Rest In Peace, Lilah - Sept. 1992 to May 2013

My friend Maggi wrote this eulogy for her cat Lilah who passed on this morning:

“How do I speak of the passing of a friend of twenty years? Someone who has been with me through the best and worst times in my life.  Who says cats are aloof?! 

Twenty plus years ago we got a call from the maintenance department at the school where I worked. "Are you guys still looking for a kitten? We have one of the ferals who tried to come in from the cold. Want to come and take a look?" One look was all it took. These huge golden eyes staring up at us from a box carefully lined with soft towels. The expression said, "What now?" Of course we took the kitten.

She started out as Leo. She pulled the 'amazing kitten sex-change on the way to the vet' trick for her first visit.  He picked her up and said "what a pretty little girl!" Oops. Quick name change. Lilah she has been ever since.

Her second or third visit, where we finally got a sunny day and he held her up in the light and said "Oh! That's grey hair! She's not dirty!" 

She would go upstairs with my husband when he went to bed.  I'd come in, find him taking up 3/4 of a king size bed, and Lilah fully occupying the remaining quarter.  On my pillow, of course.

Her sadness and confusion when her lifetime playmate, Spuds, passed. I was handling that well until she came into the living room with one of their favorite toys in her mouth, calling for him.

The look she gave me when I trapped the bird that had gotten into the bedroom and released it outside. "That was MINE! You promised!" Sorry, Baby. I forgot I had promised that you could have one if it got in.  She wanted to go out and hunt like Spuds did so much. But she was an indoor cat.  

Sitting on top of the TV, hanging over the screen trying very hard to catch the bows from the violin section of the orchestra. 

Her patience when friends came over with infants and small children.  She always seemed to know that these were 'human kittens' and deserved tolerance with their antics.

Earning the nickname 'Lilah the Hutt' because she had short legs and thick fur.  She looked overweight when she wasn't.  

Trying to tell her it wasn't her fault when my husband decided he didn't want to be married anymore and didn't want either of us.  

She went from being an 'only cat' to a multi-cat household. Introducing her to Gram, where we were going to live.  Gram was no problem. Cat person. Gram's Fuzzy? He took it well.  Lilah had her space in our room, he had the rest of the house. And she was allowed to come out and visit with 'his' person. Other cats in that household? Gram's kitten, Willow, Sue's Scrapper, and Liath (who was and is her OWN cat). In ten years there, we lost Fuzzy, Gram, Scrapper and Willow.  Lilah took losing them all much better than losing Spuds and Daddy. I think by that time she had grown up enough to know these things happen. 

Does Derek know he has been her substitute 'Daddy'? He'd take such good care of her when I had to leave town overnight.  

A couple of years ago I was adopted by a kitten, Cassie. Who then proceeded to adopt Lilah as well. 

Our last move was to Pennsylvania. Into another cat-friendly household. I had brought Cassie for visits, since she adopted me from here.  I was apprehensive about bringing Lilah into another household at her age.  I needn't have worried.  

She made the trip well.  She has always travelled well, and this was to be her last long trip.  She looked at our bedroom and delightedly scrambled under the headboard of the waterbed. She remembered it was her favorite hidy-hole from when she was a kitten!  

Watching the other cats trying to figure out Lilah's ranking in their system.  Lilah gained a new nickname:  The Dowager Empress.  She was totally above and outside their power games.  She outranked ALL of them due to advanced age and wisdom. They have always given her the respect of her new title.

She acquired a 'brush slave' in Rabbit. Who would come in every day (usually twice) and give Lilah a nice brushing.  We're always amazed at the amount of fur from one little cat.  But she's been that way all along. I remember one vet looking for a place to give her a shot and commenting on her thick fur.

Cassie generously gave Lilah her pet fish. That had started as a joke a few years before, but , as usual, turned around so I'm not sure who the joke was on. A couple of months ago Señor Kissyfish passed on.  Lilah was upset.  We tried to tell her she was a good pet mom and fish don't stay with us long. She was happier when we got her a new fish.  Now who gets him?

Who's going to remind me to feed Freddie?”

I suppose I must mention Maggi is my housemate and Lilah lived here for the past year.  I knew her ‘way back when she was just a mischievous kitten, though.  Bright in my memory was staying overnight at Maggi’s one New Year’s Eve.  My bed was the sofa, with the holiday tree at my feet, the sequential lights a beautiful sight, especially with my glasses off.  In my zoned-out state, with everything blurry, I imagined one ornament near the top of the tree was a face.  Then it moved, and I realized it was a face… a furry one, with whiskers.  How Lilah had gotten so high without disturbing or shaking anything I can’t imagine.  She also had a special love for dancing lights, which I discovered the next morning when I opened the microwave to heat coffee.  The sunlight from the east-facing windows hit the microwave door, creating reflections that skidded across the floor, pursued by Lilah.  She continued this fascination life-long, chasing reflections of sunlight or flashlight beams with equal enthusiasm.

Lilah was a striking color hard to describe.  There were elements of yellow, orange, tan, and even pink there, with a pattern that was subtle and looked solid from a distance.  Except for her tail, which was striped.

When Jack left Maggi, I found it hard to comprehend the mind-set of someone who would leave a faithful wife of over 20 years, mother of his two sons;  however, I found it impossible to understand how he could leave the cat who loved him so, his ‘little girl,’ to whom he’d seemed so devoted.  Because of this, she and Maggi had a special bond.  I understood this on a deep level, because of my old cat Isis who had once belonged to my ex;  we had been ‘loved and abandoned by the same man,’ as I put it.

They moved in with me about a year ago, and I discovered that Lilah was as close to a saint as a soul in a fur body can be.  She bore her age with dignity and no complaint, despite arthritis and other age-related problems.  She was never cross, never bit, and was always so glad for human companionship.  She loved to be petted, brushed, scratched, kissed, and played with;  But seemed equally happy to just be in the same room with one of us, especially enjoying music or the sound of the human voice.  She had a purr that could be heard across the room, too.

I discovered early on that she adored to be brushed, and took over that aspect of her care gladly.  She’d rub the brush with her face, stand up and beg for more when I paused, and never tired of it.  Twice daily, always accompanied by treats and affection, yet every brushing filled the brush with loose fur.  “My little fur factory,”  I would joke.  But we both looked forward to the routine.

It always amazed me that this arthritic old cat still loved to play.  Whether with that flashlight beam, one of her toy mice and worms, or her favorite plump bags dusted with catnip, she eagerly pounced and rolled or batted at them.

When Maggi had to go on overnight trips, I added a second part to our routine.  I’d go in and sit with her for an hour in the evening, often reading aloud to her.  She appreciated this.  Not much of a lap sitter, she’d lie on the bed listening.  Since she was elderly, her appetite was not as good as it should have been, so I started feeding her a little canned food in addition to her kibble, and it became a daily routine.  Maggi added “catmilk”, which she had for breakfast.  Meals were my responsibility, and you may be sure Lilah would come find me and stare at me reproachfully if I was late with them.

She had a quality of capturing peoples’ hearts.  I could not pass through the bedroom where she spent most of her time without stopping for a caress, a kiss on her forehead, or at least a cheerful greeting.  Yes, she required a lot of attention as she aged, but I did not grudge a moment of it.  There are now big empty spaces in my life that were once filled by the love of a bright little cat-shaped saint.

Mindless Tedium

I just got in from mowing the lawn.  I’m always amazed how a repetitive task stimulates the mind.  Reflections on philosophy, snatches of poetry, and of course criticisms on the state of my yard and future plans for it tumble through my brain.  I often choose to do just such a task when I’m troubled.  It gives me a respite from the mental treadmill of pointless worry.  Sometimes this gives me a solution, but usually it just gives me comfort.  (Just!)  In the long run, I’ve found taking a mental break often ‘breaks’ the pattern and, later, I can come up with an answer, even if it’s merely acceptance of a situation as it is.

I found myself remembering a scene from the old 70’s TV series Kung Fu.  The good one, not the later spin-offs that were little more than palettes for testosterone poisoning.  It went thusly:

“The young Kwai Chang Caine spent his first year in the monastery wielding a broom.  In autumn, he swept leaves from the Temple and stairways, in the summer dust from paths and walkways, in winter snow, in spring fallen petals.  He had exhibited great patience when the candidates were chosen, but even greater desire.  At last his desire to learn overcame his patience.  Spotting Master Kan in the garden, he laid aside his broom and bowed low, waiting to be acknowledged.  At last the Master spoke.

‘Have you a question for me, Kwai Chang?’

Caine blurted out, his voice tormented by his inner conflict,  ‘Master!  When shall I learn?’

‘What is it you have been doing since you arrived within these walls?’

‘I have done nothing but sweep!’

‘And are you a good sweeper?’

Caine paused, and his face lost its agony, became thoughtful.  After a long time, he replied,  ‘Yes.  Yes, I believe I am.’

‘Now you are truly beginning to learn.’”

I think this illustrates the usefulness of ‘mindless tedium.’

Queen of Denial

After having cut off a foot or more of hair last week, I expected to lose a pound or so. Instead, when I weighed in Monday, I found I'd gained two pounds. This obviously was not because of the wine I drank nightly at the fly fishing festival over the weekend. There must be some other cause. Hmm...

Well, there are two things I can think of that are lighter than air: Helium (He) and Hydrogen (H). Mix hydrogen with air using the following formula:

                                                 Hydrogen (H) + Air = Hair

Eureka! Hair must be lighter than air, so by removing hair I lost its natural buoyancy!

Perhaps if I'd come up with this insight in college chemistry I'd have passed the course the first time through.  Lots of professors give credit for theories that make them laugh uncontrollably. They have to.

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!

Almost Cut My Hair

Well, actually, I did cut my hair.  But Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young have been singing in my head ever since and I feel vaguely like I've betrayed my generation.  I've had long hair since... well, I was not born with it, but  my oldest memories include my hair being long.  Much of my life it's been down to my waist, genuine Hippie chick hair.  Why did I decide to cut it?  Too many reasons to list.  How much did I have it cut?  About as short as it can go and still look like woman's hair.

But, does it feel weird!  The first problem was my tweed hacking jacket being so scratchy against my neck driving home from the salon.  And I had the sensation that the ends of the hair were touching the collar whenever I turned my head.  All day long I've had the feeling that my hair was still there, bound up in a French twist like I used to wear it for work, but when I put my hand back to make sure the bun is still secure, it's not there.  But I feel it there distinctly.  There is that tight sensation at the temples saying the hair is pulled back into that bun, but it's not.  There is the feeling of weight at the back of my head, but it's an illusion.  I think this is all psychological, my mind putting a familiar cause on a totally new experience.

I do know for sure that I can't wait to wash it tomorrow morning (which will be another whole new experience) and hopefully get my...  ahem!  ...head straight about there being no bun, and no hair, where it thinks they are.

Writing Diary: "Twilight"

I woke up at 5:30 this morning with a compulsion to write.  I didn't have anything in mind, but sat down in front of the word processor anyway.  What came out was my column for the fly-fishing club quarterly, the column for which this blog is named.  Somehow, pieces that start on a blank slate end up flowing easily, and the results are lovelier, than articles that are planned.  Four hours later, the finished product impressed even me.  Check this excerpt out:

"In the mountains, twilight ends swiftly.  There’s a short time between sunset and darkness that feels almost surreal, the air having a glow that has little to do with light.  Perhaps it’s the departing soul of day illuminating the world with a final blessing."

Ain't it bootiful?

I always compare winter to an Ansel Adams landscape:  A simple statement in black, white, and shades of grey, powerfully conveying the basic nature of my mountain wilderness.  Spring comes to the mountains in three stages:  The ‘looking desperately for hopeful signs’ stage comes first and lasts the longest.

This year, spring is late coming.  Stage two did not start until May.  In the valleys first, of course, then slowly and reluctantly spreading up in elevation, competing with snow that was still falling nightly.  On my property, a single grumpy crocus put forth a short-lived bloom.  Squirrels, running out of their winter-stored foods, chewed my other sprouting bulbs down to the roots, except for the daffodils and the Dreaded Day Lilies.  Those daffodils, naturalized throughout my pine lot, were originally 150 in number.  Less than a third of those sprouted, and, of those, a quarter grudgingly produced a single blossom.  Meanwhile, the trees were showing first a faint haze of red or yellow-green, then small delicate curled leaves unfolding.

Suddenly, yesterday, Stage 3 arrived.  My first reaction, as always, was a feeling of claustrophobia.  The leaves had abruptly gotten large and numerous enough that the broad vistas I enjoy in winter were blocked.  The second was that I had been dropped into a Peter Max painting, a psychedelic study in green.  Eyes starved for colour over the winter were overwhelmed by the intensity, as well as the many varying shades, of green.  Emotionally, it’s always a shock and a delight, coming almost overnight, as it seems, after long weeks of yearning.

That’s spring in the Northwoods:  Life imitating art, as I pass abruptly from the Ansel Adams season to the Peter Max season.  I relive the giddy joy of my hippie years, as I spin, arms out, revelling in psychedelic colour.

Bilingual Signs... No Comprendo

Welcome to the north woods... a space subtly shifted out of the 'normal' dimension where the rest of America resides.  We're so far out of the mainstream, we're over the mountain in a valley formed by a different watershed than the mainstream.

I saw a perfect example of this Saturday when I went into Coudersport, our county seat, for the Potter/Tioga area Maple Festival.  The Crittendon Hotel in the middle of town is one of the oldest, best known taverns in the county, their bar the hang-out for the most important people in the area.  Saturday there was a sign in the window:  "Saturday, May 4th!  Cinco de Mayo!"

Nobody in Coudersport knew why I found this so funny.  For people living anywhere else, all I can say is:  When you understand this sign, you will understand what life in the Pennsylvania Wilds is like.

Reflections on Cookies

You should treasure the unusual people in your life.  After all, without the nuts, a Toll House Cookie would be merely a chocolate chip cookie.

Come to think of it, chocolate chip cookies are also wonderful.  Never mind!

Life In The Slow Lane?

It’s ‘life in the slow lane’ here in the Pennsylvania Wilds for a retired woman.  At least, that’s the theory.  In practice, I have the Watershed Association, Trout Unlimited, and other conservation organizations for which I volunteer; meetings and fundraisers for the local library, and other worthy causes; and purely social activities like the local herb guild, music festivals, outdoor shows, and community fairs.  That’s part of the pleasure of being here, although I must be ever-wary of my tendency to over-commit.

The important thing is balance, between active fun, social fun, and contemplative fun.  Yes, retirement is fun.  Sometimes I have to remind myself of this very firmly, especially when I’m running from one ‘enjoyable’ activity to the next with no time in between to remember to actually enjoy them.  Like many people my age, I sometimes find myself wondering how I freed up 40 hours a week for a job.

Not that I see myself as ‘retired.’  I worked 42 years in a field I never liked, most of it for an employer I despised (the feeling was mutual), and now I am concentrating on my second career doing exactly what I’d wanted to do in the first place:  writing.

What would my life had been like if I had followed the advice of my heart, rather than that of  my high school guidance counselor?  If a person 16 or 17 years of age would listen to advice from an old fogey, I’d tell them to ignore the authorities (also old fogies) and make a career out of whatever they do well and are happiest doing.  The odds of success, in the traditional sense, may be long, and money scarce; but there are different definitions of success, and money is not the biggest or best part of those definitions.  I chose the security of working for someone else, but what I should have realized that ‘employ’ means ‘to use.’

But that is all behind me now.  Every day I recover a little more self-esteem, a bit more balance, after my years of being used.  I spend my days at creative tasks, in beautiful surroundings, which is my idea of heaven.  I am free: I choose my daily activities (or lack thereof), the way I dress, and the thoughts I think.  I write, I fly-fish, I observe the natural world, and have finally achieved what I think of as success.  Perhaps not strangely, a more usual type of success is beginning to happen to me.  I find this ironic, annoying, gratifying, or amusing, depending on my mood and how this ‘success’ manifests.

This is life in the Pennsylvania Wilds, the north woods.  A place outside of time, where only seasons change, and stories of brook trout caught and turkey gobblers called in take precedence over national or global news.  A ‘destination,’ my destination, about which I often say:  “Vacation?  Why should I go on vacation when I’m already here?”