Another inconsequential meandering ...

Today we had snow!

With the temperature now hovering near the freezing mark, I fondly recall an unusually warm September evening, two scant months ago.

My office window was wide open to cool the room, yet no breeze stirred the air. I was listening to Santana's Smooth when I heard a rustling sound just below the window, where shrubs grow thick and flowers bloom all summer and into the fall.

An animal, I thought, perhaps attracted by the music. And I wondered, do animals hear music as music? Or is it simply sound to them, part of the background noise that comes with society?

Of course animals hear. [I discovered spiders can hear when a very large spider appeared in my basement. I said, "eek!" The spider jumped six inches into the air, then scurried on.] Animals differentiate loud and angry from soft and calm. They know the roar of a motor, the crack of thunder, children laughing.

Some dogs and cats, some wild things, too, howl along to certain tones. But do animals hear the beat, the rhythm, the shades of music? Do they feel it? Do they rock to the Rolling Stones? Sway to jazz, tap their paws to upbeat dance tempo, weep to the sad violins of Schubert's Serenade? Was a cat, mouse, maybe even a snake listening enrapt to Santana?

An intriguing thought, made all the more possible when the song ended and whatever had been there rustled away.

Then reality, as it always does, popped my little bubble of fantasy. You see, my husband had been outside watering flowers, and the sound I heard had been him dragging the hose through the shrubbery.

I don't give up easily, though. I spent some time at You Tube where a dedicated searcher can find anything rather quickly, and found a few videos that could confirm that yes, animals hear music as music.

Decide for yourself.













--Cat

Hallowe'en

October 31, 2011
Pumpkins and that little devil, Roxy, ready to rumble.

November 1, 2011
The party's over...

--Cat

And the winner is. . .

New Zealand! 8-7 over France.

The same way I watched the beginning of the first game, I watched the end of the final game, and parts of many games in between.

While I still don't know all the rules, I was able to follow what was happening.

The last game was a nail biter – it could have gone either way.

Rugby is a tough sport, the toughest I've ever seen, definitely not a vanity sport. These rugged players from all over the world won my respect.

Well done, all the teams. Well done, New Zealand All Blacks!

--Cat

In Memoriam -- K F Hartwell

Kevan F. Hartwell Dec. 21, 1920 - Oct. 3, 2001

I wrote this poem for the fifth anniversary of my father's death. I've revised it to reflect the tenth year. I sit at his desk, surrounded by his books and feel his spirit beside me.


In Memoriam

Ten years, Dad, since you’ve been gone.
And here’s a new October dawn.

Ten years passed like one moment in time, the blink of an eye,
a solemn whisper, a small sad sigh.

We miss your music, miss your voice, your wisdom and your cheer.
The world has changed since you’ve been gone, for you’re no longer here.

The space is dark and empty you once so brightly filled,
but we are not forsaken; you're here beside us still.

Your words still clearly echo, your hands, with love, still guide
As we reflect upon the past with tears, with smiles, with pride.

Ten years now since you’ve been gone,
And we, the living, must live on.


--Cathrine

It is not length of life, but depth of life. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

My First Rugby Game

Last night I was channel surfing when I came across the opening ceremonies for the 2011 Rugby World Cup, in Auckland New Zealand. It was a grand spectacle, lights, music, dance, incorporating aboriginal moves with classical and modern.

After the grand fireworks display ended, the first rugby game began. I had never seen this game played so thought I would watch. I had the impression that it was like football, a game whose intricate principles I have never understood. Well, I know what a touchdown is, but because I don't get it, I am bored.

The teams from New Zealand and Tonga marched onto the field and formed a long line. The national anthems played, and it was a lovely display of patriotism for each country. They regrouped, team glaring at team. Then, with the unison of a well-rehearsed chorus line, the Tonga team huffed and puffed, made belligerent hand gestures, and shouted out what must be their team song, their voices harsh, faces mean.

New Zealand's turn. Oh yes, these men were also skillfully choreographed and showed equal fist-pumping anger. I watched in astonishment. Was this an ancient male prewar ritual? These teams were ready to do battle.

I was reminded of a nature show I recently watched where two handsome male birds fluffed their feathers and strutted about, baiting each other, cawing, their goal to impress the female bird who stood coyly waiting. They menaced and charged toward each other until one backed out of the game.

Instead of a coy female, the prize here was – The Ball.

The game began in earnest. Wow, those goal posts stood close together. This ought to be interesting, I thought. And it was. Rugby players do not wear the humongous padding that our football players wear. [Why? Is our football so much more dangerous? How can I now not think of these well padded footballers as, well, sissies?]

This is impressive. Everyone piles on the player who has the ball. That may be the same as our football, but there it seems the similarity ends. There are no whistles, no interminable stopping of the clock, no advancing two yards or two inches, or whatever. Someone wriggles the ball out of the pile and runs with it, dodges the opposing team, then throws it to a teammate, who throws it to another, and so on until there is another pileup.

I could understand what these people were doing. The trick was to form a line and not let the opponent get through to the goal. [We played a kiddie version of this in grade school, without the ferocity, without the pileups.]

All in all I found it a fast-moving game, with players constantly moving about, passing the ball, or jumping into a big pile on the one who has it. I didn't watch the entire game, but I hear New Zealand won 41-10. This may have been the first and last rugby game I watch, but I'm interested enough to keep up with the results.

And I have to say, I'm impressed.

-– Cat

Because some days . . .

. . . no matter how warm and bright, are just plain shitty . . .


Chris Rhea -- The Road to Hell
from 1989, yet could have been written yesterday/



Sometimes the world is just too much . . .

It seems to have been so forever. This was written in 1807. Wordsworth would like to return to a time when man worshiped nature and the old gods.

William Wordsworth

The World Is Too Much with Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

--Cat

Summer Flowers

I've been "breaking in" a new computer. (Or it's been breaking me.)
Not much time for anything else, so here's a few pix.













--Cat

Saxy music

When my son was in seventh grade he was required to take Band. As he would learn to play a musical instrument--not provided by the school--he announced with great excitement he had chosen to learn the saxophone.

To the music store we went in anticipation. Ouch. Saxophones = much money. (I distinctly recall playing a triangle in elementary school band. Supplied by the school.)

The store owner wisely advised us not to purchase the saxophone outright, so we opted for the rent-to-buy plan. Yes, he knew that most kids' initial eagerness to learn this beautiful, shiny instrument waned after the first year.

Not so, Son assured us. He would learn to play like a pro. He would practice, practice, practice.

I have a fun memory of him and his buddy sitting in our living room for about an hour with their brand new saxes making all sorts of horrible sounds. I'm sure the neighbors up and down the block also heard the clamor.

Well, he learned to make the proper sounds and string them together in a progressively smoother manner. He practiced, he cleaned and buffed.

Ah, we thought. Could he aspire to the lofty heights attained by Charlie Parker and John Coltrane? Were we listening to a budding Kenny G?

Grandiose delusions aside, here comes the inevitable however . . .

His interest, although less keen, lasted through eighth grade. He reached a plateau, not the apex for which he'd once aimed. Improvements ended, regular practice sessions dwindled. He was no longer "into" playing a sax.

Yes. Puberty.

We returned the instrument to the store. No one said, "I told you so."

Somewhere, we have a picture of him and his gleaming sax. Somewhere, we have a video of his band concert.

Must find them.


Two of my favorites:

Sonny Rollins accompanies Leonard Cohen in Who by Fire





Candy Dulfer plays Lily Was Here from the 1989 movie of the same name. Dave Stewart on guitar.



--Cat

Never underestimate the power

Horrifying reminder of nature's awesome power--



Heart-breaking tragedy for the nation of Japan.
We hold our collective breaths as we wait for news.

Quote:
We have resolved to endure the unendurable and suffer what is insufferable.
Hirohito (Japanese Emperor, 1901-1989)

--Cat

A Citizen's Duty

Today I received a summons from the Supreme Court of BC to appear for jury selection for an upcoming criminal case.

A dazzling prospect! I've long wanted to sit on a jury.

And a criminal case, yet. Would I decide the fate of a drug dealer, a thief, perhaps a murderer?

I have no doubts that I can provide a fair, unbiased verdict based on evidence. [Is not my horoscope sign Libra, "the scales," a natural judge?]

Countless courtroom dramas I've watched or read flashed through my mind.

Movies:
The Verdict, To Kill a Mockingbird, 12 Angry Men, Erin Brockovich, A Few Good Men . . . .

Books by:
Grisham, Turow, Baldacci, Bugliosi . . . .

Television shows:
Law and Order, Ally McBeal, Matlock, Perry Mason, Damages, Judging Amy, Shark, The Practice, the British Rumpole of the Bailey . . . .

I enjoyed them all, the serious, the off-beat.

At last I'd personally see slick lawyers at their best. And Crown prosecutors in action. Objection--Sustained--Overruled-- words would fly back and forth. I'd see witnesses break under examination. Spectators swear, weep, faint as stories unraveled and raw facts shocked the courtroom. The judge would be pounding his gavel, calling for order. . . .

Would the jury be sequestered?

[The only courts I'd ever attended were tax court, as an employee of Revenue Canada to observe an appeal. (boring )

And when my husband was called as a witness in the case of a kid he'd seen break into cars. We waited two hours for the case to be called, then another hour or so as the parties talked. In the end we were told to go home. The kid made a deal. (double boring)]

Finally cold reality set in.

I can't serve on a jury due to health reasons.

And as fast as a computer click on the Supreme Court website, I was disqualified from ever again being summoned for jury duty.

Back to movies, books, tv shows.

[sigh]


Quotes:

When you go into court you are putting your fate into the hands of twelve people who weren't smart enough to get out of jury duty. ~Norm Crosby

A jury consists of twelve persons chosen to decide who has the better lawyer. ~Robert Frost

The jury, passing on the prisoner's life,
May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two
Guiltier than him they try.
~William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure

People who love sausage and people who believe in justice should never watch either of them being made. ~Otto Bismark

--Cat

simple message

--Cat

Rerun Summer

Summer 2010 may be over, but I relived it in bits and pieces. Watching shows I taped this past summer gave me an odd sense of reliving the past. Not the shows, but the news clips and commercials.

The Series
I heard in June that In Plain Sight was returning for it's third (summer) season so I set the PVR to tape all 13 episodes. I don't watch much television, but I enjoyed the first two seasons and didn't want to miss this one. Slight problem: when would I find the time to watch 13 hours of TV?

I went on a marathon of sorts, two-three episodes per night, and zipped through them in a week. Good news--the show has been renewed for two more seasons.

Yes, I like this show, mainly because it's refreshingly different. Set in Albuquerque it's about the Federal Witness Protection program and how investigators handle people whose lives change forever. It's a people story with occasional action scenes, light on violence and gore--the human drama is the interesting element.

And I like the lead character, Investigator Mary Shannon. She's dedicated to her work, tough-talking, doesn't put up with attitude, yet compassionate and wise. Her personal life is as complicated as her work life. The other characters are well-written, well-portrayed. The dialogue is great; Mary has the best lines.

The Rerun Summer
This is when I relived summer two months after it ended, in news that flashed throughout the shows: terrible wildfires, not only here, but all over the world. Devastating mudslides and floods here and all over the world. Many lives lost, many people displaced. The continuing BP oil well fiasco. Mine cave-in in Chile. Locally: people gone missing, individuals and couples.The unexpected death of a beautiful racehorse.

Surely there had been good news during the summer? Yes, but the good does not warrant a newsflash. It was almost a relief to see back-to-school commercials, for they signaled the summer of disaster was coming to an end.

But it hasn't been forgotten.

My next TV marathon: BBC's Sherlock.

--Cat

Summer's End

Summer 2010 -- only a memory.







--Cat

Life does not imitate art ...

Rather, it proves art. . .

Some years ago I wrote this little poem:

The Sage Speaks

There was a time not long ago,
when skies were clear and rivers clean,
when sun and air were friends, not foes,
the seas were blue, the lands were green,

I am convinced the world is doomed,
a final gasp and it will die,
plundered, depleted, abandoned to gloom,
a toxic wasteland, barren and dry.

Look back from space as you depart,
look back upon a sphere once proud.
It’s now devoid of blood and heart
forever veiled in poison clouds.

Not art, not even a good amateur work, a poem I abandoned and only remembered today because physicist Stephen Hawking has proved me right. (I smile when I say that. )

Stephen Hawking's Warning: Abandon Earth—Or Face Extinction

I don't see a mass exodus from earth happening within my lifetime. But if it did, I wouldn't get on the ship. I'd go down with it, in a manner of speaking. Not because I don't want to go to the stars -- what a thrill -- but because I love this old earth and someone has to lock the doors when everyone's gone.

Beautiful tribute to Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking:





--Cat

Magic Minute

So . . . I was sitting here and happened to glance at the clock.

And I had a wow, that's interesting moment.

It was 8:08 on 8/8

Four 8s. When will that happen again?

I'll try to make note of an even rarer combo when it's 10:10 on 10/10/10

Just thought I'd share.

--Cat

Internet Down

Desk before

A week ago Thursday morning I woke to a message on my answering machine from a robot at my Internet server. The Internet had been down for a few hours overnight as they upgraded their cable. The message ended with these portentous words: if you have a problem logging on, give us a call.

Naturally, I had a problem. I spoke to a very nice human -- even got through immediately without waiting the usual hour or two -- who tried hard to help me. She concluded I needed a service call from a technician. Earliest available time, Saturday around noon.

Ack. Two whole days without the Internet. What was I going to do?

I got caught up on my reading and did some writing. But I felt disconnected, not because I spend all my time or even a lot of time surfing the net, but because those cables are conduits to humanity, life beyond my own. Somehow reassuring to know theoretically I'm not alone, even when physically I am.

Saturday arrived, a technician came, the problem was obvious to her. My DSL modem had become obsolete and did not work with the new upgraded cable. She brought me a sleek new modem with a built-in router. Everything works much better than my old setup did. [The previous router had issues.]

Well, it's only been two weeks, but I feel confident. And my golden link to the world has been restored.

Picture of less cluttered desk not yet available.


--Cat

Eclectic post #2

André Rieu plays the beautiful Intermezzo from Cavalleria rusticana, an opera in one act by Pietro Mascagni




Bob Dylan wrote Things Have Changed for the quirky 2000 movie Wonder Boys.
In the music video Dylan is spliced into scenes played by Michael Douglas in the movie.




Great movie soundtrack!

--Cat

Summer Lazy

With the advent of hot sunny weather, I'm more inclined to listen to music than compose prose.

So, there will be more YouTube vids of some of my favorites.

-Cat

If I am nothing else, I am eclectic . . .

Dvorak - Symphony No. 9 "From The New World" - II (part 1)

Many years ago as a kid, I learned to play a small portion (Largo) of this piece on the accordion. Taken in isolation, it was easy for a beginner to learn.
I must say this magnificent performance leaves my simple rendition groping in the dust left by a thousand stampeding elephants . . .

Loved it then, love it more now.






And now for something completely different - the incomparable Leon Russell, from 1971.











--Cat

Hummingbird Season

Hummingbirds have returned.

All is right with the world.

Well, this corner of the world.

I could watch them all day!

This is about the making of a fantastic film by PBS about these beautiful little birds.


--Cat

Musical Interlude

Simply because it's so wonderful . . .




--Cat

BAD words and bad words

I don't watch reality shows because I don't believe in their reality.
That said, while recently channel surfing I happened upon one, then another reality show that was disappointing in its, well, reality dialogue.

An abundance of beeps highlighted the dialogue of both shows. Often the beeps outnumbered the words, so the viewer must decipher/read lips/guess the conversation.

I know a beep could have masked the A-word, the B-word, the C-word, the D-word the E-word... (well, maybe not E). However, I get the sense that the F-word won the count.

I don't completely disapprove of the F-bomb, as it's often called when used in an "oops" moment by politicians and celebrities. It's an effective word that gets to the nitty-gritty of the matter. Psychologists at a British university did a study which found the use of expletives strengthens one's endurance to pain.

Yes indeed. Stub a toe and find out how true that is.

However, I find that overuse dilutes the effectiveness of any cuss word. To me less is more. I'd rather see a show with a few bombs used in strategic--shall we say explosive--moments instead of tossed away like fluff in every other sentence.

Ditto in books. If I read a book in which a character goes overboard with the reality dialogue, it becomes a big yawn. But a judiciously placed pained/frightened/horrified/grievous/excited detonation bursts off the page and gives an effective single-word stress moment to a most dire (or alternately, most loving) event.

Disclaimer: Some fictional characters are defined by the language they use, so it's necessary to salt their dialogue in an appropriate manner. Some real people, too, have a limited vocabulary and can best express themselves by fixing on the single descriptive word they know.

That's reality for you.

~

Bad words

My five year old grandson on a recent visit learned a new bad word.

It was unintentional.

I don't know what tv show he was watching, but he said, in true five-year-old righteous fashion, "That's dickless!'

Uncle, knowing the boy's mother would never abide her child using such language, kindly took him aside and told him dickless was a bad word that should never be repeated.

Grandson looked perplexed. Could it be that other members of his family used this vulgar term?

He agreed never to say it again.

Later, Uncle told the boy's mother about the event.

She laughed and laughed. Uncle was now puzzled.

It was the boy's way of saying ridiculous.

Uncle, no doubt slapping the side of his head and calling himself a dickless wonder, had to admit to the boy he'd been mistaken about the word, it wasn't bad at all, etc.

No doubt Grandson was even more puzzled by this revelation.

He probably doesn't know any true bad words.

Give him a few years.

Learning the language is like a rite of puberty. And reality tv.

--Cat

Congrats to all Olympians

Go Vancouver!

Go Canada!

Go World!

--Cat


Afterthoughts March 2

WE WON!

The big game.

The most gold medals.

The most total medals we've ever won in the Winter Games.

A place on the world stage. A good place.

Goodwill and respect for our city, our province, our country.

Unity among the diverse peoples of this land.

~

I confess to being among the skeptics before the Games began. Too expensive by far, too difficult for the organizers, the weather would probably not cooperate, protesters would give our visitors a bad image, in other words a big dud!

My feelings changed during the torch run. People turned out in droves in big cities, in little towns throughout the country--east to west, north to south--and cheered in good weather and bad, enthusiastic, proud, pleased to be included. It was...inspiring.

Then bad stuff happened. A young luger from Georgia died during his practice run. Cypress Mountain, site of several events was green and wet. Snow had to be trucked in. A malfunction during the opening ceremonies. Gretzky looking worried in the pouring rain carrying the torch to the cauldron.

A dud.

But soon I found myself glued to the television watching events unfold. I hoped for the rain to stop so the visitors could see how beautiful Vancouver is. There were some delays, some problems, some grumbling, some asinine protests. The sun appeared. People by the hundreds, by the thousands, took part in the street festivities, watched events on giant screens, cheered together, groaned together. It was...inspiring.

As was watching young people from all over the world come together and compete in fast, beautiful, grueling sports for their country, for themselves.

The closing ceremonies remedied the opening "glitch" in a humorous way. The proceedings were so...Canadian.

I'm happy I was here to witness this once-in-a-lifetime event.

And proud to be Canadian.

As someone once said, A perfect ending leads to a good beginning.

--Cat

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2010

Cheers to a new year and another chance for us to get it right.
-- Oprah Winfrey

Welcome 2010!
--Cat

Organized...

. . . I'm not.

My office resembles chaos, bookshelves overflowing, not only with books but with a menagerie of small stuffed creatures that seem to multiply of their own accord. This is almost as bad as my Beanie Babies (remember those?) collection, who now occupy a box under the bed.

I look wistfully at the bookshelves. The books are roughly organized: novels, biographies, history, geography, dictionaries, Writers Market 1998! (time to recycle that one) At one time I planned to alphabetize everything.

Somehow that plan never bore fruit. I have ruined the overall effect by slotting paperback novels into any available space, whether it's among poetry, world history, Shakespeare... Time to give some of these intruders away to a good home.

It's tough for me to part with books. We once had a garage sale and sold a number of books I believed I'd never read again. I often regret having sold them--not that I'd probably read them again--but they were like precious caskets filled with drama, love, hate, laughter, tears that writers graciously shared.

~

A need to compartmentalize does, however, rear its head every now and then. I focus this urge on my computer where I create folders within folders within folders for my favorites or bookmarks, depending on which browser I'm on. If I don't sort these into aptly named folders the list grows huge and I can't find anything.

While I'm there, I also weed out those that I never visit, that have closed, or that I wonder why on earth did I save this?

Organizing bookmarks is small potatoes next to my writing files folders within folders etc. Does a cache of thousands sound too plentiful?

And yes, I have a real life filing cabinet with, you guessed it, green and blue folders holding manila folders filled with actual papers.

Actual papers have not yet declined, despite the computer age. Seems every day we take a stack to the recycle bin or the shredder.

These are not all bills, either.

--Cat

This and That

When researching the life of poet André Chenier I did some reading about the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, a horrific time, in which massacre followed massacre; nobility, clergy, dissidents alike formed a steady stream toward the guillotine.

Reading how Chenier himself was affected gave me a narrow view of the events. I searched the internet and found an overview of the Revolution, the causes, issues, duration, effects, in Revolution and After .

Dickens aptly wrote of the age in A Tale of Two Cities :

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

The revolutionaries began with noble goals: an end to the tyranny and the outrageous privileges that aristocracy and clergy saw as their due, and liberty, equality, fraternity for all. Perhaps the idealists envisioned a peaceful transfer of power from the monarchy to the people.

It was not to be. The rest, as they say, is history.

As often happens, I continued reading about Napoleon, his rise, his glory, his fall. A couple of pages do not do him justice; I see further reading in my future. My father's library, which I inherited, has several fat books about Napoleon and his wars.

I'll add them to the TBR (To Be Read ) pile.

~

My mother, age 88, is devoted to following the news. From morning news radio, to newspapers which she reads from first page to last (even the sports), to local, national, and international news on tv, to the Letterman Show (hey, he presents news, doesn't he?) she is well-informed about it all. Opinionated, too, frequently venting at newscasters, politicians, and situations that parade past on the tube.

She is the master of the rhetorical "why": why would a man kill his small children; why would those thugs beat up a gay man; why spend billions to send rockets into the air when the economy is so bad; why is the government doing/not doing this, that, or the other...

I used to try to answer her questions. Then I realized she knows there are no answers, and this is her way of trying to make sense of a world that has changed so drastically over her lifetime, yet has also not changed at all.

Besides, I don't have any real answers. They're all blowing in the wind. (more on this coming)

~

--Cat

Musical Interlude

Talented violin virtuoso David Garrett plays Czardas, a traditional Hungarian folk dance.








And simply because it's so very beautiful, Garrett playing Debussy's Clair de Lune.





--Cat

Hottest Day

July 29, 2009

Air conditioner alert!



We aren't used to temperatures this high.
We don't like temperatures this high.


There's something oh so quiet about a hot-hot day. You can almost see the flowers wilt. Birds make liberal use of the birdbath -- wish I had a picture for they truly frolic in the water like exuberant children.

Birds being birds, they always return to the feeders.





Cute birds aside, too many more days like this and I'm going to Antarctica. I hear Antarctica is melting. (sigh)

Okay. But it's still cold on Mars.



Mind you, once it's colonized by humans and they carry on as is their habit, Mars is bound to heat up.
Martial Warming?

--Cat

Adding PS: the heat wave is over for now (for the summer, we hope.)
Mars will have to wait.

The moment I saw him ....

I had to have him!

Yes, a Teddy Bear. But not just any bear - this one had the exact face shape of the Teddy I had when I was very young.



My first Teddy had stiff brown "fur" and when turned upside down and righted again he grunted what I presumed was a bear-like sound.

Unlike the old one, this new Teddy is cuddly and soft and machine washable. But it was the face, that dear, fondly remembered face that tugged at my heart.

I don't recall what happened to my first Teddy bear; lost in transit, perhaps. Or the girl believed she had outgrown him and packed him away, along with her other childhood toys.

The trouble with packing things away is that they are seldom if ever seen again. And often forgotten, until fate bestows a reunion of sorts.



Now and then everyone, no matter what their age, needs a Teddy bear to hug.

--Cat

The Weather Channel

Truly one of the more interesting channels...

Not merely for the weather reports, but for weather news and related tidbits.

Recently it was reported that because of global warming the snow packs enjoyed by skiers will gradually decline.

Seventy years from now the ski season will be half what it is now, and this will of course impact the future of the winter Olympics. No snow, no Olympics.

This got me thinking. Seventy years from now no one will remember how it was in 2009 or before. The winters of yesteryear will become a novelty. Quaint pictures, old movies and tv shows will be of passing interest to young people, much like when our studies took us to previous ice ages.

Seventy years from now my grandchildren will be in their seventies, eighties, and nineties. Perhaps they will reminisce about skiing, snowboarding, tobogganing in the olden days.

I might be a memory, the grandmother who sat at her computer and wrote things.

And after that I'll become a name on a genealogy list.

I need to stop projecting.

This really isn't about me.

I truly hope snow is abundant for Olympics into the year 5000.

--Cat

In search of the sweet stuff

And didn't "they" say Hummingbirds return in April?

My husband was coming out of the garage when he, literally, came face to face with a hummer.

Where's the juice, the little bird seemed to demand.

John hustled in and mixed the syrup, hung the feeders, and a short time later the customer arrived.

It's uncanny how they remember from year to year






--Cat

Musical Interlude

You know how some tunes stick in your mind and refuse to leave?

I had a flashback to a song by Roger Miller. (Jan 2, 1936 - Oct 25, 1992)

Namely: You Don't Want My Love - (In The Summertime When All The Trees And Leaves Are Green)

From 1960 (gulp) Was I even born then? Well, maybe, but I was very, very young.

I found it on You Tube but couldn't embed it, so here's the link


Here is a hilarious version by The Muppets (Oh, how I loved them!)






--Cat

Snow, Snow, Go Away

Yes, yes, it was a lovely sight. One should have the privilege of seeing this at least once every five years. Seven or eight years would be better.



It's been heralded as the biggest dump of snow in the area since sometime in the sixties.
I believe it, though I've lived here only since 1980.

The solid flaky sort of rain first hit the ground December 17th. After one or two clear but icy cold days it began to fall in earnest on the 22nd. And it fell, and fell, and caused incredible hardship for people counting on all forms of transportation.

Truly, people here don't like/fear/can't/refuse to drive when it snows. Warnings not to drive blared across the airwaves.

Because of bad road conditions on Christmas Eve, we delayed the stuffed bird meal until the 28th. (It was just as good.)

It's warmed up (but only slightly) and rained (a lot). But dang it, the snow has not disappeared.
And today -- horrors -- it snowed a bit at noon, dancing, swirling fluffs that seemed to smugly leer, "You ain't done with us, yet!"
.
I say enough! We've had our fun, and our White Christmas.

This makes me wonder why people dream of a white Christmas. What's the big attraction? I think we've been brainwashed since that song came out to believe snow at Christmas = perfection.

No, snow just causes messy trouble and means that it's cold.

Front of my house

My nostalgic inner child remembers sledding, building snowmen, having snowball fights, dressing in twenty layers of clothing (ugh). My inner artist sees the beauty in dark pines and cedars webbed with white, branches bending low beneath the weight...

What am I saying--during such delightful events the power could go out at any time!

--Cat

Merry Christmas

My favorite Christmas song - O Holy Night, performed by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra


(no longer available)




My thoughts exactly:




-- Cat

Music

Il Divo --

Operatic pop quartet. Interesting Wikipedia info here

I love the way they blend their voices and the wonderful songs they sing.








This is my favorite, done up in a pretty collage:






--Cat

Oct 3 - In Memoriam - Kevan F Hartwell

Remembering my father:

Kevan F Hartwell Dec 21, 1920 - Oct 3, 2001

He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us,
more potent, nay, more present than the living man.
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Always remembered, always loved-- --the Family

--Cat

The Birds and the Bees

The bird ---



Who needed a place to build a nest. She found a lovely, flowery spot --



And proceeded to build her nest inside --


In due time two speckled eggs appeared --


~Updates to come


The bee --


The flowers and the trees --




And the moon up above --


Hmm, sounds like a song doesn't it?

I'll stop here. The rest is up to you.


--Cat

The River God

It snowed today. Snowed!

On unseasonably cold days like today I'm reminded wistfully of the time two summers ago when I saw the River God in the (total) flesh.

Nikomekl River

There's a shortcut we take driving home over a one way bridge on the Nikomekl River, a placid little stream that flows to the sea. As this is in a tidal area, the bridge is part dam, opening and closing for flood control and to allow fish to travel up and downstream.

Until that particular day we had seen only the odd seal swimming in the lower part. One warm evening when the sun was low in the western sky, we were halfway across the bridge when "he" unexpectedly appeared.

First there were hands on the concrete wall that served as a railing. Then arms, a head, dark hair streaming rivulets of water. His muscles strained as he pulled himself up to the top of the rail. And there he stood in all his brazen glory, a handsome Adonis maybe in his mid-twenties, shaking water droplets from his hair and body, laughing, as gods might, at the stupefied expressions on the mortals' faces.

We did not stop--there were cars before and behind ours--but I can still hear the laughter floating in the golden air, both his and a split-second later that of all who'd been startled by this apparition.

Yeah, yeah, it was probably like my husband said, buff young guys playing a prank, or carrying out a dare.

I prefer to believe I saw the River God.

--Cat

Kitaro

Kitaro - Japanese born "New Age" composer/musician

Love this music. I was listening to an internet radio station and was reminded of how marvelously grand Kitaro sounds.












--Cat