  Anchovy paste - sure, but nary a tin of anchovy fillets to be found.

I returned a couple of days later on a search and destroy mission.  I would be the Jacques Cousteau of supermarkets.  I would find those damn anchovies.

And so, with my shopping cart, temporarily christened "Calypso" and "The Best of Little Feat" playing on my iPod I began systematically going up and down every single aisle until finally, good news!  I spy a group of anchovy tins (a school of anchovy tins?) on the shelf.  And look, only $1 each?! Hey wait, what's the catch? Oh, well there ya go - they expired last December!

And this, ladies & gentlemen, is why I can't have nice things. What I will do is purchase plenty, plenty tins of anchovies the next time I find them. 

As God is my witness, I will never go without anchovies again!