SWEATSHIRTS AND DIGRESSIONS

Who doesn't love a sweatshirt?  Not just marvelously cozy, they are blessedly…yea… INFINITELY more forgiving than the average sleeveless summer top.  (Just wait, you lovely well-toned under 40 crowd….one day you too will be waving at a friend, maybe trying wildly to catch someone’s attention with your upper extremities when suddenly you become abysmally alert to the sound of your own arms flapping like a flying squirrel… With morbid curiosity and severe incredulity, you ask yourself, HOW does this happen?!!! Without warning, you have  suddenly become one of THEM.  The unfortunate ladies who have happily donned tank tops and collected shoulder freckles their ENTIRE LIVES, but now find themselves among the luckless who should without delay CEASE AND DESIST wearing anything remotely sleeveless.  And with pronounced and sad irony, this occurs at the very time in your life when you detest sleeves.  You detest ANY sort of wrapping or fabric constraint as your internal body temperature has intermittently and inelegantly risen to heretofore unattained heights…let’s say heights something akin to the temperature of flaming hot caramel or maybe more accurately molten lava…)  But I digress. 

Weary of wilting in the August sun and other irritating flashes of extreme temperature, I’ve had my fill of heat and humidity.  Finally, Fahrenheit degrees are tumbling and it appears there is relief in sight.   Just as I’ve been longing for sweatshirt weather, a lovely crisp breeze is actually blowing through my window this evening.  Drawn to the light in my hallway, stupid kamikaze bugs are banging their insect heads against the screen of my front door in a rather catchy rhythmic fashion. These banging heads sound too large to be mosquitos (the bane of my summer evening enjoyment and another darn good reason for sleeves…)   (Digression 2: ) You see, I’m a magnet for those maddening little phlebotomists. Apparently, my blood seems to be unnaturally delicious to the dreaded “Order of the Diptera” and I’m fairly certain all 3,000 species of mosquito have tasted me at least once this summer.  I’m itchy just thinking of it…..  Back to the sweatshirt…

 I’m rather an autumn junkie.  The approach of September and the end of lazy summertime always manage to make me a little melancholy.  It’s the time of year I actually have to go earn my keep. However, once I get over the shock of waking to an alarm, I get back into my school nurse routine.  And with the predictability of my days, I can begin once again to appreciate all the seasonal things that make me smile.   Allow me to bore you with some of them.

There is, after all, the first glass of chilled Bauman’s apple cider to consider.  There’s nothing like it.  If you have a crunchy Sweetzel’s spiced wafer to go with your cider, you are a blessed person. Don’t settle for any other brand of cider or cookie as none can compare.  (And don’t EVEN be one of those people who attempts to heat and “mull” my cider.  If I wanted potpourri in my cider, I’d throw some perfumed cinnamon mulch in there myself.  If I wanted a hot beverage, I’d drink one of the countless hot beverages historically available.  Does anyone try to heat Coca Cola?  I don’t think so.  So why are we trying to ruin my cider?

And you know what’s about to happen at the foot of my front step?  That cute little Travelocity gnome (whom Aubrey, for whatever peculiar reason, has named Xavier….) (Digression 3:) The gnome really looks much more like a Sven or a Nikolas with his red cap and white beard... Xavier makes no sense at all for a garden gnome... despite his penchant for travel...) As I was saying, dear vertically-challenged Xavier is going to get to see the whole thing.  All summer long the trimmed and patient green stems of my chrysanthemum plants have been biding their time.  Boring green stalks, giving plain backdrop to the show going on around them. They (and Xavier) have watched as the astilbe, the coneflowers and the hydrangea have boasted riots of color, shouting their undeniable moments of blooming sovereignty while the marigolds and petunias (less capable of pulling off such a grand performance) look on in awe.  But just as my sad little spent garden is drooping and turning brittle, hundreds of buds are poised to burst into stars of rich color.  There is NOTHING as festive as fall mums in bloom. 

My husband and I were married during the most beautiful week of the year, mid-October when the leaves are vibrant and the air is crisp.  It’s that spectacularly perfect time of year when it is too late for a hot day and too early for scraping ice and shoveling snow.  Our wedding was on Sweetest Day, 1983.  And it was the sweetest day. 

Have you ever stopped to truly appreciate a leaf?  They start out as blossoms in the springtime, progressing to shelter us with shade when we are wilting in the heat.  They turn amazing hues in autumn and then (if you aren’t the poor guy who has to rake them) they provide wonderful sensory activity for your ears and feet. Don’t you just LOVE the fabulously satisfying sound of leaves crunching under your shoes?  (My husband would say that I feel this way because I don’t have to rake them and HE does…) Hey, I’ve raked leaves…  A few times… When I was young and didn't have a choice....Or a  husband and children to do it.... Besides, I’ve got other important work to do…  In the house…  Important work that does not require a rake...  (Digression 4: in the form of a tip for the misunderstood pitiable rakers among us…)  Get out your push mower and drive over those pesky leaves a few dozen times until the crunch is gone and all you’ve got left is a fine mulch.  Spread evenly, it makes a lovely protection to feed your grass all winter long and doesn’t require bagging unless you have a forest for a lawn.  And if you’ve got the luxury of a self-bagging mower, is it your lucky day, or WHAT?!

And that brings us back to ENJOYING the leaves.  I do so look forward to the splendid crunching ahead.  If you would like to crunch with me, give me a call.  I’m always up for a good crunch through the park. And if my internal thermostat is cooperating, I will wear my sweatshirt for the occasion.

World's Worst Cook

I’ve had the pleasure of telling this story in the Penn View Cookbook and again in my column for Purpose.  But I didn’t want my blog friends to miss hearing about my incredible friend Kelly.  Though eager and well-intentioned, she is truly wretched in the kitchen. 

Kelly is arguably the world’s worst cook. Her meals have literally been inedible and illness-producing.  Entrees have been mistaken for inanimate objects (like rocks.) Thanksgiving Day 2004 was the pinnacle.

Pregnant with her third child, she spent weeks watching Food Network, gathering recipes, and dreaming about impressing her family. But on Wednesday evening she had not yet begun to thaw her 15 pound turkey. She placed it in the refrigerator and hoped for the best. On Thanksgiving morning, she put the bird in the oven with optimism. Her mother-in-law arrived with mashed potatoes in hand. Kelly placed these in the oven with the turkey and began mashing her very solid cranberries for fresh sauce. She’d never been told cranberries need cooking before mashing… Moving on to the fresh chestnut stuffing, she sent her husband out into the 40 degree rain and 40 mile per hour winds to grill squash. Under his umbrella, he noted that the holiday wind was effectively and repeatedly extinguishing his flame. When the poor man returned to the kitchen, Kelly asked him to retrieve the blender so she could finish the sauce for the painstakingly grilled squash. (It was at this critical juncture she discovered that boiling hot liquids should not be processed in the blender.) The ensuing explosion resulted in noteworthy burns to her husband’s arms. Not daunted, Kelly pressed on, pulling the turkey from the oven and asking her father to carve. The inside of the bird was frozen solid. She returned it to the oven and turned up the temperature (completely forgetting about the potatoes…which soon ignited.)  Poor abused husband bandaged (and smoke billowing), our tenacious cook placed the few salvageable items on the table for consumption. Kelly’s family reminisced about red can-shaped cranberry sauce and boxed stuffing. The turkey never cooked completely. The guests attempted consolation by attempting to eat the store-bought pumpkin pie, which Kelly imagined she could not ruin. But lo and behold, instructions on the box detailed BAKING prior to eating… Much much later, the starving revelers ate flaming hot pumpkin pie straight from the oven.

You’ll be relieved to know, Kelly no longer cooks Thanksgiving dinner.  And for that, her family is thankful!

But in reality, all of us need to be thankful we’ve got food of any kind on our tables. We are a privileged people, with bellies full enough to let us laugh at errors in cuisine. Would that our global family could experience the same. 

WHY I SHOULDN’T WEAR WHITE PANTS

I should never have bought the pants.

The self-debate at Kohl’s was pretty extensive. You see, I have a longstanding love-hate relationship with white pants.  Basically, I love to see other people wearing them.  So stylish. So chic. But my years collecting stains in a white nurse’s uniform have caused some hard feelings when I become the wearer.  And so I’ve done without white since about 1989.  Add to the equation the ongoing debate about white pants before certain holidays and you have yourself a dilemma.  Historically, people who care about this sort of thing claimed it was a faux pas to wear white before Memorial Day.  But then some lobbyist (we can assume a marketer for the garment industry) infiltrated the naysayers and the fresh “rule” became Easter.  I’m certain persnickety fashion police are still cringing over this modification.   Personally, I say if the Middle School kids at Penn View can wear flip-flops in January, I can do anything I want. (But I digress… shocking, I know….)

So I was running about 15 minutes late this morning. There are 35 days left on the school calendar and I am becoming increasingly immune to the piercing sounds of my alarm clock snoozing for the sixth time. A pitiful excuse, but there you have it. 

I wore my newly acquired white Capri slacks on Sunday morning and nothing untoward occurred so I decided that even though it is only April 19^th (scandalous!) I was home free for a weekday white fabric debut. I dressed quickly and headed downstairs. Per my usual mode of operation, I was trying to do several things at the same time. Having a heartfelt conversation with Jasmine the cat, I dropped tuna in her bowl, filled her water dish and zoomed around the kitchen stuffing paperwork in my bag and putting the finishing touches on two packed lunches.  The Oreos in Aubrey’s lunch were my undoing; I should have stopped with the apple.  As I reached into our congested pantry to extricate the Oreos, I leaned too heavily on the baking shelf supplies and was cognizant of something rather heavy falling to the tiled floor with a thud.  I found myself coughing on unexpected airborne powder as a brown mushroom cloud erupted with convincing gusto. And there I was… standing in a pile of Hershey’s cocoa.  It was an imposing mound, deep enough for enterprising canines to hide bones or other small treasures and covering a rather astonishing surface area of my kitchen floor.  Truly, it looked more like a newly excavated construction site than the pleasantly scented (albeit untimely) disaster it was. My sandaled feet were covered in dust and the left cuff of my heretofore pristine pant leg was wholly enveloped in brown.  I was momentarily speechless.  What are the chances of white pants and brown cocoa powder coming together in such an unanticipated manner?  It was a perfect morning storm.

I have spent hundreds (maybe thousands) of hours baking.  You’d think a person responsible for that many cakes, cookies, brownies, muffins and pies would know what happens to heaping quantities of cocoa powder when one adds water - but apparently you would be giving me more credit than is due.  Because before long, (and while utilizing every yoga move known to man which does not include resting white panted knees on the floor while stooping to undo my Hershey disorder) I had created a chocolaty sludge suggestive of some lucky swine’s habitat. An impressive mess by any standard.

There was no time to change my outfit, so all I could do was brush away most of the clingy powder and hope for the best.  (I will attempt the vacuum cleaner hose when I am done blogging this nonsense.) Aubrey claimed it just looked like a “shadow” over my cuff, but she might have said whatever was necessary at that point to direct her well-powdered and teetering mother away from the edge of Crazy Ravine.

When I am agitated and otherwise talking unremittingly about whatever current baloney has befallen me, I tend to get hiccups.  This morning’s cocoa incident was no exception.  When normal people get hiccups, there is a delicate (dare I say discreet) hum – usually followed by gentle cadenced shoulder movements and nobody really noticing what is transpiring.  NOT SO when I get hiccups.  As with most things in my life, my hiccup events are pure drama. My family receives great delight in listening to me battle hiccups.  This is because the sounds coming from my petite aging frame sound very much like a baby dragon trying with great persistence to get the Mama Dragon to pay attention to its pitiful pleas.  I can’t squelch the awkward noises I make and the harder I try- the more absurd I sound.  Jim and both of my children (in their charming benevolence) laugh heartily and mercilessly when I am unfortunate enough to succumb to a severe episode.

My brown pant leg and my rhythmic dragon sounds were the backdrop for a TRULY annoying drive to work this morning.  To Aubrey’s credit (and notwithstanding the relentless torture of the dragon concert) she kept any eye rolling to a bare minimum. 

Though it was a CRAZY busy morning (my rather serious stance prompting one of the 6^th grade wisenheimers to say: “Mrs. Shelly – why don’t you SMILE? You’re God’s creation!”), all major glitches appear to have occurred before I reached my desk this morning.  Nobody noticed my cocoa shadow, nobody offered unwanted fashion counsel about my inappropriate display of white before the end of May, and the only residual side effect was my nearly overwhelming desire to eat something chocolate…  When I finish attempting to vacuum my pant cuff, maybe I'll have an Oreo. 

THE SHOES

The memory still hurts my eyes; that morning sun intense against my four-year-old squint. I stood with my Dad and big sister in front of the family car on Jefferson Street in East Greenville.  It was a Kodak moment.

Easter morning was upon us and my mother had chosen to dress her daughters alike but different.  My mother was quite fashionable... a real trend-setter.  So by default, we (her offspring) were small palettes for her wonderful creativity. Let’s just say we were sporting some serious 1960s couture…  My shoes were a dazzling yellow and shiny to the point of distraction, their excessive polish causing a hazardous mirroring effect.  My sister had a flashy spring green pair.   I was loath to be seen, let alone stand alongside my sister thereby accentuating our flamboyancy. And you will note in the photo: my Easter bonnet did not provide ample sun protection for the eyes. 

It’s the stuff from which memories are spun. We all have our holiday recollections. Those tidbits which have indelibly defined and marked us. The cobwebs in our brains which serve to connect our small personal stitches to a weaving much much larger and more vibrant. I remember (as though it were yesterday) an Easter table at which my Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother tried to convince me that hot bacon dressing somehow makes backyard dandelion greens palatable.  C'mon Grammy, I've SEEN those weeds in the yard.  I've WATCHED people from my own tribe trying to DESTROY them.  And yet they are on the holiday table in a crystal bowl...  


I also have vivid memories of Good Friday services in my family’s very old and wholly traditional church before I became a Mennonite.  After a somber gathering and dreadful words about how they crucified Jesus, the pastor in his heavy robes would slam shut his big book and exclaim, “It is finished!”  Whoa. My little feet would shuffle out quietly and I’d attempt to go back to my ordinary life. It was a very long week. To my young self, it seemed an eternity until we could return again on Sunday morning for something less tragic.  On that glorious day, I’d arrive in my finery with chocolate rabbit on my breath. I’d delight in how the bright purple velvet of Lent was replaced with snowy white cloths across the front of the church.  We’d sing Hallelujah and breathe a grateful sigh of relief that it wasn’t “finished” after all.   Jesus had risen.  He had risen indeed.

I’m not sure how old I was when I realized we weren’t crucifying Jesus every year and actually waiting for him to rise from the tomb.  But looking back and feeling the sadness of his undeserved death and the weight of my own sin, I know now it was a pretty effective reminder of the heavy price paid for my deliverance. 

Salvation is a miraculous gift.  How can we not rejoice in that new life in Christ? We've been adopted by a King and given a clean slate. It's ours for the asking...free and clear with no strings attached. An amazingly beautiful thing. And if we want to, we even get to wear shiny shoes to the celebration.    

Oh Tom...

The first time we drove by, they looked like dark feathery blurs. Enormous brown blurs, strolling down a dirt lane, about 100 feet from our speeding Saab.  Aubrey in the back seat was incredulous. “Were those birds?”  Being pretty sure we had just zipped by a small flock of turkeys, I was anxious for Jim to turn the car around so we could have a better look.  Our church pew arrival was going to be several minutes late anyway... Having missed the spectacle entirely, Jim’s curiosity was piqued too.  So making an impressive illegal U-turn, we headed back to investigate.

Sure enough, we were rewarded with the sight of nine wild turkeys, some of them rather large. Seven were minding their own business….meandering slowly down the path, pecking at the ground and enjoying the first luckless insects of spring.  But the remaining two fowl were making a preposterous display of themselves.  One at each end of the throng, they jockeyed for position as they held their female audience captive between them.  Each had their tail feathers spread to a ridiculous span, trying to arrest the attention of their seven female counterparts (which were by and large ignoring the herculean efforts of the males.)  Strutting along with Y chromosome extensively displayed, those outlandish birds could hardly keep themselves upright.  Just as one of the Toms was at his most puffed up and vain, he would begin to list to the left…his great and arrogant feather weight drawing his body sideways in a bizarre swaying motion.  He would regain his composure, only to find himself side-stepping in the opposite direction as he moved with barely controlled tumble, this time to the right.  Pitiful and amusing to watch, he had no choice but to follow his outstretched feathery display, over to the left…..oh dear - maybe to the right….whoa…... Imagine this with one turkey going one direction and the other fat turkey strutting his stuff in the reverse at the far end of the lane. Turkey feet doing a late seventies rendition of The Hustle. The choreography was hilarious.  And as all this nonsense was happening around them, the feathered women kept methodically pecking away at the ground, barely noticing the great heights to which those conceited boys ventured.  

Silly men, those Tom Turkeys.  They make things so hard for themselves.  Want to impress the girls?  Write her a letter with your scratchy turkey feet.  Bring her a daisy for no reason at all.  Or better yet, offer to scrub the kitchen floor.  Seriously.  No chest puffing or other nonsensical preening required.  

KITCHEN FRIGHT

I was putting away the dishes this evening.  Most modern women do this when they empty their dishwashers.  Since I am some kind of peculiar relic who has never fully departed the 60s (and since I happily use my dishwasher for the alphabetical storage of spices) I was pulling damp plates and glasses from my well-worn dish rack. As usual, there was “dish overflow” spilling out onto the toweled surface of my kitchen counter.  To any naysayers reading this particular post, I will say here that I stand FIRMLY by my dishwater theory. And I challenge any of you staunch automatic dishwasher supporters who believe that scraping, rinsing, arranging, processing, hearing incessant hum and sputter for an inordinate amount of water and heat-wasting time, and then finally arriving at emptying- only to discover ill-shapen plastic storage lids (and just narrowly escaping injury via loosened and relocated knives and other assorted sharp implements….) ...ahem... I defy you to consider that plunging ones hands therapeutically into hot soapy dishwater is a more effective process and an excellent remedy for most of the things that ail.  Wow, that was a long and unnecessary sentence.

Back to the story at hand…. I lifted a glass from the aforementioned overflow counter towel.  Said drinking glass had been resting upside-down for drainage and needed a quick swipe of my dish-towel.  But first, as if by reflex, I dislodged a foreign body which had mysteriously appeared and was somehow pressed onto the rim of the glass.  A pause.  Something was amiss. My dislodging finger was a beat or two ahead of my mind because as soon as I touched the foreign body, my mind snapped to horrified attention. A WORM.  A “c” shaped segment of EARTHWORM.  I shuddered and flicked with all of the flickiness I could muster and sent that worm sailing into the remnant bubbles in the sink.  But my overreaction was not finished.  I jumped up and down several times in complete disgust at having seen and TOUCHED a segment of worm.  A WHOLE earthworm would have been bad ENOUGH.  But a SEGMENT of earthworm that had been pinched in the center by the rim of a DRINKING glass was enough to skeeve me out COMPLETELY.  I began to retch and gag.  (I mean seriously, WHO dry-heaves from an earthworm segment?)  I continued my ridiculous display of shivering and jumping up and down, trying not to puke.  And with these calisthenics, my brain began to engage.  It is February.  I do not live in a mud hut.  My house could be accurately described as clean.  How could a worm have been strolling across my kitchen counter?  And if indeed this clever worm-pilgrim were journeying on my very own Hatfield kitchen counter in February, pray tell me WHAT has he done with the rest of his wormy segments?  

My eyes flew back to the worm carcass in the sink.  And that’s when I saw them.  The telltale freckles.  The worm was decidedly freckled.  He had salt freckles.  This dastardly worm which had so suddenly invaded the peaceful therapy of my dish detail was really….in fact….a stray piece of my snacking husband’s thin pretzels.  The offending pretzel “c” had swollen to a ghastly size due to the water draining from the drying glass.  I tell you, this pretzel was sporting a distinctly wormlike form.

I braced myself and exhaled.  And then in a grand and sweeping relief (and a nearly as grand and sweeping disgust at my own foolishness) I began to laugh until my daughter came out to discover what new nonsense had befallen her mother. 

There is never a dull moment.  And if you find you are having one, stop on by and I’ll put you to work washing some dishes.   Things are not always as bad as they seem. 

FORGIVE THE ATROCIOUS PHOTO - This was from Christmas and is the only dish-washing photo I own (Note: I do not wear sparkly Christmas tree t-shirts to wash dishes on a normal weekday evening...) 

A TRIBUTE TO A CAT

This is not the kind of thing I usually post on my blog. If you are not an animal lover, you should probably stop reading now. And to those who are bravely continuing on, I thank you for indulging  me as I remember a furry family member who left us yesterday.  This is my tribute to a very special cat.

My Memories of Life with a 15 Year Old Marvel 

Harley Shelly the Cat

·        The first time I laid eyes on him:  He and his small feisty littermates were in a cage at the local animal shelter.  All of his siblings came eagerly crawling over to meet me, hoping for some affection. Harley was not the least bit interested in socializing and instead, he attempted a daring escape, fleeing his jail entirely and hiding himself under the large row of cages.  I knew I had to have him.

·        10 year old Isaac named him Harley.  Because if and when he let us catch him, his insistent growling purr sounded surprisingly like a Harley Davidson.  Most of his first week on Roosevelt Boulevard was spent hiding behind the dryer and emerging sporadically with fluffy patches of lint clinging to his ears.

·        Jim was amused by the absolute disgust on Harley’s face when he was retrieved from a terrible appointment with a flea dipper.  They sent him back to us sporting a bandana scarf around his recently treated neck.  Devoid of cowboy aspirations, Harley distinctly loathed that scarf and it took him days to forgive us for the humiliation of it all.

·        As an adolescent cat, he stole rubber bands and stole our hearts, but also systematically drove us crazy by peeing willy-nilly on anything left on the floor that didn’t belong there.  I tried several times to convince coworkers and complete strangers to take him off my hands.  Maybe he was trying to make us tidy by insisting that everything remain where it belonged, but instead it made me INSANE.  In fact so insane that at one point upon discovering he had ‘watered’ the front room carpeting, I phoned Jim who was just landing in a plane at the Philadelphia Airport. I informed him with the hysteria a women who loves a clean house can rise to when confronted with cat leakage on her floor that I was on my knees and about to remove our carpeting with a steak knife.  In a calm and measured voice (as though speaking to a psychotic patient) Jim responded. “Brenda….can we talk about this when I get home?....”

·        It was fascinating how Harley was always sure the chicken or turkey roasting in the oven was being prepared expressly for him. He sat waiting in front of the stove and acted surprised when one of us accidentally stepped on him as we tried to wrestle the hot cooked bird from the oven.

·        I recall with great clarity the time I walked into the dining room when he was a kitten and a very small Aubrey was actually holding him by his ears.  His tiny triangular ears pinched mercilessly in each chubby toddler hand.  He was literally hanging by his ears. I ran over to rescue the poor cat and found him purring contentedly.  From that point on, he was on his own...

·        And then there was the evening our adventurous feline got stuck in the large dirt rabbit hole under the back deck (either out of curiosity or stupidity, we can’t be sure.)  Poor Jim had to pull the cat (which was by this point a ball of growling fur, flying claws, and piercingly sharp teeth) out of the hole by his back legs.  Obviously this resulted in severe bodily harm to the poor rescuer who stated emphatically that the next time Harley chose to get stuck down a rabbit hole, he would be more than happy to fill in the dirt around his fuzzy little behind.  (Okay, maybe my bleeding and furious husband didn’t say it quite that nicely….) We rarely let Harley outside and that little rabbit hole incident marked the last chapter in the Harley the Adventure Cat series.  He was forever relegated to window sitting and admiring the birds through glass. Given the muddy smear on his record, potted plants were as close to nature as he got.

·        One of my favorite memories was the afternoon Harley crept with impressive stealth over to the fireplace and suddenly stole about one-third of a large chocolate muffin from a paper plate.  He fled so quickly with his prize; he was nothing but a streak of fur and muffin.  The muffin was never seen again.

·        It was interesting, the way he loved females and was wary of nearly all men except for Jim, Isaac and my father.  His fear of heater repair men and other male visitors to our home drove him back behind the dryer again and again (though his enormous size in his middle years made it difficult to squeeze into the hiding spot he loved as a kitten.)

·        We found it remarkable how he would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down. I loved the fascinating satisfied hum (which was a fabulous combination of purr and chew), which he sang joyfully while munching on his food. 

·        The sound of a spoon being removed from a drawer, a pill being crushed, the ecstasy and tear of a can opener, or the simple movement of a bowl on the floor brought him flying into the kitchen with great speed.  But these sounds were rarely needed to summon him as he was nearly always already IN the kitchen asking annoyingly for a morsel of food (or sometimes displaying noteworthy control as he forced himself to wait patiently at the corner of the cabinets, his furry face filled with expectant hope. It was pathetic. His enthusiasm for eating was not only reserved for food.  When it was not mealtime, he was on more than one juncture seen grazing for delicious lint particles on the carpet of my bedroom floor (even once trying to lick the scent of bacon from my unsuspecting jeans on a Saturday morning.)

·        It was heartwarming the way he clearly adored his owner Isaac and his “sister” Aubrey.  If either were in the room, he only had eyes for them. And of course, his insistent and contented purring and kneading when he conquered the laps and chests of his family members will always be remembered.

·        Then there was his absolute disdain for the newcomer Jasmine, Aubrey’s Lynx Point Siamese with enormous blue eyes.  The two lived together in our home for about nine years. We hoped they would eventually come to admire each other.  But their relationship was more like the pesky and athletic little sister who persistently instigated trouble with her older brother vs. the intolerant brother who looked like he would fracture a hip if he attempted a leap and who growled in disapproval when the little sister came near his “stuff.”  (In his old green eyes, WE were apparently his stuff.)  Her elegant scheming wiles did nothing to charm him.  She flaunted herself as the queen of the castle and Harley viewed her as a bothersome usurper.

·        He couldn’t keep his paws out of my hair (and his fists from pushing down on my shoulders) when I sat on “his chair” <MY CHAIR!> to read.  Sometimes sniffing my shampoo from his position on the top of the upholstered chair wasn’t enough for him and I would have to stop him from tasting strands of my hair.

·        I loved how he “assisted” Aubrey with her geometry, sitting by her side on the couch, sending mathematical vibes of support to her thigh with his paw.

·        He was wild about watching all the festivities surrounding Christmas.  He loved the fresh cut tree and drank water from the tree-stand (despite frequent warnings to knock it off.) And on Christmas morning he enjoyed watching gift opening and could hardly wait to get tipsy with his latest catnip acquisition.

·        It was pitiful the way he lost the hair around his eyebrows from hyperthyroidism before his thyroid levels were restored to normal with medication. His altered facial expression looked perfectly pensive as though worrying about the economy or contemplating important matters like world peace and tuna fish. 

·        He was a big fat chicken when we had pet rabbits.  He was at least twice their weight yet he ran away with gusto, leaping high into the air to get away from them when they hopped over to innocently check him out.

·        And finally, I will never forget the way he had me wrapped around his little white-mittened paw.  Even after repeatedly peeing in places he was not permitted to pee, he somehow melted my heart when he came to sit with me and look at me affectionately.  There were more moments than I can count when his look of adoration drove me to stroke his pointy head, scratch his snowy white chin, and sing him his favorite song.  The Beatles performed it first, but the cat liked my version better.  “Oh Harley, please believe me….I’ll never do you no harm…”  He loved “his song” and pinched his eyes shut in approval.  (Being the cultured cat he was, he also thoroughly enjoyed a rousing rendition of “Senor Don Gato”, always appearing relieved when the love struck hero Don Gato came back to life after his terrible fall from the rooftop.)  Check youtube for the song if you are not as cultured as Harley.

RIP Sweet Harley.  Your family adored you and you will be sorely missed.

February 9, 2012