The Stand

We listen to books when we go to bed. It helps Carmen turn off the whirlwind of thoughts and impending obligations spinning around in her head. Our favorite, by far, is the seven Harry Potter books, read in their entirety by the best reader we've ever heard, Jim Dale. We've heard all seven probably twelve times or more. Harry and his friends risk everything to stand against the evil Voldemort. Right now we're on book two of The Hunger Games series. She risks everything to stand against the Capital. And just last week we watched the TV miniseries of Stephen King's The Stand again.  It really came as no surprise to me when she came to me last night and told me that the UUA has called for clergy to go to Ferguson, Missouri to stand against the evil there, and that she felt compelled to go.

Twelve years ago we began this journey, throwing all of our considerable talent and tenacity into a quest to leave behind the plush life of the paralegal and jump out of the airplane to soar as a UU minister. Perhaps I knew better than she did that this journey would require enormous grit. I definitely knew better than she did that she has grit enough and plenty to spare. She will go to Ferguson.

I understand that there is risk involved in this choice. There is risk involved in driving to Erie, too, which she is doing right this minute. I am an unabashed atheist, but I always tell her in times of doubt and anxiety, "Have a little faith!" I don't mean faith in a supernatural being who will keep her safe. I mean faith in her own intelligence, resourcefulness and instincts to keep herself in the right place to be, whatever that might mean.

I have faith that her going to Ferguson to stand against evil will mean something far more important than anything else she might do instead. Laundry was one thing I she might have done if she stayed home. Important, yes. Imperative? No.

Stand.

Take Me Out

Two members of Carmen's congregation, Kathy and Doug, go to Pittsburgh to see Pirates games fairly frequently. They learned that I have been watching their games on TV as often as I can, so they invited us to join them. We were excited about the prospect of a fun trip to Pittsburgh, so we jumped at it.

Knowing that the game would likely end around 10:00, and possibly much later, we decided to spend the night. Kathy is a Groupon whiz, so she got us a great deal on two rooms at the Wyndham, in addition to discount game tickets.An overnight stay meant making some sort of arrangements for Grace. As members of the Conneaut Lake Bark Park, we knew that we could put her up in their kennel and that she would be well cared for. We had done that for two nights while I was having my hip replaced, and she had survived it just fine.

So Wednesday morning we made ready for our first great fun adventure in many years. To start with, I let Grace take me over to her best friend Mocha's house, where they played and ran and wrestled for nearly an hour. This always puts her in a good mood, and helps her to sleep through the day. I showered up and dressed in clean jeans and one of the Pirates tee shirts scored for us by Kathy. We loaded the car with our overnight bags, one for Carmen, one for Grace and one for me, and off we went.

It's hard to leave our little girl with strangers. Grace looked reproachful as she watched us walk away. But we soldiered on back to the car and drove away with a mixture of sadness and feeling free. A two hour drive, guided by Hermione the GPS, brought us to the front door of the Wyndham. Kathy was out front having a smoke when we pulled up. We checked in and took our bags up to the room, then hurried back down to their car. They had scoped out a Mexican restaurant earlier that day, and made reservations for four of us. As it turned out, we were the only ones there at 5:00. After a very yummy dinner, we hurried back to the hotel to catch the shuttle van to PNC Park.

It turned out to be a long wait for the van. She had just left for PNC a few minutes before we got back. But we waited. Of course, the game was under way when we were dropped at the near end of Roberto Clemente Bridge. We joined the crowd walking across. The bridge is closed to vehicles on game nights. We walked around to the far side of the stadium, to section 108, waited for a break in the action, and made our way down to row D. Excellent seats.

Things have changed in baseball stadia since 1973, the last time I attended a major league game. At Memorial Stadium in Baltimore there were lights, speakers and a mechanical scoreboard. Now it's all about electronics. The scoreboard is a huge screen that shows pictures of the batters, pitchers and whoever else they want to show, runs replays in slow motion and includes stats and bios. Between half-innings there are goofy things going on, such as air-powered bazookas that shoot hot dogs or tee shirts into the crowd. Potato Pete won the pierogie race, narrowly beating Oliver Onion, Chester Cheese and Jalapeno Hanna. Oh yes, and there was a baseball game going on as well.

 Our favorite player, Andrew McCutchen was still out with a cracked rib, and Kathy's favorite, Neil Walker, was still out with lower back pain and tightness, but Gregory Polonco and Josh Harrison both continued to take up the slack and drive the Pirates to a 7-3 victory. A good time was had by all!

 Then we had to get back to the hotel. The plan was to take a cab, since the hotel shuttle van's last run of the night was at 9:30. We were unsuccessful snagging one on the traffic-clogged streets behind the stadium, but a policeman directing traffic suggested we try the nearby hotel driveway. We walked over there and asked the valet parking guy if taxis came through here. He got on the phone and called his buddy, who drives a Cranberry cab. Twenty minutes was his buddy's ETA, and we said that was fine. We stood around/sat around chatting for about an hour. A couple of times he had to go inside, and he begged us to please wait for his buddy. Several cabs came and went, and even a pizza delivery vehicle came asking if we needed a ride someplace. We turned them all down. Finally,after an hour or so, he called his buddy again. When he disconnected, he apologized and said that we should get back however we can. Traffic was much better by then, and Doug just walked out to the street and snagged a cab. Minutes later, we were back at the Wyndham.

 There was a doorknob-hanging breakfast menu in the room. If we hung it on the outside of the door before midnight, breakfast would be delivered to our room at the time we specified. We marked up our order to be delivered between 9 and 9:30. We were awakened at 9:00 by a call letting us know that breakfast was on its way up. It was very yummy and the coffee was extra good. We showered and dressed and slipped out of town before lunch time traffic started up.

 Two hours later, a forlorn little dog saw me through the glass of the daycare room.We took her for a nice long walk around the Bark Park, and headed home, twenty four hours and many fun memories later.

Tests

It will all started with my knee. Two and a half years after the replacement, it was (is) still hurting. I went to the guy who installed the knee and asked him why it was still hurting. He gave me a happy reason - because I need my hip replaced. Of course! Why didn't I think of that!

Everyone told me to get a second opinion. We went to Pittsburgh, to a doctor who does minimally invasive hip replacement. He concurred with the diagnosis. He was also very concerned about my "unprovoked" DVT (blood clot) in 2009. So along with a daunting list of tests he wanted us to have done, he told me to go to a hematologist to get my blood tested for possible reasons for said DVT. So Thursday morning we saddled up and headed for Pittsburgh again, to see Dr. Mohammed Islam, a nice Irish boy. His technician drew fourteen vials of blood from me, and a few minutes later the doctor came in. He, too was very concerned about the 2009 DVT. He sent me down the hall to Radiology to ascertain whether I had any clots currently in stock in my legs or lungs.

They started with the legs, which turned out to be a good thing. The technician ran her magic wand up and down my legs, and found a giant clot in my left, and a big one in my right. From there I was pretty much bum's rushed to Shadyside hospital and admitted immediately.

They put me on Heparin and forbade me to walk anywhere, even to the bathroom without supervision. The plan was to scan my lungs , then install a filter in my vein by my belly button to catch any clots that might break off and head for my lungs or heart.  They took three more vials of blood, fed me dinner, and pretty much left me alone for the night. Carmen went home, and I was able to watch an entire Pirates baseball game.

At 7:05 Friday morning, Dr.Mears, the hip replacement guy, stopped in. He asked me how I had come to be in the hospital with blood clots.I told him, and mentioned that my lungs had not been scanned yet, and that clots in my lungs would delay the hip surgery. At 7:15 they hauled me down to Radiology. My lungs were clear. Yay.

At 10:00, they asked me which I would prefer - to have my filter installed right away while I would be awake, or later in the afternoon under anesthesia. I opted for right away. So, at 11:15, right after the third pricing game on The Price Is Right, they loaded me onto a cart and hauled me down to the surgery department. I was not scared or even nervous. In fact, I fell asleep a few times while waiting to go into the actual operating room.

Once in there they transferred me to a narrow table, so narrow that they installed two plastic outriggers to support my arms. They covered my lower half with a blanket, then covered my head, shoulders and neck with a sterile covering. Before long,the procedure began. I was instructed to turn my head all the way to the left, and warned of an impending "pinch and a burn." After that it was one guy feeding the hardware into my neck and down my vein, and another guy talking him through the procedure. UPMC is, after all, a teaching hospital. Once again, I was not scared, but it was very annoying to have these guys shoving a thingy down my vein from my neck to my belly button. It was not long before they were done and I was on my way back upstairs.

I arrived in my room at precisely the same time that Carmen arrived in my room. I  insisted that I could walk now that I had a filter, but the transporter had orders to keep me from walking. I was allowed to scooch from the rolling cart to the bed. Something about the pain meds they had given me for the surgery. As the day wore on and the meds wore off, I came to believe them.

Our original plan had been to get the rest of the tests on Dr. Mears' list done while we were in Pittsburgh. Thursday turned out very differently from what we anticipated, so Carmen got the brilliant idea to try to get them done while I was still in the hospital. The nurse- practitioner assigned to my case was given a copy of our list with the items still outstanding highlighted. She got on it. Soon the nurse, Patrick, got on the case, and one by one the final items were checked off.

The practitioner came and told us that Dr. Islam was "kicking me to the curb." We began making preparations to go, but then she came back and told us that Dr Islam had decided to keep me overnight. Then Patrick came to tell us that he was going to see to it that the tests were all done, and we could go home that day. Well, the last blood was drawn at 4:45, and we were out the door a little after 6:00. Yay Patrick!

My neck bandage came off Saturday morning, followed soon after by Carmen's first shot of anti-coaglant since 2009 in Albuquerque. I feel good, but not as good as I did before I found out that I have blood clots in my legs. It looks like I'm out of work until the middle of June or so. And Whatever willing and the crick don't rise, I'll have a new hip in a week and a half.

Down The Drain

During the summer of 1976 we decided to move from St. Cloud to Orlando, since we both worked in Orlando and were very active in the First Unitarian Church of Orlando. I had a great job building scenery, exhibits and displays, and Carmen was a paralegal and office manager for a law firm. Orlando summers are brutal, so we decided to splurge and hire local movers to do the job.

Carmen arranged the whole thing. The movers would load out in the early morning, we would leave the three cats at the St. Cloud house during the first closing in the late morning, then drive our loaded vehicles to the next closing, leaving our three cats in our new house in Orlando while we signed more papers.

We put the cats out on the screened in porch while the movers worked. Two of them were accustomed to that location, having lounged out there for seven years. Peanut, however, was a seven month old kitten, not to be caged anywhere. He shot out the door the instant I opened it, and took off running. I followed him as fast as I could run. We had a closing to get to, and this delay was not factored into the schedule . My heart sank when he dove into a storm drain.

Wearing my fancy closing duds, I flopped down on my belly and looked in. There he sat, looking at me, just within reach. I reached in, sure that he would evade my grasp. To my surprise, I was able to grab the scruff of his neck and haul him out of there.

The rest of the plan proceeded on schedule.

The Chosen

On the predawn morning of December 24th, 1995, a dream was fulfilled. I had for years thought it would be great to live with an orange cat. On that chilly St. Cloud, Florida morning, a six week old orange kitten came to the back door, and moved his tiny little badass self into our lives. My dad's comment, "Why he's no bigger than a peanut!" gave him the name that stuck like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth, even as he grew to be a twenty pound mass of solid muscle.

He was an outdoor boy, mostly. When he came home, he would eat, find a place to curl up, and sleep for eight hours. If we went out in the back yard, he played host. He particularly liked it when our friend Tracey was out there. She was trying to get a tan, and he was lying all over her. Inside the house, his favorite companion  was our little blind girl kitty, Yin. He was very affectionate and very protective of her.

There are several favorite Peanut memories. Late one night we were roused by a loud harmony of howling behind the house. Looking out the back, we saw Peanut and  another cat on the peak of the roof of the house behind us, bathed in the light of the full moon, trading howls. Quite a few times, by contrast, Peanut and three other neighborhood orange cats would sit around the the front or back yard and just stare at each other. Peanut stole toys around the neighborhood. He specialized in small plush animals, and specifically animals from the movie Babe.  He started in St. Cloud,  and six months later, when we moved to Orlando, he started up again. One morning we looked out the back door at a one-night haul of four Babe toys.

In 2005 we moved to the Boston area. My parents were worried about us trying to rent an apartment with four cats, one an outdoor boy. Their orange cat Charlie was dying of cancer. They volunteered to take Peanut. I pulled a trailer full of stuff to store at their house, and a carrier full of Peanut, who would be their beloved totally indoor boy for eight years. On the way, I stopped at a rest area to use the facilities. I let Mr. Butter out of the carrier to use the litter box. When I returned, the litter box was unsullied, but there was a strong odor in the cab of the pickup truck. Upon searching for the source of the odor, I found a pile of turds in my hat, which I had left on the seat. I left my hat in a trash can.

We've visited my parents several times since then. Peanut refused to acknowledge me. In 1995 he chose me to be his service provider, and after ten years I abandoned him on a mountain 700 miles away. He never forgave me. He sure fell in love with his new service providers, though. The sunny screened-in deck in the treetops was his new favorite place to be. No more fighting or communing with other cats. There was a bear once or twice, but that doesn't count.

Many of his fans have heard of his passing on Facebook. Many expressions of sorrow have been posted. He was a great kitty. We all miss him.

The Long Farewell

My mother has a neurosis about death. Decades ago, when we used to go fishing, she would insist that we let the fish die before cleaning them. When our German shepherd could no longer walk, and was obviously suffering, my dad and I had to sneak her out of the house to get her put down. So it is not surprising that now their old orange cat Peanut is getting the same treatment as the fish.

When we talked to them two weeks ago, they told us about taking "Peanie" to the vet because he hadn't had a bowel movement in ten days. We were hoping they would find it in their hearts to let him go. No such luck. My dad called Saturday to tell us that Peanie had had a movement after a week and a day. He can hardly walk, he barely moves, his quality of life is nil. It's hard to think about my big, strong, brave and free outdoor badass kitty reduced to an invalid.

We're going  down to Georgia to see them in three weeks. I hope they're not trying to make him hang on until then!

NEWS FLASH!!!

I can update Cat Juggler (or my other sorely neglected blogs) with many new Kindle Fire! This is good, because I no longer have the option of spending hours at my desktop computer. I have a puppy now who whines and tries to break in if she' s out, and tears up the ratty old shag carpet (and who can blame her) if she' s in. She' s asleep now after our hour and a half walk through the sloppy slush and mud of melting Meadville.

So I' m 60 years old now. How in heck did that happen? 40 years ago I was convinced that I would die at or before age 21. That plan didn' t work.

My last day in my fifties was pretty bummed out, but I' m better now. Bring it!!!

The Hardest Confession

I love my dog. She's energetic and curious and fun and loves to explore. We go for long walks together nearly every day. We've found some lovely nooks and crannies around the neighborhood, and some mundane stretches of grass or pavement that suddenly become athletic fields or circus rings. A stick or an empty plastic bottle found on the way will cause her to explode in a sustained burst of energy, running full tilt to the end of the extendable leash, back and forth, around and around until she exhausts her cute little self. Then it's off we go again, nose to the ground, seeking the next adventure. She loves to scale steep hillsides (pulling me up after her) and is delighted by deep growths of ivy or piles of leaves, into which she dives, wallows, plunges and leaps, following the lead of her hyper-sensitive nose. Eventually, however, the time comes to head home. As soon as she realizes this, she begins misbehaving, biting her leash, playing tug-o-war with it, leaping up to nip me, and straining to change our course. But I prevail. We enter the house, dry her off and she curls up in my chair to sleep for hours.

The cats are growing accustomed to this monstrous disruption of the household they used to rule. Lucia has actually come to like, if not completely trust Grace. They play chase games around the kitchen and dining area. Lucia sometimes even rubs against Grace when things are calm. Remus pretty much resents his demotion to second class citizen. He hisses and growls and swipes at his nemesis. Grace just wants to play. Remus does not.

Do I have to change the name of this blog? For a month and a half cat juggling has been something I squeeze in between sleeping, working and dog juggling.

Identity Crisis

I am the Cat Juggler! I keep telling myself that. Carmen has been talking about getting a dee oh gee for many months. I didn't encourage her. I am the Cat Juggler! So yesterday she texted me to say that there was a four month old yellow lab / basset hound mix up for adoption at the Humane Society, and that she was really cute. A few hours later I was at Walmart purchasing a dog crate and bed for our new dee oh gee.

Twenty four hours later, the cats are still freaked out by this new addition to the family. We are optimistic that the cats will settle in. As my dad would say, "These things take time." For her part, Grace is, I think, doing remarkably well, considering the traumatic life she's led since her capture as a stray. She hardly ever barks or whines, and she loves to chew her chew toys. She bites her leash a lot, but she's mostly well behaved.

So far Carmen has done all of the feeding and walking and poop scooping. That was our deal. After all, I am the Cat Juggler!

Cool Cool Kitty

Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, I remembered to pour some dry food into the cat dishes, to possibly stave off any 3:30 wake-up shenanigans. As expected, there were thundering pawbeats to the dishes. Unexpectedly, there was only one set of paws. No worries. Sometimes Lucia doesn't respond to the call of the dry food. But we didn't see her in any of her usual haunts. My dresser drawers had been closed all evening, so she wasn't in there. I tried the one irresistible Lucia juggling trick. Lucia can hear me pour the filtered water decanter into the percolator from anywhere in the house and HAS to come scrutinize this operation. I did so. No Lucia. "Call the emergency vet!" I said.

Then I got a brain wave. "You don't suppose..." I opened the refrigerator. There she was, on the top shelf, comfortable as you please. For the past several months. about half the time when I open the refrigerator, she leaps in. Normally, it's cat feeding time when I open it, so I'm very aware of cat positions. But last evening, about two hours earlier, I had reached in for two cans of seltzer for our human feeding time. She slipped in unseen, climbed shelf by shelf to the top (knocking over stuff on the way, of course) and took herself a little nap. She seemed perturbed at being "rescued."

This morning, when I went in for canned food, she watched from a distance. Maybe she learned a lesson.

NAAAAH!

My Newest Little Buddy

Way back in June of 2011, in a posting entitled "In Demand" I mentioned my newest little buddy. Audrey Sippel, daughter of Rachel Meerson, came running up to me one Sunday morning after church. She pulled up her pants leg and showed me the bruise on her shin. Well, it just so happened that a few days before this, I had taken a nasty fall at the Community Theatre. I pulled up my pants leg and showed her an inch diameter scab with redness all around it. I beat! We've been buddies since then.

The four of us went to lunch together after church several months ago. We went to Montana Rib and Chop House, where they have a square of white paper as the tablecloth, a fresh one for each party at each table, along with a cup with crayons in it. Audrey and I drew stuff. I showed her how to make an octagon by drawing a square and lopping off the corners. It was fun.

Today I had the camera with me to take pictures of the choir. I took some of my newest little buddy. I hope my little buddy from the 1970s doesn't get jealous!

Vee - Hicle!

When I was in the process of what I laughingly refer to as "growing up," I never wanted a car. My parents convinced me that learning to drive and getting my license would be a good thing to do regardless. In this particular case, I listened. I took driver ed in high school and got my license at eighteen. My first vehicle was a Suzuki 650 motorcycle purchased at age thirty four. Three years later I bought a Suzuki Intruder 1400 motorcycle, the baddest ass machine ever

In 1994, Carmen was tired of shifting her white standard transmission 1987 Toyota Corolla. She bought a  green Corolla station wagon with automatic transmission. I drove the white Corolla for two years. Suffice it to say I was seduced by four wheels, a roof and air conditioning there in Central Florida. During that time I was on the lookout for a pickup truck, but not just any pickup truck. I wanted it to be reliable as a Toyota, with automatic transmission, and a bed big enough to lay a 4' X 8' sheet flat between the wheel humps. I spotted it from the highway at the Saturn dealership in Kissimmee. It was a '93 Toyota T-100 with a V6 engine. I loved that truck. I drove it hard from the spring of '96 until we moved to Massachusetts in the summer of 2005. Knowing that vehicles are a liability in Boston, we sold it before we left.

For four years in Boston, one year in Albuquerque and nearly two years in Meadville, I walked many miles a day and /or took public transportation wherever I went. This made me happy. I like to walk, and I like public transportation. A year ago, however, I had knee replacement surgery, and since then walking has not been as joyful as it was in the 1970s. The walk home up the hill from downtown Meadville is exhausting. I take the bus to a bus stop two blocks away when I can, but sometimes I just can't.

Today, Carmen took possession of a 2008 Scion Xb. Nautical blue! It's a beautiful car. And once again I get the white Toyota she's been driving since she bought it new in 2000. It's a Rav4 with 85,000 miles. I'm happy to have a car again. That's hard for me to admit even to myself. But I'm expanding my job search parameters now, and hope to be full time somewhere soon.

This is vehicle number five for me. I'm excited.

The Wild Life

Tomorrow is Thursday. Many of you already knew that. Gradually, since December, I've come to dread Thursdays, because at 4:00 pm until 9:00 I become a dispatcher for Tamarack Wildlife Rehabilitation and Education Center. I mentioned it before in a January Gospel of Rand McNally posting entitled "Texas Toast." The (volunteer) gig is: every hour check messages on Tamarack's voicemail, log them on a call log sheet, and deal with whatever situations arise. Some are administrative calls - organizations wanting a tour of the center or a demonstration at their event. Some are people checking up on animals they rescued or called in first responders for. Most, however, are people with wildlife issues that need resolution.

The outgoing message on the voicemail is very specific. If callers actually listened to it, a lot of my job would be done already. Tamarack takes birds of prey, adult seed-eating songbirds, game birds, opossums and reptiles. The baby bird "rescuers," raccoon trappers, baby bunny finders and bat-in-the-basement hosts would know before I call them to recommend alternatives that Tamarack is not the destination of their problem critter.

I'm hoping the baby bird "rescue" epidemic has subsided for this year. I needed a recording of myself saying, over and over again, "put the baby bird back in the nest. Don't feed it, the parents are much better at taking care of their babies than humans are. The parents won't abandon their babies." And then, when they still want a "rescue" operation, I tell them to call Skye's Spirit near Grove City - they accept baby birds. Then. after I disconnect, I say "Maybe they can convince you."

A lot of baby bunny calls are much the same. I'm grateful for Skye's Spirit as a place to either take in what Tamarack doesn't or be another voice of reason to talk to the unreasonable.

Raccoons are "rabies vector" species. Tamarack is not allowed to handle them, the First Responders are warned away from them, and dispatchers are told to counsel people to leave them the hell alone - don't come near them, don't feed them, call the Game Commission! A lot of people don't want to hear what we tell them. It's tha same old thing: if you're not going to listen to my answer, DON"T ASK THE QUESTION!

The best was a woman in Edinboro with an injured hawk. I called the admitting medic who lives near Edinboro, he picked up the hawk and it is doing well at the center. The worst was last week. A woman in Erie called at 8:25. She had an injured crow. I called every first responder in Erie and all I got was a series of voicemail messages unreturned, a couple of "no" answers, and a woman who would pick it up it in the morning. The crow died overnight.

One person I asked and got a "no" from said she used to be a dispatcher, but quit because it was too frustrating. I understand!

Joy

Mary Canaan called me Monday night. You know how it is when years later you try to have a conversation with somebody you were once close to - the awkwardness, the uncomfortable silences. Forty years ago, we were best buddies, Mary and I. And while it is unlikely that we will ever be best buddies again, we chatted away for an hour or so without pause. Of course, catching up after forty years gives us a lot to talk about, but the trust we shared back then was still solid.

I came away smiling clear down to my toenails. More than my own joy at finally finding and reconnecting with my little friend, I seem to have brought a great deal of joy to Mary and all of her brothers and sisters. Mary was in tears when she first realized that it was really me sending her messages through Facebook. She has been greedily absorbing all of the memories of that time that I provide. There is no joy greater than giving joy to someone you care about. The Canaan family was pretty much all I cared about during those two years. Evidently I still do.

Years before the term "clinical depression" came into vogue, I had it. From 1966 until 1977 there was a perpetual dark cloud over my life. My association with the Canaan family was the bright spot in my life. Leo loved me like a son and trusted me completely. His wife Norma liked me and trusted me as well. They seemed to naturally involve me in the life of the family. Leo always included me in his big plans for the West Virginia venture. The kids also seemed to accept my intrusion into their world, and Danny and Mary were my special friends. I spent quite a bit of time with each of them.

For four decades I've lived with the fact that in November of 1973 I slunk away from the best part of my life. The Canaans were my life back then.They gave me a shining light of love and hope when the rest of my world was so dark and gloomy. And after the end, I sank down into a deep dark hole that only got darker and deeper for the next three years.

It's a good, healing thing to be able to radiate some joy around those memories. Thank you, Mary. And thank you, Leo, wherever you are.

Canaan Update

The previous post was for my young friend Mary. I was pretty sure that the Mary Canaan I enearthed on Facebook was "the real" Mary Canaan, but I wasn't absolutely certain. I wrote that entry, posted a picture of her father, and included a link to Cat Juggler in a message through FB. Not being sure whether she would retain any memory of me, I included just a few essential facts regarding my association with her family from the autumn of 1971 through the autumn of 1973, to see if this might jog her memory.

As it turned out, when she finslly - weeks later - saw my several  messages, she was flabberghasted. She and her brothers and sisters DO remember me, and have often spoken of me, wondering whatever happened to me. They were thinking I must have died, because I disappeared so suddenly and so completely. She says she was very sad when her friend went away.

My closest association was with Leo himself. Many of my Montgomery Ward friends couldn't believe that 18-year-old I enjoyed the company of 45-year-old Leo. I hung out with him at the restaurant nearly every evening of my life during those two years, helping out when needed, and listening to his big plans. It started out with plans to rent the adjacent stores in the building, knock down the walls and turn Leo's into a classy restaurant. Then he bought the place in Charmco, Wesr Virginia, and the big plans got bigger.

When my bosses at Montgomery Ward were dealing with the closing of the old Coffee Shop in the corner of the store, to be replaced by the new Buffeteria in the opposite corner, they had all of the old equipment to dispose of. They asked me if I thought Leo would be interested in it. I asked. He was. They sold him about ten thousand dollars worth of stainless steel restaurant equipment for $200.00 if he would haul it away. The one time I went with the family to Charmco was to help load, haul and install some of the "new" equipment in the restaurant down there.

Thirteen-year-old Danny and I were pretty good buddies as well. We went bike riding, played pool at the pool hall, went fishing once. This would be on Saturdays, when Norma and Paula were also working the restaurant, and the kids were bored. The most helpful thing I could do was to entertain kids.

Paula was seventeen, and daytime manager/chief cook and bottle washer at Leo's. I had the feeling that she didn't like me much. We had no connection anything like what I shared with her dad. Donna was eleven or so, and somehow, we never really hit it off. David was two. Nuff said.

But my best friend, and hardest for the Wards crowd to wrap their heads around, was seven-year-old Mary. We drew pictures and colored together. We went for walks around the block, played hopscotch and jacks. Once, when the carnival was in town a couple of blocks away from the restaurant, and the parents were too busy to take her, I volunteered. Leo and Norma were delighted, gave her five bucks, and away we went. That memory warms my heart, thinking of the fun we had, and the trust we shared.

I regret the fact that when Leo and I had our disagreement, I slunk away and just disappeared. In hindsight, I realize that we could have mended that bridge and gone on, but I was hurt and embarrassed and unwilling to face him. As much as I missed the Canaan family, my shame won the day in my heart. Coward.

Anyway, suddenly I'm back in touch. Leo and his wife Norma both passed back in the nineties, but the rest of them are very close and evidently talk about me sometimes. Suddenly, they have a lot to talk about!

Twists And Turns

Every now and again I get caught up in wondering how different my life might have been if certain turning points had turned a different direction. The first and biggest one I wonder about occurred in 1968, when my parents decided to move us from Odenton, Maryland to Vero Beach, Florida during the summer. Many things would have been a lot different. Better? No telling. Different, definitely. By the end of ninth grade, I had made a name for myself as a photographer, with my own darkroom and growing expertise. Those in charge of the yearbook informed me that I would be a staff photographer during my last three years of high school. Also, I was a good football player, and I'm pretty sure I would have made the Arundel High School team. Instead, I was moved to a place where I knew nobody, had no history or credibility, and the weather was way too hot to think about donning a football uniform.

The second one kind of grabbed me this past week. After graduation from high school in 1971, I moved back to Maryland and before long was working in the Display Department of the Montgomery Ward store in Glen Burnie. I lived near a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant called "Leo's Sub Stop," where I became friendly with Leo and the whole Canaan family. I was a big help to Leo, and when he bought a restaurant in Charmco, West Virginia, he always included me in his big plans for the place. He envisioned a hotel, a putt putt course, an arcade, a gift shop...But things got off track between us, we had a falling out, and that was the end of that. Recently I've been looking up Canaans, trying to find out whatever happened to Leo, Norma, Paula, Danny, Donna, Mary and David. I haven't learned much, but it appears that Leo's extravagant plans never came to fruition, at least not the Disneyesque venture he had drawn on the napkins of Leo's Sub Stop. 

So perhaps I would have stuck with my family away from family for some time, and perhaps not. All I can say with certainty is that it doesn't matter to the rich and full life I've had since the early seventies. But I do wonder whether any of the Canaans even remember me and my two years of devotion to their family.

No Moss

My boss, Diane, is fast approaching her thirtieth anniversary working for Sherwin Williams Meadville. Every time I think about that, I think about the fact that I have not, in my nearly sixty years, lived in one state for thirty years in a row. Yes, I lived in Florida for thirty two years, but that was in four segments, the longest stretching from March of 1978 to June of 2005, just over twenty seven years. This is what seems normal to me. I grew up, from 1953 until 1968, in Odenton, the town adjacent to Fort Meade, Maryland. Most of my friends moved in, told their tales of living in Germany, Japan, Okinawa and many other places, then moved away after two years.

In 1968 I moved to Florida, where almost nobody is a native, and certainly not native to the town where they live now.

When Carmen and I got married in 1986, we began making preparations to move to Central Florida, where there were better employment opportunities than what was available in Vero Beach. When we left Florida in 2005, we had inhabited, during our nineteen years together, five dwellings in three cities.

Then we moved to the Boston arier (that's how Bostonians say 'area') and were suddenly surrounded by people who had lived in the Boston area their whole lives, most of them in the same town, and some in the same house. I worked in Norwood, Massachusetts with a guy who was fifth generation still living in the house in which he was born. The forty year old guys who still lived in Norwood, Canton, Foxboro, Stoughton, Dedham and other nearby towns all still went to their high school football games and carried team rivalries into the workplace. And whereas I was excited for the opportunity to spend several weeks installing exhibits at the Museum of Science in Boston, those guys had been going to the MOS on field trips since elementary school, and were not at all interested in going back.

In 2009, as we were approaching Carmen's graduation from seminary and our move to Albuquerque, I was full of excitement for this next leg of the adventure that is our marriage. I explained to people that we would be in Albuquerque for a year of internship, then - who knows. The guys would just look at me as if I were from another planet - and I guess to them I was. Shawn Marler, on several occasions, said to me "A rolling stone gathers no moss." I guess that explains my moss free lifestyle.

Diane listens to me telling about the eleven cities in five states where I've lived during her lifetime in Meadville, Pennsylvania, and she doesn't have that 'another planet' look. She looks more like someone in her fifties who has worked in one job and lived in one town her whole life and is envious of someone like me. Well, except for that moss thing.

Time On My Side

Those who know me know that I have a certain fascination (obsession?) with time. Years ago I was going nuts because every clock in the house and car had a different time. In those days there were no cell phones to check, no home computers etc. There wasn't even a telephone time service in Central Florida like there was in Baltimore or even - at that time - Vero Beach, FL. The best I could do was wait for television or radio to announce the time or change hours of programming. Geezers will remember the *ping* at the hour on television and radio stations.

Then one day I was at Sam's, and saw, for only twenty five bucks, a clock that recalibrates itself daily with the atomic clock in Fort Collins Colorado. Such a deal! Ever since then, I have always had one unimpeachable authority as to what time it really is. Even my cell phone isn't as accurate.

One of my (many many) pet peeves is the twice annual time change. It sends everybody into a jet lag state for days afterward, and I have a hard time believing it's worth it. The one in spring is the hardest adjustment,
because the hour is simply removed from your life. But even when you get it back in fall, there is a biorhythmic jolt.

BUT!!! As a licensed professional cat juggler, I have learned to make the springing forward work for me. This year, before the time change, the kitties would start trying to wake me around three am. Now I get to sleep in until four or sometimes even five! I hate having a reason to like the time change!

Back To Normal

Sunday evening we landed in Pittsburgh after our week in Texas. It was raining. We knew it would be raining in Meadville, because it's usually raining - or snowing - in Meadville. We followed Hermione's directions from the airport to Interstate 79 and hauled our butts on home to our sweet little kitties.

I exited the car out front because the lid was open on the mailbox and there was something behind the storm door on the front door. I pulled a week's worth of wet mail out of the box and closed the lid. As I did so, my next door neighbor Donnie opened his pickup truck door. "Back from vacation just in time for the snow!" he said. "Supposed to get ten inches!" I thanked him for the info and proceeded to get the week's worth of dry newspapers in a special 'end of vacation' plastic bag carefully placed between the front doors by our excellent newspaper delivery geezer - the one who will deliver the paper to the front storm door through a foot of snow at 5:00 in the morning. Which he did this morning.

Yesterday morning at precisely 3:30am, Professor Remus J. Lupin woke me up for breakfast as usual. I looked outside to see about an inch of snow on the road and still pouring. By 8:00am it was about four inches deep. I spent a little over an hour shoveling. Four inches is about the tipping point of the 'shovel vs. snow blower' equation. By the time Carmen came home, about 5:30pm, there were maybe two more inches down. I let it ride.

This morning's feeding (they let me sleep in until 4:01) I looked out to see at least a foot of snow in the driveway. Around 9:00 I snew blew the driveway and front walk. Then I shoveled the steps and walkway to the door. It was snowing to beat hell, and the driveway was a good half inch deep again already. I came in, showered, got dressed and walked to the Orthopedic Associates of Meadville for my 'three months with a new knee' appointment. I got my clearance to return to work and came home.

Diane at Sherwin Williams says I'll be back to work on Monday the 9th.

It's been a long three months recovering from surgery. Feeding kitties, scooping litter, walking around town and shoveling snow let me know that life is back to normal. Whoop-dee-doo.

A Long Time Coming

Three and a half months ago I predicted that recuperating from a knee replacement would give my blogging a shot in the arm. I could argue the truth of that. Say, for instance, that the shot in the arm was full of phenobarbital. That would have the effect that my down time had on my writing. I did a lot of reading, played a lot of  handheld games, watched The Price Is Right and Ellen. No blogging.

I'm tempted to say "I'm back!!," but I don't know that - other than my current burst of activity. My one great consolation is that I'm WAY ahead of my wife's blog, last updated in February.

So I have a new knee. The horrendous arthritis that was causing so much pain for so many decades has been replaced by metal and plastic pieces parts. The pain is less, and it feels different. I guess it's better. The muscles that pull the leg straight are weak - walking down a steep hill is a little scary - but every time I do, it's a little stronger. I'm still doing my PT exercises, and I'm back on ibuprofen as my primary pain medication. All good stuff. My next appointment is January 3rd, when I'm pretty sure I'll be released to return to work. woo hoo.

Meanwhile, in addition to my new knee, I have new orthotic arch supports, new trifocals and refurbished hearing aids. I'm like an all-new geezer!