Requiem for a Non-Believer

I lit a candle last night for my cousin Denny.  He'd be amused by that  - with his signature sardonic grin, a sarcastic remark.  He was pretty sure he'd end up in Hell, if there was such a thing.  Most people would have agreed with him.

We came from a large family of close-knit cousins, aunts and uncles and shared a childhood.  Denny was just a month younger than I, we were practically siblings.  Denny was fearless and careless and burned the candle at both ends, all of those cliches.  He was a shameless huckster and went through money, wives and friends as if there were no tomorrow.  And now there's not.

Who wants to re-live the bad times?  One story, I cannot omit:  for reasons best left to speculation, he and his best friend got in a fist fight one night in his buddy's front yard.  Rumor has it a wife was involved, and tempers were high.  Denny ended up biting off a piece of Jason's ear, and in the confusion, the family cat ran off under the porch with the ear.  My favorite Bad Denny moment.

Denny was always good to me, generous always.  He shared his toys, his amazing train set (the staged wrecks were legendary), his time.  We went to the movies, to the swimming pool, to Mrs. Gregory's little store across Chicago Avenue.  We spent countless nights on the Corey porch, counting the time between the thunder and the lightning flashes over the river, trains rolling heavy down in the switchyard.  We went up the river with his Grandpa Corey on the houseboat.  When my Mom was dying, he drove into Chicago to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the middle of the night.

Those memories are the ones I choose to keep.  I'll miss that wicked grin, the latest crazy scheme.  He had big ideas, lived as large as he could, and died the way he lived.  He died in Nicaragua, living the life with the latest young wife, far from disappointment and heartache he'd never admit.

See ya, Denny.

Cathouse Wednesday on Loran Road

It's Cathouse Wednesday here on Loran Road.  I live with someone who sees no reason to have pets in the house.  And it's his house.  My Old Fat Bastard Cat lives in the shop, it's heated and there are many nooks and crannies to explore, a couple of Labrador Retrievers to lord it over.  Perfect.

Boris likes the shop, but on Wednesday nights - bowling night for the Man of the House - Boris gets to stalk around the house, checking out doorways, looking out the big sliding glass door, making sure all is to his satisfaction.  He prowls the hallway, crawls under beds, peers in the bathtub.  He rolls on the rug and invites a tummy rub.  Sometimes he gets onto the couch for a thorough ear-scratching.  He flashes, purrs and vamps.  He's shameless.

He then hoists his fine tail and stalks to the kitchen door.  His work here is done, and he retreats to his Shop Domain.

A re-post, an ode to Boris:

I have a cat who wears his
gray pin-striped suit with aplomb,
a gentleman cat who seeks
my company,
and purrs in my lap.

If I had a man like that,
I'd feed him good
and stroke his back.
I'd admire his fine gray pint-striped suit.

And I'd swoon
as he purred in my lap.

Cadillac Joe and the Rodeo Queen

Cadillac Joe died last week, passing into the oblivion of the grave; surely there will be tales told and exaggerations made of his sins and follies for a few days.  His money, larceny and drinking make limited fodder, and folks will shake their heads:  I guess he was as sick as he claimed.  The Passing of Cadillac Joe leaves a wife bereft and relieved, no doubt in equal measure.  She'll no longer have to make excuses or field awkward questions about questionable deals and who knows what she knew anyway.  A steep fall for The Rodeo Queen of Illinois, 1968.   We all fall, all fall down.  She'll stay on the farm, of course, the occasional neighbor looking in.

He died at home, few friends remained and fewer cared, made his own bed and died in it.  February is a time for dying if you don't have to be buried in the iron hard ground.  No service or memorial, ashes to ashes, all of us each and all.  We lift a cup to the widow and what might have been if not for what was.  A bad bargain, and she's paid the price, ground down into the fine dust of shame and humiliation from what passed for royalty so long ago:  Rodeo Queen of Illinois, 1968.  No child or family to grieve for her, in ill health herself.  One last bleeding memory, him dying there at home, she calling on the one friend who might come over to say goodbye...she had someone to call, after all.

Choices are hard.  They are not fair, they shape our whole lives and we make them when we are young and ignorant and short-sighted and hopeful.  But there you are, she stuck with him.  She was a pretty girl, and like so many pretty girls, might have been better off plain, might not have caught the eye of a rounder like Cadillac Joe.

She'll stay on the farm, dream of the barrel-racing quarter horse in the mists of the pasture, think of that tarnished crown - you're only Queen for a Year, after all.

A Nye of Pheasants

Again, from Old Reliable St Albans, a nye of pheasants, supported by the Knight of Duplin - who could quarrel with that? - and Egerton (ny v nye).  Well, The Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News does, averring that it should be 'An eye.'  So there we are, a small impasse, but an 'eye' is the Old English word for a brood.  All authorities agree that 'nye' in any of its forms refers to only the young. So Lipton opts for the 'fanciful but general' term bouquet, found only in a 1927 compilation by Philip and Helen Gosse.  Kudos to Lipton, the road less traveled and all that.

I thought they were a 'brace' of pheasants, but that could be regional or colloquial - doesn't matter, we don't have many of them left with the fence lines gone and the railroad beds flattened and planted.  A ring-necked cock pheasant used to be a common sight, but they have thinned, with the less decorative and more aggressive wild turkeys coming into their own, apparently.

Our loss, unless you hunt turkeys.  Which, by the way, are called a raft.  To be explained at a later date.

a kyndle of yong cattis

from the Book of St Alban's:  a group of kittens is a kindle, from the Middle English 'kindlen;'  kindle means literally to give birth.  Hence, kinder, kin, kindred - aha.  well, the cats would not be surprised that we all spring from the Great Cat Goddess.

a cloudyr of cattis - (Robert of Gloucester); in the north of England, tomcats were called carl-cats.  This progressed in Hors, Shepe, and Ghoos (1476) to a cluster of tame cats.  I like the distinction.  Housecats became a cluster, and a lot of cats is a clutter.  A number of cats viewed in the dark with their eyes shining is a glaryn.  We've all seen the cats glaryn, I dare say.

After a kindle of kittens, my favorite is a destruction of wild cattes, another gem from Hors, Shepe and Ghoos.

So now you know how I spend my time in this long, cold winter...

A crash of rhinoceroses..

from 'An Exaltation of Larks,' by James Lipton - my daughter Heather recently reminded me of the rhinoceros incident at the Denver Zoo.  My girls don't like zoos and rarely visit them.  The incident in question occurred when they were too young to protest much at the incarceration of innocent animals.  We were strolling along on our way to see the penguins and were stopped by this firehose-like noise and an horrific odor.  A rhinoceros had backed up against a metal door and let 'er rip - pissed the paint right off the door.  Upstaged the cute penguins, for sure.

'A crash of rhinoceroses' is in current use in the Kenya Game Reports.

A Love Poem from Garrison Keillor

A summer night, and you, and paradise,

So lovely and so full of grace,

Above your head, the universe has hung its lights,

And I reach out my hand to touch your face.

I believe in impulse, in all that is green,

Believe in the foolish vision that comes true,

Believe that all that is essential is unseen,

And for this lifetime I believe in you.

All of the lovers and the love they made:

Nothing that was between them was a mistake.

All that is done for love's sake,

Is not wasted and will never fade.

O love that shines from every star,

Love reflected in the silver moon:

It is not here, but it's not far.

Not yet, but it will be here soon.

— Garrison Keillor

Happy Valentine's Day - Early, but I was struck by the poem.  He reads it beautifully.

Sub-Zero

                    A white silence lies
                    between us, an unshared
                    blanket on a cold night.
                    We come and go, making
                    our separate cups of tea
                    and retreat,
                    warming ourselves.

                    The wind has died down,
                    soft drifts pillow the house,
                    soften the hard edges
                    of winter.
                    A sullen sky lies heavy
                    over the valley,
                    dusk comes gentle and gray,
                    a benediction.

                    It has been a long winter,
                    uncommonly cold,
                    uncommonly harsh.
                   We bundle up against it
                    and venture forth,
                    hand in mittened hand,
                    looking toward Spring,
                    hoping for an
                    early thaw.

The new year

has found me, apparently frozen to the keyboard, unable to type or think or do anything but sleep and eat.  I have managed to neglect my blogging project for a couple of months, to my great chagrin.  It's too damned cold to be accountable, so I'm excusing myself.  Period.