A Day at Laguna

For REAL, this day was! February 13, 2011

I hadn't been there since 1983. That was back when I was still relatively new to California and every weekend felt like a true vacation. Malibu. Santa Monica. Manhattan Beach, San Diego. Laguna. The place of art festivals. A then friend and I drove down. I look at those photos of the young us, remember how then I thought I was fat, when in fact, I was young and attractive and so unaware of it.

Nearly twenty eight years later. Laguna was the halfway meeting point for me, a friend who was visiting from out of town and another friend from San Diego, all of whom had met at their former workplace, still mine. We Californians had been having "bad" weather by our lights. Rain. And rain. So the weekend we all convened in Laguna was paradisal. Eating at Las Brisas, packed and full of enormous weekend energy. People walking all about. Skating. Drinking coffee, Starbuck's of course. I even forgot how hard it had been for me to find ANY parking space.

Such days are a blessing aren't they? With friends, a double blessing.

Missing Parker. . . .and Dreyfus.

So, I am on a cat kick. Well, actually I have always been on a cat kick, but I tend not to write that much about them. Just like most of my cat trinkets I did not buy; people bought them for me because, well, I am the Cat Lady of Spaulding Avenue. I want to be clear. I do not call myself a "cat mommy" and I do not think of my cats as children. They are, unto themselves. Beloved by me, but uncategorizable. But I digress, as is my wont.

My former upstairs neighbor, Holly, is a talented floral arranger. She does parties, and weddings and all sorts of fancy dos. She got her start in this very place I live, and I see from the web that she is doing well. She should. You can see her website at hollyflora.com. When she lived upstairs, with her new husband Josh, her two cats, Parker, and Dreyfus (both of whom I have mentioned in my blog about Elwood, the Neurotic Cat) spent much of their time outside. Well, Parker did, first, and then Dreyfus, who was a bit of a porker, came outside. And once outside lost so much weight that she was nearly indistinguishable from her sister. Nearly, except for her extreme white whiskers against her pure black body. Both were friendly, but Parker, especially so, always wending over for a long pet and sounding the sweetest meow. I came to think of her, and Dreyfus as mine, just as much as the forlorn Elwood, who had become mine by default.

And then Elwood and I lost Parker and Dreyfus to Holly's happy move to a new home, not far from me, but with life and schedules, far enough away that I did not see her, or them.

Once before I brought mail from those senders who do not know about the move. That time Holly was there and Josh was tinkering in the garage. But this morning,when I came, no one appeared to be home. I hid the mail in what I think was a safe place and then off a chair on the little porch came one familiar black cat. Parker came right up to me. I like to think it was not merely her natural friendliness but recogition. I picked her up and I was sure of it.She was happily ensconsced in my arms. But I was in a rush, so I figured I'd come back later to see if the family were home and got the mail. And of course, make a second visit to Parker.

I came back after my several hour errand and they still were not there. I did not see Parker immediately and then she popped out and seemed even more interested in me than earlier. I picked her up again and whispered into her ear and did what I used to-- rock her back and forth, with intermittent pets. She showed no interest in leaving my grasp as so often cats will do. But I could not just stand there endlessly having not found her human companions at home, again, and so I put her down and began to walk to my car. She followed me persistently. I picked her up and looked for a hose to put fresh water in her bowl, to distract her, mostly. But that did not do it. And she followed me again, to my "no Parker" and then she stopped as I went into the street, waving her tail, still high and inviting. I did not see Dreyfus today, and I felt and feel worried. I have e mailed my friends to hear that she too is doing well. But man, I miss them both when I come home from work, squeaking for affection, and of course, food. I wish everyone were still here. But at least I have a picture, or two and can share one of Parker, with you.

Oh, the Humanity.

That was the tortured phrase I recall hearing as a kid whenever some documentary re-ran the explosion of the Hindenberg over Lakewood, NJ. It could easily be repeated today in the aftermath of the massive, historic earthquake and tsunami that was its wake in Japan.

We watch it from what we mis-perceive as the safety of our living rooms so far away from the operative events. We must mis-perceive it because the reality--that it cuold easily be happening here--is too much to accept.

I was in the elevator on the way to my office this morning. A young security guard next to me looked at the mini-TV screen with a photograph of the seminal scene of water washing across the countryside carrying with it cars, and barns, and houses in endless number. He said that he had seen these things in movies, but this. . .this was real, no movie, Real carnage courtesy of a sometimes too cruel nature.

Last night, they spoke of one death. Today, it was 1,000. Many bodies were found in one place. Drowned. What terror to see the water in torrent at your heels and unable to escape.

If it was me, what would I do, what could I do in my last seconds?

The line between life and death, I think I have somewhere read, is made of gossamer thread. Events so egregious as this put an uncomfortable kleig light on that fact of fragile existence.

I am trying to figure what my conclusion should be to this entry. And I just don't know. Faith offers something in these moments, but it is hard to grasp. I might even say, we resist grasping. All we can say, is no, please God, no. Not again. How long O Lord?

Requiescat in pacem.

My Elwood

I first met Elwood around the time of the Northridge Earthquake. January 1994. He was a young orange tabby cat, but by no means a kitten. His owner, Doug, had just moved into the building.

Doug knew a cat lady when he saw one. At that juncture, several cats resided in the back yard of our several units. There was Bud, and Bert, former ferals who all the neighbors circa 1983 had adopted. I was the only neighbor left of that original group and so Bud and Bert were mine, effectively. Black and sleek and married to the concrete and small grass patches which they roamed. Inside, there was Hollywood, my first California cat. I got him before I got much furniture, a Maine Coon like furry beast, who loved to have his upper nose rubbed. And Trouble, another hairy tabby, who could manage to catapult herself to the narrow edge of my french door like windows, book end poised. So, Doug, in the entertainment industry (what else?) would ask me to babysit Elwood when he was out of town. He'd always tell me that Elwood was a little odd. You really had to convince Elwood to approach and when he did, he'd stop just short of you. Elwood changed his mind a lot. He never committed. He'd meow to be let out, and then when Doug opened the door, he'd stand at the threshhold, tail twitching in decision. Doug would close the door. Elwood would indicate readiness to leave, and Doug would open the door and the same sequence occurred. Tail switch, but otherwise immobile neither in, nor out. Meanwhile Bud, in those days, would wander straight into Doug's apartment. That was the other thing. There was never another cat that Elwood was not afraid of. He never challenged any other cat. Big dogs, yes, but never any other cat. And so it was for many years into the early 2000s. Then suddenly, Elwood was running out of the apartment and under the house. Doug would get him and then, he'd run out again. And go under the house.

Not so parenthetically, I now recall that when Elwood originally arrived, Doug had a roommate. A girl roommate. They did not get along. But she did love Elwood and Elwood loved her. So maybe, if I think about it, the desire for Elwood to leave coincided with Doug not having a woman roommate or girlfriend at the time. Elwood has just always preferred us gals. He runs from all guys. So he no longer liked it inside. And left.

After a while Doug conceded to Elwood's desire to become an outdoor cat exclusively. By that time, there were other cats in the backyard, Dreyfus and Parker, who like Bud and Bert before them (Bud had come to live inside with me and died at age 21; Bert, died some years earlier at 19 of natural causes), were black, but only Parker was sleek. Dreyfus liked to eat and was pudgy, looking more like a walrus than a cat. And then there was Diablo, the cat across the way, who liked it better on our side of things than his own. Elwood conceded all things to them, relegating himself to low cat on the catpole, last to eat but always close enough for the companionship. He was I suppose no idiot. He never got hurt. The neurotic is after all quite cautious. When a bruiser cat with chipped ears, I called "Suspicious" would come by from time to time to see what's what, all of them would concede.

Diablo left us- the victim of jaw cancer. Parker and Dreyfus' people moved. And except for the still occasional spitting visits of Suspicious, Elwood was alone in the backyard. The year 2010. We figure Elwood for somewhere between 17 and 18.

He hasn't many teeth any longer. He can only see shadows. And his hearing is eclectic. His haunches are bony. And after many years outside, dirty would be an understatement. If some infection developed, I'd take him to the vet. There were days he looked to be at death's door and then, back he'd come, looking for attention and food with a yowl that sounded like he was being murdered. "Please, please COME!". I would, and he'd meow pitifully and withdraw to a bush just out of reach.

I introduced him to my newest cycle of cats, Tuxedo, Tipper and inherited from my late father who got him from me, Bleu, all white and yes, blue eyes. Hissing ensued, on all sides, but after a while, my coming in and out with their respective scents brought co-existence at my threshhold, which by the way, is next door to where it all began in 1994.

About six months ago, I cajoled the Elwood cat to consider coming inside, particularly on rainy nights. At first, he'd come in and sit on my couch and then go pee somewhere when I forgot to watch him (he was now fully an outdoor cat in that regard where he could pee freely anywhere in the kingdom of the backyard), and then walk to the porch door. My cats would try to approach him. Hiss. They must appear to be giant shadows, all big boys, against his frail aged body. After a time, he'd stay longer until one really rainy night he CALLED to come in, soaked and pathetic. And stayed four days straight without showing signs of leaving.

Now, he is inside during the night and outside during the day. And as to the peeing, while he declines to use the cat box, I have convinced him that the doggy pads in one corner of my bedroom are the only acceptable place. Not to say there haven't been accidents, like on my bed. I am doing laundry now from last night's hair ball episode. I know, you non-cat lovers are going "YUCCCKY" right now. He still is last cat on the catpole for breakfast, and dinner, as he eats after everyone else has had his fill. But I have noticed he is venturing to the kitchen more and cowering a little less under my bureau. He sleeps next to my head every night. Alas, he also has gas, like I suppose every old person. (This one day will be all of us). When it is time to come in at night again, he pretends that we are starting all over again. Tail twitch. Do I trust her? In? Out? Not in, not out as I stand with the open door trying to keep my other guys from running out to an adventure I do not want to retrieve them from.

If you get points in heaven for taking care of cats, with Elwood, as with Bud, Hollywood, Trouble, Bert before him, all who lived to a great age, then I should be able to by pass purgatory. If only it were that easy! I'd be a cinch!

Meanwhile, Elwood says to himelf, "Hey, call me neurotic, if you want, but I am still here!" Caution is his catword in his catworld.

Mastering Sin and Conquering Pride

I was walking toward my office building Subway this afternoon. As I walked past some tables I noticed a woman, then a man in a business suit chatting at one of the tables. On his forehead the mark of the beginning of the Lenten season, a blessed black ash smear in the form of a cross. It was quite the dark dollop of ash.

It was a lovely integration of the secular and the religious so rarely seen in our society. This man was saying something that a fair number of Catholics around the country, around the world, said today. Together, we fallen humans, enter into the season which re-presents the once for all act of salvation that restored the relationship broken asunder by the misuse of Eve's, and then Adam's, free will.

It is not just what we heard as children "Remember Man, that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return". It is so much more than that. For after the suffering and death and the becoming of dust, because of the amazing act of God made Man, becoming us, to save us, we can look forward, if we work to master the still extant sinfulness to which we remain heir, and try not to grasp at being God, but allow God to give us a share in His Divinity, freely, in exchange only for our devotion, and our faithfulness. That's what the mark on his head signified. A "yes" to the Hope that God restored, if only this time, we use our free will wisely.

Good Scents

The other day I am driving home from work, all urban surface streets. And then it is everywhere. The smell of jasmine is in the air. And England Dan and John Ford Coley are no where to be found. It is everywhere, radiating. I breathe deep and deeper still to capture the flower fragrance. And I feel good, just because of a little white flower I never experienced till I moved here.

So it set me to thinking about other good scents that bring me to optimism. Even to happiness.

A few are common place I guess, but the scents are not. Ocean air in the early morning. Late night. Anytime. Sizzling bacon before the eggs meet up with them. Morning coffee, but only if made by someone else as you lie in your bed. A baby after a changing and the application of fresh powder. The first burn of a fireplace. This is one soon to be gone in California as the green folks have banished it. A loss. Laundry just dried outside on the line. Another forbidden one, the smell of the light up of a cigarette. I remember childhood and my dad. I am a beneficiary of second hand smoke in the memory department. Just cut grass. My dad used to kind of ruin that one by telling me that in the army, if you caught the smell of grass, you needed to put on your gas mask. But so far, no need for gas masks here. Unless you are buying food insurance and gold, which I have to tell you occurs to me sometimes given the news of the day.

I particularly love the smell of a newly purchased Oprah Magazine. The shiny pages have a scent of possibility, and it doesn't cost a cent for the scent. Vanilla. Anything vanilla. Candles in particular burning over a glass of wine and a chat with a friend.

Somehow it is very pleasant to think of these scents. Makes me feel oddly safe, although there is no logic to it. Reminds me of moments without challenge, without obligation, easy and carefree.