Every year I make a promise to myself. I will spend less for Christmas. I bet you can guess what I’ll say next. You’re right! I always spend too much for Christmas. I start early, finding something just right for, let’s say, my sister-in-law. Then I find something even better for sister-in-law, so I buy that too. So add to sis-in-law: son 1 and wife, son 2 and wife, grandson, brother, niece and husband, nephew and wife, best friend, five additional and different best friends, and unknown recipient at work. The years I go to one of the son’s home for Christmas I spend less for decorations, but then there’s the airfare! But it doesn’t seem fair to count the airfare as a gift to that son and his wife.
So this year I will spend less for Christmas. Period. Full stop. And here’s how, so if any of the aforementioned (you know who you are) are reading this, listen up. [Wait a minute—reading? listen? Isn’t that sort of like a mixed metaphor?] Anyway, I mustn’t get distracted. Pay attention. One gift for each person (and we’re not talking a Tiffany bracelet here, a new flat-screen TV [I think they all have one...I don't] or a new set of golf clubs. We’re talking simple, hopefully unusual, thoughtful little (in size as well as…well, it’s tacky, but you know…cost) gifts they’ll treasure. Then perhaps a small (same previous adjectives) for the house, or that they’ll both love/appreciate/use as well as treasure.
I really have been saying this mantra for years, especially to my children, who are now 46 and 44. They stopped believing me years ago; they usually laugh, snicker, or snort whenever I say “I will spend less for Christmas” this year. But guys, this time I MEAN IT!
You may wonder why I’m even thinking about this toward the end of October. The Christmas decorations are up in only some places. After Halloween they’ll sprout like dandelions after a good rain. Well, this weekend I’m going to visit my friend in Reno, and there are lots of wonderful little places around, like Truckee, with its really special glass store, and there’s other places Cabby will take me. Temptation will run rampant, and I must be strong! Then at Thanksgiving, Cabby and I will spend the time in Angels Camp, which is really close to Murphys, Sonora, and not too far from Jackson and Sutter’s Creek. Oh, the places in those little tourist-trap towns! It’s major temptation, major danger. I will spend less for Christmas.
I’ll make another promise too. After Christmas, I will come back to this blog with an honest report. I will have spent less and given fewer gifts. Knowing that I have to account to whomever bothers to read my blogs will keep me on the straight and narrow.
Boys! Stop laughing, snickering and snorting!
October 20, 2009
September 17, 2009
R.I.P., Mary Travers
For me, this is the day the music died. News of Mary Travers’ death yesterday moved me to tears. I never met her, but I felt about her as I have about some friends. I’d met Peter Yarrow during his Cornell years, when he came to sing at the fraternity house where my brother and boyfriend lived. I was in a sort of trance that night, listening to Peter sing, and when he sang “O Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn”, I felt he was singing to me. Peter always stomped (not tapped) one foot, and that night he broke a floorboard at the frat house.
Anyway, this isn’t about Peter, it’s about Mary Travers. The first time I saw PPM perform, she appeared as a goddess—her statuesque body, her silky long blond hair that she continually tossed. Her voice was magic for me, because she was one of the few singers in whose key I could manage to sing. Her harmonies transformed the three people into one entity. I saw her as a real person—a woman not much older than I, who enjoyed singing, had a family, and had a cause. I admired her, not simply because she was doing what I loved to do myself—sing folk music—but she did it with grace and style. She didn’t have to wear sexy clothes, dance seductively, or scream into the microphone. She didn’t even have to play the guitar. She stood there, flipping her hair, clearly having fun, enjoying every moment. And Mary felt every song she sang; ergo, I felt every song she sang.
There was a mighty triumvirate of female folk singers (in alpha order): Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Mary Travers. They inspired me, each of them in their own way. Joan and Mary were the ones I tried most to emulate, since their songs were more accessible to my limited vocal range. Joan wrote incredibly stirring lyrics, and sang them with great intensity. I can’t compare the three one against the other—they were different in many ways. But there was something about Mary.
Mary Travers, you were a light, an inspiration, and a goddess. Thank you, and rest in peace.
Anyway, this isn’t about Peter, it’s about Mary Travers. The first time I saw PPM perform, she appeared as a goddess—her statuesque body, her silky long blond hair that she continually tossed. Her voice was magic for me, because she was one of the few singers in whose key I could manage to sing. Her harmonies transformed the three people into one entity. I saw her as a real person—a woman not much older than I, who enjoyed singing, had a family, and had a cause. I admired her, not simply because she was doing what I loved to do myself—sing folk music—but she did it with grace and style. She didn’t have to wear sexy clothes, dance seductively, or scream into the microphone. She didn’t even have to play the guitar. She stood there, flipping her hair, clearly having fun, enjoying every moment. And Mary felt every song she sang; ergo, I felt every song she sang.
There was a mighty triumvirate of female folk singers (in alpha order): Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Mary Travers. They inspired me, each of them in their own way. Joan and Mary were the ones I tried most to emulate, since their songs were more accessible to my limited vocal range. Joan wrote incredibly stirring lyrics, and sang them with great intensity. I can’t compare the three one against the other—they were different in many ways. But there was something about Mary.
Mary Travers, you were a light, an inspiration, and a goddess. Thank you, and rest in peace.
September 11, 2009
9/11
September 11, 2009.
Eight years ago today, our world changed forever. We all changed forever as well, perhaps each one of us differently, but we changed. For me, despair quietly walked in and sat down next to horror and disbelief. Fear lurked continually in the background, but I was somewhat successful at keeping fear at bay. The following year, a friend and I drove over to the coast and sat on the Bean Hollow rock headland and watched waterworks pretending to be fireworks, one exuberant burst-splash after another in military precision along the rocks. We believed.
I can't watch the endless showings of the planes into the towers. It becomes another movie, something almost unreal. It can't happen here.
We are now into a new administration, one that won on hope and change. One that I championed and voted for. And just 9 months into that administration, I am once again watching despair creep into my sanctuary. No, not because of our president, not because of the economy, nor the wars in Afghanistan. I am a patient person. OK, sometimes I'm not a patient person, but for these big things I am. These problems didn't happen all at once, and that won't be solved all at once. I'm amazed to hear people say the recession is over!
My despair is at the extremes that have so polarized our nation in the years since 9/11/2001. That didn't happen overnight either. I stood with my two grown sons in Buffalo, N.Y. watching the first bombs dropping on Afghanistan--we had all come together to share our national tragedy--and we all were sad and devastated, but we believed it was the right thing to do. Find that bastard bin Laden and make him dead! We believed.
It was over the next 7 years that the polarization started to grow and fester. And I neither need to nor want to cite chapter and verse. Suffice it to say that the divide between Conservatives and Liberals, Republicans and Democrats became deeper and wider, and in our confused grief, we began to vilify those on the other side of what became the Great Divide.
I believe that the "normal" divide became the Great Divide due, to a large extent, to the rise of Conservative Talk Radio--the Rush Limbaughs, the Sean Hannitys, the Bill O'Rileys--who are masters of manipulation and deceit. They prey upon those who do not tend to read newspapers, listen to NPR, communicate with their Congressional representatives, or use the Internet to check something on Snopes or FactCheck. These are not bad people, and they are not necessarily religious fundamentalists. They are people who go to work, kiss their children, vote, maybe go to church, and share BBQs with friends and neighbors. But they tend to let others do the thinking for them, and when it's said loud enough and often enough they begin to believe it.
Remember Sarah Palin saying that Barack Obama "pals around with terrorists."? Well, as my mother once told me--once something is said, you can't unsay it. There's a lot of that going around--the saying of things that can't be unsaid, and the purveyors of that misinformation know exactly what they're doing. Exactly. What. They're. Doing.
So--last week, hearing and reading the unbelievable protests against Obama speaking truth to power (our next generation of adults), I mentioned in a Facebook posting that I'm feeling despair again. How silly of me to believe that a new president, whose ideals I embrace, in whom I had (have, dammit!!) such great hopes, could escape verbal evisceration by such small-minded people.
I went to the freezer half an hour ago to empty the ice cubes into the ice container and saw this on my refrigerator:
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light.
For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Today is September 11th. It's my boss John Fleischer's birthday. And I am going to find some wild things to be among today. I'll pack up my despair, stow it way deep in the closet, and feel free, along with wood drake.
Eight years ago today, our world changed forever. We all changed forever as well, perhaps each one of us differently, but we changed. For me, despair quietly walked in and sat down next to horror and disbelief. Fear lurked continually in the background, but I was somewhat successful at keeping fear at bay. The following year, a friend and I drove over to the coast and sat on the Bean Hollow rock headland and watched waterworks pretending to be fireworks, one exuberant burst-splash after another in military precision along the rocks. We believed.
I can't watch the endless showings of the planes into the towers. It becomes another movie, something almost unreal. It can't happen here.
We are now into a new administration, one that won on hope and change. One that I championed and voted for. And just 9 months into that administration, I am once again watching despair creep into my sanctuary. No, not because of our president, not because of the economy, nor the wars in Afghanistan. I am a patient person. OK, sometimes I'm not a patient person, but for these big things I am. These problems didn't happen all at once, and that won't be solved all at once. I'm amazed to hear people say the recession is over!
My despair is at the extremes that have so polarized our nation in the years since 9/11/2001. That didn't happen overnight either. I stood with my two grown sons in Buffalo, N.Y. watching the first bombs dropping on Afghanistan--we had all come together to share our national tragedy--and we all were sad and devastated, but we believed it was the right thing to do. Find that bastard bin Laden and make him dead! We believed.
It was over the next 7 years that the polarization started to grow and fester. And I neither need to nor want to cite chapter and verse. Suffice it to say that the divide between Conservatives and Liberals, Republicans and Democrats became deeper and wider, and in our confused grief, we began to vilify those on the other side of what became the Great Divide.
I believe that the "normal" divide became the Great Divide due, to a large extent, to the rise of Conservative Talk Radio--the Rush Limbaughs, the Sean Hannitys, the Bill O'Rileys--who are masters of manipulation and deceit. They prey upon those who do not tend to read newspapers, listen to NPR, communicate with their Congressional representatives, or use the Internet to check something on Snopes or FactCheck. These are not bad people, and they are not necessarily religious fundamentalists. They are people who go to work, kiss their children, vote, maybe go to church, and share BBQs with friends and neighbors. But they tend to let others do the thinking for them, and when it's said loud enough and often enough they begin to believe it.
Remember Sarah Palin saying that Barack Obama "pals around with terrorists."? Well, as my mother once told me--once something is said, you can't unsay it. There's a lot of that going around--the saying of things that can't be unsaid, and the purveyors of that misinformation know exactly what they're doing. Exactly. What. They're. Doing.
So--last week, hearing and reading the unbelievable protests against Obama speaking truth to power (our next generation of adults), I mentioned in a Facebook posting that I'm feeling despair again. How silly of me to believe that a new president, whose ideals I embrace, in whom I had (have, dammit!!) such great hopes, could escape verbal evisceration by such small-minded people.
I went to the freezer half an hour ago to empty the ice cubes into the ice container and saw this on my refrigerator:
The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light.
For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry
Today is September 11th. It's my boss John Fleischer's birthday. And I am going to find some wild things to be among today. I'll pack up my despair, stow it way deep in the closet, and feel free, along with wood drake.
September 3, 2009
My Guitar
In two weeks, my friend Cabby and I are having a pretty large yard sale. She has to schlep her stuff from Reno, and has already brought a bunch of items during her last two visits. I realize that what I'm doing is beginning to winnow out my encumbrances ahead of the need to leave this house, the place I've lived the longest since my childhood home. It is a major task, and this yard sale will be only the first winnowing, ridding my house of no-longer-fitting clothes, no-longer-used electronics, and no-longer-wanted accoutrements that have accumulated over many years.
I'm thinking of selling my guitar, which bears considerable thought. I've not been without a guitar since I was 19, with my first one, purchased from a Buffalo pawn shop, a Harmony with steel strings that Brian's father Bob restrung with nylon strings. I didn't learn until much later that it's not a good idea to put nylon strings on a guitar built for steel, and probably vice versa. In a few years, the strings had wandered further and further afield from the neck, making it difficult to play. But I played it anyway. That guitar went with me to Lawton, Oklahoma, when my Bob was stationed at Ft. Sill, and on evenings when thunderstorms killed the power in the service club, I'd sit on the stage and play the guitar and sing folk songs. I wasn't great, but it was better than sitting in the dark without music from the juke box. The soldiers whistled and hooted and I loved it. Sometimes my fingers bled from playing Sinner Man, even with nylon strings, but I played on. One Christmas, just a couple of weeks before Scott was born, both my father and my brother and his wife came to Lawton for the holiday. I used to hang the guitar by its strap in the coat closet, and one day as I was preparing dinner, my husband, father, brother and wife decided to play Bridge. The card table was also kept in the coat closet. My father, in his often hurried careless way, lifted up the card table, knocking the guitar to the floor. I cried with anger and disappointment, but it was only cracked, not broken, and could most likely be fixed. After the holidays, my husband and I took the guitar to a luthier in Lawton, who said he would fix it and not charge us much. He showed us a classical guitar he'd made, and we both strummed it a bit; it sounded like heaven. It had a full, mellow, clear, lovely sound that I'd not heard before, and we coveted it. He was asking $75 for it. I'd paid $25 at the pawn shop for the Harmony, and this wonderful guitar was only 3 times as much. But for us, then, $75 was what $750 is now--at least. That was our monthly rent. We couldn't buy it.
I can't remember exactly when I bought my present guitar, but I was back in the Buffalo area, and I played mostly in the summer when the family was at Kirk Kove, our Canadian retreat. It was a family fishing resort, with our house the first place on the right as you drove in, built in 1924, most likely before the resort was built. In the summer, when lots of kids were around, there were events in the rec hall, and Thursdays were "talent night". Skits were performed, mostly by kids, and then my 2nd husband John and I would sing folk songs--Four Strong Winds, This Land is Your Land, Whisky in the Jar, and too many others to list. One of my favorite memories of Kirk Kove is sitting on our porch at the top of the hill (a small hill, but a hill nonetheless) in the evening, watching the swallows swoop for mosquitoes, and rehearsing whatever we were going to sing that week.
But I neither sing nor play anymore, and the ol' fingers are quite rusty on the few occasions I've picked up a guitar. Both sons have at least one guitar that I could play when I visit them if the need arose. That thought makes me laugh. If the need arose. Right.
Several years ago I took classical lessons for a couple of months, and it was incredibly hard for me to make the stretches my fingers had to make. And aside from whatever pleasure I might eventually have for being able to play a tiny bit, what would I do with it? Impose on my friends and say, "Oh, look at what I learned over the last 6 months!"? No, that's not me.
Four years ago I attended my son Scott's first Gypsy Jam, held at the wonderful Pollywogg Holler in New York State's Southern Tier. I borrowed a friends hard case so I could check my guitar during the flights. I played a couple of things--badly, as I remember--but people were kind, and I knew it would be the only time I'd play at Gypsy Jam, no matter how many more times I might attend the event.
So I look at the once beloved guitar, in its case inside two plastic garbage bags, and wonder why on earth I should keep it around. There is no reason. Why, then, are these tears in my eyes? Eventually I will move from this house, and far more will have to be sold or given away. Perhaps I'll wait until I can let go of my guitar without tears.
I'm thinking of selling my guitar, which bears considerable thought. I've not been without a guitar since I was 19, with my first one, purchased from a Buffalo pawn shop, a Harmony with steel strings that Brian's father Bob restrung with nylon strings. I didn't learn until much later that it's not a good idea to put nylon strings on a guitar built for steel, and probably vice versa. In a few years, the strings had wandered further and further afield from the neck, making it difficult to play. But I played it anyway. That guitar went with me to Lawton, Oklahoma, when my Bob was stationed at Ft. Sill, and on evenings when thunderstorms killed the power in the service club, I'd sit on the stage and play the guitar and sing folk songs. I wasn't great, but it was better than sitting in the dark without music from the juke box. The soldiers whistled and hooted and I loved it. Sometimes my fingers bled from playing Sinner Man, even with nylon strings, but I played on. One Christmas, just a couple of weeks before Scott was born, both my father and my brother and his wife came to Lawton for the holiday. I used to hang the guitar by its strap in the coat closet, and one day as I was preparing dinner, my husband, father, brother and wife decided to play Bridge. The card table was also kept in the coat closet. My father, in his often hurried careless way, lifted up the card table, knocking the guitar to the floor. I cried with anger and disappointment, but it was only cracked, not broken, and could most likely be fixed. After the holidays, my husband and I took the guitar to a luthier in Lawton, who said he would fix it and not charge us much. He showed us a classical guitar he'd made, and we both strummed it a bit; it sounded like heaven. It had a full, mellow, clear, lovely sound that I'd not heard before, and we coveted it. He was asking $75 for it. I'd paid $25 at the pawn shop for the Harmony, and this wonderful guitar was only 3 times as much. But for us, then, $75 was what $750 is now--at least. That was our monthly rent. We couldn't buy it.
I can't remember exactly when I bought my present guitar, but I was back in the Buffalo area, and I played mostly in the summer when the family was at Kirk Kove, our Canadian retreat. It was a family fishing resort, with our house the first place on the right as you drove in, built in 1924, most likely before the resort was built. In the summer, when lots of kids were around, there were events in the rec hall, and Thursdays were "talent night". Skits were performed, mostly by kids, and then my 2nd husband John and I would sing folk songs--Four Strong Winds, This Land is Your Land, Whisky in the Jar, and too many others to list. One of my favorite memories of Kirk Kove is sitting on our porch at the top of the hill (a small hill, but a hill nonetheless) in the evening, watching the swallows swoop for mosquitoes, and rehearsing whatever we were going to sing that week.
But I neither sing nor play anymore, and the ol' fingers are quite rusty on the few occasions I've picked up a guitar. Both sons have at least one guitar that I could play when I visit them if the need arose. That thought makes me laugh. If the need arose. Right.
Several years ago I took classical lessons for a couple of months, and it was incredibly hard for me to make the stretches my fingers had to make. And aside from whatever pleasure I might eventually have for being able to play a tiny bit, what would I do with it? Impose on my friends and say, "Oh, look at what I learned over the last 6 months!"? No, that's not me.
Four years ago I attended my son Scott's first Gypsy Jam, held at the wonderful Pollywogg Holler in New York State's Southern Tier. I borrowed a friends hard case so I could check my guitar during the flights. I played a couple of things--badly, as I remember--but people were kind, and I knew it would be the only time I'd play at Gypsy Jam, no matter how many more times I might attend the event.
So I look at the once beloved guitar, in its case inside two plastic garbage bags, and wonder why on earth I should keep it around. There is no reason. Why, then, are these tears in my eyes? Eventually I will move from this house, and far more will have to be sold or given away. Perhaps I'll wait until I can let go of my guitar without tears.
July 23, 2009
A few months ago I joined Facebook. I was getting kind of bored, I guess, and my blog muse would disappear for days on end. It didn't take long before I had several friends (mostly relatives) and as time went on, more and more people appeared. Most of them were also new to Facebook, and even now there are new people every day. To say that connecting with old friends--particularly old relatives (not in the age sense), such as a former daughter-in-law, a former daughter-out-law, former step-children I'd not spoken with in years--is a rewarding and touching experience. I don't have to "talk" with these old friends every day; it's enough to know that I can send them a message, that I can drop in on their Facebook page to see what's happening, that they are once again somehow in my life. It warms my heart.
Many of these people--friends and family alike--have not been a part of my life for one reason or another. I moved away. I'm no longer married to their father. They're no longer the significant other of a son. They're children of friends with whom I'm no longer close, but who grew up with my children. There are people from my church that I see on Sundays or on other church functions, but that I really don't know very well, and I find that I am learning about them as they are in their "real" life.
Facebook is about the intricate connections we all have in our lives--those scattered far and wide, those down the street that we don't get to spend time with. I am thrilled to have all these people--past and present--together in one place that I can access almost any time or from almost any place.
I can even learn what my son and daughter-in-law's tavern is serving for lunch every day. How cool is that!
Many of these people--friends and family alike--have not been a part of my life for one reason or another. I moved away. I'm no longer married to their father. They're no longer the significant other of a son. They're children of friends with whom I'm no longer close, but who grew up with my children. There are people from my church that I see on Sundays or on other church functions, but that I really don't know very well, and I find that I am learning about them as they are in their "real" life.
Facebook is about the intricate connections we all have in our lives--those scattered far and wide, those down the street that we don't get to spend time with. I am thrilled to have all these people--past and present--together in one place that I can access almost any time or from almost any place.
I can even learn what my son and daughter-in-law's tavern is serving for lunch every day. How cool is that!
July 14, 2009
Losing Ribble
Chances are, if you’ve ever had a pet, you’ve experienced a loss when they’ve died, disappeared, or you've had to leave them behind. It can be a powerful grief.
My really close friend Cabby literally lost her cat Ribble last Sunday morning, and when she told me, I was sad, although nowhere near as sad as she. I’m sad for Cabby who’s feeling guilty and bereft, but also for Ribble, whose actual fate is unknown.
Cabby has two other cats, but Ribble is her most recent acquisition, and she was drawn to him because he is a Manx (tailless) and because he’s an orange cat. She learned that he also doesn’t object to riding in a car, and she thinks he actually likes it. She takes him with her when she goes out to photograph birds, sometimes a day trip, sometimes overnight, and he is an excellent companion for her. And when she’d come over the hill from Reno to San Jose to visit, she’d bring Ribble, along with her two birds. That my cat Sheba would head for the hills whenever Ribble showed up is not at issue, but Cabby decided to keep Ribble pretty much confined to the spare bedroom where she sleeps when she visits.
So I got to know Ribble too, and he is a delightful little guy, and if he and my Riley hissed at each other for a while, that was OK. After three or four visits, they learned to accept one another. And I came to love Ribble too.
So when Cabby called me Sunday from somewhere near Fallon, NV, to tell me that she’d lost Ribble and couldn’t find him, I was distressed. She’d stayed in Winnemucca Saturday night, then planned to stop at the Wetlands near Fallon. She made a couple of stops to photograph the birds, then realized that Ribble wasn’t in the car anymore. She returned to the two places she’d stopped, found nothing, and asked park workers to call her if they saw a tailless orange cat sporting a black harness. Then she realized she left her cell phone (and only phone) in Winnemucca, so drove 2 hours East to retrieve the phone, then 2 hours back. She continued to search for Ribble, and spent last night in Fallon to resume the search on Monday morning.
When she called me Monday morning at work, it wasn’t with the good news I’d hoped for; she couldn’t find him anywhere. She said there were coyotes all over, and hawks, perhaps eagles, and Ribble was certainly no match for a coyote, and even if a raptor couldn’t lift the little guy, he could be badly damaged by talons.
She was crying, and I cried with her. She said she was done looking, had spent three hours in her search and was certain he was dead. We cried harder. She said she would go home, clean up and go to work to take her mind off Ribble.
Cabby is a superb photographer—not a professional, but only because she doesn’t want to bother with selling her art. If someone wants more than one picture, she’ll charge them only for paper and ink. When I received a later email from her saying she was going back to the Wetlands to keep looking, she said “I’ll never pick up a camera again.” Hopefully, that’s a statement spoken out of guilt and grief. It would be an even greater sadness for her to give up her passion for photography and birds.
I’ve had my own share of pet catastrophes, and with one of them I spent a lot of time with the woulda, coulda, shouldas, as I’m sure Cabby is doing. She doesn’t remember, but she may have left the car door open for a few seconds. Maybe the kitty jumped out an open window when she stopped. If only! If only she’d rolled up the window high enough to keep him in and let air in. If only she’d checked when she left the first place to make sure he was in the car. If only!
My heart goes out to her, and I prayed Sunday night about as hard as I’ve ever prayed for anything, that she and Ribble would be reunited. But she can’t take back whatever she did or didn’t do that could have led to his escape from the car.
To deny herself her passion—her photography—will not return Ribble to her, if he is indeed dead. I can see that it might be a painful reminder for a while, but my hope is that she will revoke her “never” statement and sadly but proudly return to her camera. It it’s anthropomorphizing to say this, then so be it, but I think Ribble would want her to do just that.
I’m still hoping that Ribble is out there somewhere, laying low, rolling in whatever’s necessary to cover his scent, and will survive his ordeal.
He’s not used up all nine lives yet.
More to come...
My really close friend Cabby literally lost her cat Ribble last Sunday morning, and when she told me, I was sad, although nowhere near as sad as she. I’m sad for Cabby who’s feeling guilty and bereft, but also for Ribble, whose actual fate is unknown.
Cabby has two other cats, but Ribble is her most recent acquisition, and she was drawn to him because he is a Manx (tailless) and because he’s an orange cat. She learned that he also doesn’t object to riding in a car, and she thinks he actually likes it. She takes him with her when she goes out to photograph birds, sometimes a day trip, sometimes overnight, and he is an excellent companion for her. And when she’d come over the hill from Reno to San Jose to visit, she’d bring Ribble, along with her two birds. That my cat Sheba would head for the hills whenever Ribble showed up is not at issue, but Cabby decided to keep Ribble pretty much confined to the spare bedroom where she sleeps when she visits.
So I got to know Ribble too, and he is a delightful little guy, and if he and my Riley hissed at each other for a while, that was OK. After three or four visits, they learned to accept one another. And I came to love Ribble too.
So when Cabby called me Sunday from somewhere near Fallon, NV, to tell me that she’d lost Ribble and couldn’t find him, I was distressed. She’d stayed in Winnemucca Saturday night, then planned to stop at the Wetlands near Fallon. She made a couple of stops to photograph the birds, then realized that Ribble wasn’t in the car anymore. She returned to the two places she’d stopped, found nothing, and asked park workers to call her if they saw a tailless orange cat sporting a black harness. Then she realized she left her cell phone (and only phone) in Winnemucca, so drove 2 hours East to retrieve the phone, then 2 hours back. She continued to search for Ribble, and spent last night in Fallon to resume the search on Monday morning.
When she called me Monday morning at work, it wasn’t with the good news I’d hoped for; she couldn’t find him anywhere. She said there were coyotes all over, and hawks, perhaps eagles, and Ribble was certainly no match for a coyote, and even if a raptor couldn’t lift the little guy, he could be badly damaged by talons.
She was crying, and I cried with her. She said she was done looking, had spent three hours in her search and was certain he was dead. We cried harder. She said she would go home, clean up and go to work to take her mind off Ribble.
Cabby is a superb photographer—not a professional, but only because she doesn’t want to bother with selling her art. If someone wants more than one picture, she’ll charge them only for paper and ink. When I received a later email from her saying she was going back to the Wetlands to keep looking, she said “I’ll never pick up a camera again.” Hopefully, that’s a statement spoken out of guilt and grief. It would be an even greater sadness for her to give up her passion for photography and birds.
I’ve had my own share of pet catastrophes, and with one of them I spent a lot of time with the woulda, coulda, shouldas, as I’m sure Cabby is doing. She doesn’t remember, but she may have left the car door open for a few seconds. Maybe the kitty jumped out an open window when she stopped. If only! If only she’d rolled up the window high enough to keep him in and let air in. If only she’d checked when she left the first place to make sure he was in the car. If only!
My heart goes out to her, and I prayed Sunday night about as hard as I’ve ever prayed for anything, that she and Ribble would be reunited. But she can’t take back whatever she did or didn’t do that could have led to his escape from the car.
To deny herself her passion—her photography—will not return Ribble to her, if he is indeed dead. I can see that it might be a painful reminder for a while, but my hope is that she will revoke her “never” statement and sadly but proudly return to her camera. It it’s anthropomorphizing to say this, then so be it, but I think Ribble would want her to do just that.
I’m still hoping that Ribble is out there somewhere, laying low, rolling in whatever’s necessary to cover his scent, and will survive his ordeal.
He’s not used up all nine lives yet.
More to come...
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