A reminder of who we are. Cherish your world.
Life is a moment.
A reminder of who we are. Cherish your world.
Cats. Can you do it? Can you truly invite them into your home as a guest?
No. I’m afraid not. You invite them to rule. They dictate. Even at a tiny age. This is what we have endured and enjoyed for the last 3 weeks.
They were “dropping like flies” in the milking parlor. Kittens mixed in with cows haven’t got much of a chance. The cows are gentle, yes, but they are BIG. And kittens tend to get lost outdoors. So, as a last ditch effort, as we found, we brought into the house (even though forbidden by the farmer, the farmer brought them in)!
This is Olive and Rambo. There is always someone mewing! Olive can be quite vocal. And she talks in her throat quite a bit too, when not commanding.
We have learned to tiptoe so as to not wake them. (I have dubbed them screaming meanies–they hear and they come running, they all start mewing and trying to climb upon you! You hide in the bedroom, hoping they will fall asleep, and the last 3 nights, they have found us anyway, and climbed into the bed with us, I gave in, what can I say?)
Very smart, they took right to their facilities and have eaten quite well. We spent time on the internet to try to figure it out, kitten milk vs. cow milk and digestive systems, etc.
Being so little, we have had to teach them to bathe. They get bathed daily. So far they don’t know that cats and kittens don’t like water. And then they get a blow dry.
They are front and center on love.
Or waiting for it.
They have warmed their way into our hearts!
They all will have new homes today. And we will have kitten liberation.
But we will miss them, just a little bit!
“To every time, there is a season…and a time…” (Ecclesiastes 3)
While I wait for my hard boiled eggs, I contemplate the timer. Honestly, I have it set to go off every 2 minutes until it starts boiling. Why, you ask? Why don’t you just wait for the boil? Have you ever sat and waited for a pot to boil? Not the easy thing to do, in this day of instant answers.
So, why do I do it? Because I have forgotten. I have boiled things dry. I have ruined my Welsh pot by letting it boil dry (so sad). I have walked out the door and left the electric coffee pot on, because the green light (that states “ready”) has burned out. It still perks great coffee, but I came home yesterday to find that it hadn’t been unplugged. Hey, no little green light, everyone thinks it’s off.
I use cast iron cookware. The first “teflon” created, I love using this stuff! But it needs care. I set it on the stove, freshly washed, and turn on the burner to dry it (or it will rust). Hoo boy! Here we go again. I walked away for about an hour and did not remember it was on because I did not set the timer as a reminder.
Yes, timing can be everything. I could go on and on. Waking up in the middle of the night and never getting back to sleep because my timing is “off.” A discussion with my daughter revealed that “time passes quickly.” Wow! You’re not kidding! Here I am at 61 and it’s going faster and faster!
Take advantage of the hyphen — your life. Even if you have to set the timer. It does keep you moving, it does keep you safe.
I got stuck in the 60s tonight. I watched one of my favorites: The Newlywed Game. All of them. On YouTube. I admired the bride’s hair: the big beehive ‘do. The mascara and eye shadow. The California lifestyle.
Do you remember that game? We would play it by the hour. You’d draw a chart, naming your choices of places to live, boys’ names (to marry), a car to drive and a career. I cannot remember the counting formula, perhaps one of my readers can. Anyway, count away and you’d find your destiny.
I think I always had choices of California, Florida, or … I don’t remember having any other! Maybe I chose Hawaii. But certainly not my home town.
I’m not sure of his profession, but it was the man’s profession, for sure.
I do not remember the rest. I’m sure a color and a car were significant.
I will always remember how I thought the best place in the world had to be California. I was definitely a California girl. In my dreams.
I’m 61. My dreams have changed. Oh sure, I have visited California. A Californian friend even stated that there is no other place in the world to live! But I do admit, i love my small village I returned to, I love my farm and I love (even more) my farmer, who makes life worthwhile and every day a priceless treasure! (Thank you, Ross).
Still, there is a little girl…and her little girl dreams….
I’m so tired of news. Man vs. Nature. What do they expect? Seriously! We mess with the land, we try to tame nature. There is no taming her. She will take over whenever man tries to control her too much. When will we learn to respect her? Leave the Everglades alone, respond to the cities and leave if you need to!
Leave her for a few moments, she will take over her world. This is her world. It’s not nice to try to fool Mother Natire, after all.
Not so long ago, I did an essay on FEET. Yes. I did. Written on an envelope in a moment of complete creativity, and remembrance of…wait. My feet. I can’t remember my feet!
I haven’t much recollection of them, but here’s a stab at it.
I don’t remember much, but I do remember cotton Carter pajamas with feet in them, and the little dots to keep me from slipping. I’m not so sure they actually worked, but I do remember with sadness my mother cutting them off because they were the first part that wore out on the pajama. (that’s me, the little one, with the pajama feet missing).
The next instant I distinctly remember is the saddle shoe. Oh, there were buckle shoes for church and special occasions, but your every day was the saddle shoe.
Third grade I had the greatest pair of shoes, I can barely remember them, they were tan, but they collapsed midway through and we bought a cheap substitute and they hurt my feet, I do remember that. They had ridges on the soles. My poor choice.
More modern buckle shoes, and then in 7th grade came the chunky heel. And a classmate had the same shoe. I thought “hey, neat!” but she thought otherwise and dark polished hers, so as not to be on the same level as me. I didn’t quite understand, but kids can be like that.
Between my junior and senior year of high school, I remember a pair of sandals that were very comfortable, and my boyfriend at that time told me I had bony feet. I was a little embarrassed. (And his feet were probably not the greatest.) I had a bike accident though, and those sandals were destroyed (which will make a great new story at some point, the bike accident, not the sandal destruction). We both bought water buffalo sandals. His broke in nicely, while mine fell apart. Mom wouldn’t pay for another pair (can you blame her? No).
When one is criticized, they carry that criticism, no matter who else comes to bat and rescues them from that bad dream. It took me many years to get over the bony feet comment.
In 1975 the world turned to the platform shoe. I remember buying a pair that were extremely comfortable. This was the day and age that we still had the old fashioned shoe store and you were waited on. I loved these stores. They were bright and you were always measured. There were large store front windows, this was a day and age where the mall was still too far away from your doorstep and downtown still prosperous and active. Anyway, I bought these great platform shoes for work. They had ties and a nice tight fit. My mother had a fit, “you’ll break your neck!” she exclaimed. I took them back the next day.
The earth shoe. They were the replacement for another pair of platforms that I’d worn all throughout work, and then I changed jobs and became the mail girl. The earth shoes were now a replacement, based on bruised toes from walking the halls all day. They lasted awhile, but had to be replaced eventually, and then I got a pair that were in the bruised and dented collection at the shoe outlet. Yes, shoes were now gaining in price and as a young 20 year old, I had to watch my budget. They were still ties, but they had a nudge on the suede, which became a tear, and they fell apart rather quickly.
Then I had a black pair of wedge shoes. They lasted quite awhile. Days of wedge shoes and Converse sneakers, which lasted quite awhile.
I got married and wore white high heeled sandals, which went over into work, and I wore them to my job interview at St. Joseph’s College (before it became a university) at the AFROTC. I got the job, with my hair in a cute perm and a lace collared dress, and those white sandals!
I remember wanting to wear a pair of wooden shoes with bright colored leather that had been my mother-in-law’s when she and her husband went to Cuba, in the 50’s I believe. Just a little too big, but they were beauties! And then I had a pair of green suede sandals that I loved. But there was a bunch in the shoe I did not realize, and by the time I’d walked to work (3 blocks to my office), I had damaged the padding of my left foot badly, and it lingers to this day, causing me to only be able to buy any shoe that I have to practice and the slightest discomfort (which quickly turns to crippling) return, limiting me to Adidas in sneakers and now the Merrill’s for shoes.
Life goes in a fuzz and I cannot remember the shoes in between. Let us fast forward to today, when I rely on my Merrill’s to keep my feet safe. I fell several years ago now, and injured my right foot, wearing a pair of sandals that were supposed to be good support, but stepping on the curb in a hurry, twisted it. Ever since then, any shoe that hasn’t the support I cannot wear.
Oh. An autoimmune disorder exists now, too. Suddenly I couldn’t wear shoes and was reduced to spa shoes, that stuck to my soles. That was difficult. Stelara to the rescue, and my feet are back “in business.”
I do have a pair of sandals that hug my feet tight, but they are falling apart and the glue from the cobbler’s is only a temporary fix.
Anyway, I’ve come a long way from footie pajamas and saddle shoes. And I do like my feet. The farmer tells me they are beautiful, as he massages them.
Life is good. Hug and kiss your children’s (and grandchildren’s) feet. They are precious. And tell them their feet are beautiful. They carry us great distances, and we need to pay attention to them!
A friend pointed out to me an article in The Conservationist, a circular that encompasses New York State wildlife. An Emerson fan, she thought of me when the author of an article spoke of Emerson. Naturally drawn to Emerson, I looked up the article, Chomping at Nature’s Bit by Eli Knapp. There it was. “Adapt the pace of nature, her secret is patience.”
I can agree with this concept. Nature is very patient. She wait for us to mess up, then she calmly takes over. Paved roads break up while she takes over. Brush grows up in fields that the farmer has kept plowed, our neglect becomes her tapestry.
I have forbidden the groundhog hunt here on our civilized patch. Build more garden, share it, I say (I’m not the one building the garden, easy for me to say). Then again, if you need to remove them, do not ever let me know. I cannot bear the thought. I’m definitely a human heart here, while they live on instinct, and the reality of the world is that, if we want to keep our crops for harvest, we need to limit their “help” in harvesting!
Back to the subject at hand, Emerson and Nature. I encourage you to read his essay. Absorb it. Be patient with it.
In patience, I seek a word from this essay to inspire you, my readers, to seek. Difficult at the least, I send you this: Nature is loved by what is best in us. It is loved as the city of God. I dare not say more, at least, not now. Emerson is difficult in that we cannot take mere quotes and have them realized in and of themselves, they must be coupled with the rest of the essay. The one thing I have learned from Emerson can bring my defeat as his follower: Lay this volume down. You had better never see my essays than to be warped by their attraction out of your own orbit and be made my satellite. Then let me lay this volume down, and step outdoors where my dog absorbs nature, she is my lesson. As are the birds, the groundhog, and the breeze which blows against my face.