Arguing With The Weather

Yes, it’s cold.  It’s winter.  This is northern Pennsylvania.  Stop whining and layer up!  The weather is not listening to you and could care less about your opinion of it.

Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in a place that has ‘climate’ but no seasons.  I find the cycle of the year invigorating, and greet each new season with puppy-like enthusiasm.  In winter, I enjoy the feeling of just being alive and thriving, despite the conditions, defying the ‘little death.’

The Polar Vortex is nothing new.  It’s an atmospheric condition that’s always been there, like the Jet Stream, but now the media has gotten hold of it.  We’ve had weather this cold before.  As long as the pipes don’t freeze and the power stays on, why complain?  This is temporary.  This is not the world of “Game of Thrones,” our winter is only going to last another month-and-a-half.

Half the politicians are saying this is evidence that Global Warming is a hoax, the other half saying this is proof it is real.  Lesser ones are griping about school closings and expenditure for snow removal on roads, and using all this as a reason to increase taxes, as if they needed an actual reason.  In short, the cold weather is the topic of every news article, interview, internet post, and conversation.

It could be worse.  They could be doing their usual rants about celebrities I’ve never heard of doing things I don’t care about.

That’s MY rant for today.

My Theobromide Addiction

One close friend who knows me far too well gave me a dark chocolate orange for Christmas.  For those who never had one, this is a replica of an orange made of chocolate, which, at a blow on the stem end, breaks apart into twenty perfectly-formed segments of delectable, slightly orange-flavored, chocolate delight.  The milk chocolate ones are easy to find;  the dark chocolate ones, however, are rather rare.  And dark chocolate, as any theobromide addict will tell you, is what we hard-core cases love the most.  Just as the serious wine lover prefers dry wines, serious chocolate lovers prefer it dark.  Me, I have a passion for both.  Don’t get me started about the proper wine to serve with chocolate!

I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, preferring the richness of fats even in desserts.  Pies, with their shortening-laden crust, buttery cookies, ice cream, and the occasional slice of cheesecake fill my dessert needs.  But one dessert component always turns me on, no matter how it’s prepared:  chocolate.  Don’t even try to give me a piece of cake unless it’s chocolate.  As for ‘blondies,’ non-chocolate brownies… Heresy!  The inventor should be killed in some prolonged and inventive way, such as being drowned in a vat of vanilla extract.  

But I can control myself.  I’m not your stereotypical chocoholic woman who snarfs down an entire box of Godiva’s best in a single afternoon.  I can limit myself to a piece or two daily until the box is gone.  I can even share some without screaming,  “MINE!  MINE!” and snatching it from the would-be chocolate thief’s hand just before it reaches her mouth.  I admit that self-control is easier with individually-wrapped chocolates, which is why I stock up on “one-biters” at Halloween and Christmas, when they are available in the best variety, and freeze them.

I’m smart enough to know the exceptions:  Dark chocolate covered cashews are irresistible, and a pound of those vanishes from my hand without any will power on my part.  As for chocolate-covered pretzels, there are NO exceptions to my passion for them:  Whether the pretzels have dark chocolate, milk chocolate, or even white chocolate coating.  I have no control.  They come into my possession, they go in my mouth.  Quickly, and with no sharing.  For that reason, I seldom if ever buy either of these types of goody.

Being diabetic, I tried sugar-free chocolate, the idea being to be able to eat twice as much of it for the same impact on my condition.  If you have tried these yourself, you know how I reacted.  Let’s just say that “Ex-Lax” is not chocolate flavored deliberately for taste appeal.  Sugar-free chocolate (even ONE) is my last-chance cure for stubborn bowels.  Needless to say, one try convinced me that a smaller portion of the “real thing” was the way to go.

As for that chocolate orange… I kept it for almost a month, just looking at it and anticipating.  Today I decided it was time.  I took it out of the box, reading the instructions on the sticker at the stem end of the orange foil wrapping:  “Break Before Unwrapping.”  I contemplated whether I would choose a ball-peen hammer or a plastic mallet to do the honors.  In the end I grabbed the nearest blunt instrument (the small carpenter’s hammer I use for light household chores such as picture-hanging) and gave it several whacks.  Yes!  Peeling away the foil, I saw twenty almost-perfect segments with only about a teaspoon of shards.  Gorgeous!  I placed the segments carefully in a Ziploc bag and greedily gobbled down the shards, making sure the foil was totally clean before discarding it.  (I did, however, restrain myself from licking up the tiny chocolate crumbs that had somehow escaped to fall on the counter.)  Before sealing the Ziploc, I extracted one segment and savored it.  Ecstasy!

Can I make it last twenty days?

I doubt it!

Eulogy for a Working Cat

I bought a copy of “Hobo Finds A Home,” a children’s book about a stray cat who has many adventures before finding that special human being to take him in and love him, before I realized that the author was the local bookstore owner, and the cat Hobo was the store’s mascot.  It’s a cute and touching book made even more so by knowing it’s a true story.  And, of course, by knowing the characters!

As it happens, From My Shelf Books is a great bookstore, one of the increasingly-rare independent bookstores of the type that used to grace every small community.  This one boasts a great mix of new and used books, and lots of them, so I could browse for an hour at a time and occasionally unearth a rare gem long out-of-print.  As time went on, I also found they could locate and acquire many of these rarities, or new books as they were issued, or any of the other search-and-find services I didn’t expect from anything less than a huge chain store.  In addition, the store is a center for reading and writing programs and outreach services for the reading community for the entire north-central part of the State, which I gradually became involved in as I continued to patronize the store.  In particular, there are the store owners and employees I rapidly came to know on a first-name basis.  And especially Hobo, the charming fur fellow who’d wander through the shop greeting people, or surprise them by waking from a nap and suddenly making them realize he was a real cat.  There’s something about a business with a cat, a special charm, a home-like atmosphere I find welcoming and irresistible.

When the store moved from its cramped cellar digs to a spacious corner shop, I was one of several volunteers to pack and move boxes and boxes of books, not to mention the shelves and displays.  The new store provided room for more books, games, and eclectic gifts.  Hobo loved the new place, with its sunny windows for napping, and cozy cubbies behind (and in) the display case.  When he wasn’t right on top of it, kibitzing every sale.  Naturally, his book was featured, in two different printings, and he even had his own ‘author events’ and signings.

I looked forward to seeing this friendly guy every visit to the bookstore and always spoke to him, usually with a few strokes.  He was so easy-going he would accept petting from almost every customer, even small children with little or no cat experience, with gracious kindness.  As a diplomat for feline-kind, he was number one.  I have to wonder how many local shelter cats would have found happy homes if Hobo had not introduced their prospective owners to the pleasure of cats.  Even as laid-back a cat as Hobo had his limits, though;  During a big party at the bookstore last summer, he stayed inconspicuous in an out-of-the-way cubbyhole.  I noticed him, though, and wandered over casually to share some Cheez-its with him, for which he was deeply grateful.

Hobo continued to work hard at the shop, the furry Customer Relations Manager, helping with gift wrapping, inventory, credit card sales (by lying on top of the card swiper), and even re-organizing the customer file cards.  As time went on, he had his own blog, his own Facebook page, and even a featured column in the Wellsboro Gazette.  He appeared in the commercial spot that made it to the finals in the Intuit Super Bowl Small Business sweepstakes.  There was nothing Hobo would not do for his bookstore friends and his beloved human family.

In December, Hobo developed what turned out to be his final illness.  Luckily, it mainly manifested itself in listlessness and loss of appetite at first, but he soon began having difficulty breathing.  His human family did everything they could for him, as did the local vet.  The support from the community was heartfelt and immediate.  Fans of Hobo all over the area, even throughout the United States, prayed, contributed money for his vet bills, and sent e-mails and posts of love and encouragement.  The tumor growing in his thorax had other plans, though.

I think his humans knew it was the end.  For several days during the last two weeks of his life, they brought him to the bookstore where he curled up in his quilt-lined basket, saying farewell to the people he’d loved as they came into the store to pay their respects.  I was one of them, petting the still-soft fur on the thin body, feeling the inaudible vibrations of his purr, knowing that we were wishing one another goodbye.  It was heart-breaking, but I’m glad, so glad, we had the chance.  Just as I’m glad I knew this sweet boy who had such a huge impact on so many human (and feline) lives.

Hobo touched hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives and made them better.  Some directly, most through the printed word or electronic media.  He made a difference in the way people view stray cats, or any cats at all.  Those of us who already loved cats were won over by his charm, becoming his devoted and loving fans.  He made a difference for good in the world.  How many of us humans can say the same?  

Surprise!

Our family refers to it as “the Talent,” and we should know. All of us have some manifestation of it or another. When I saw my nephew, as a toddler, start to cry when his sister, out of sight in a different part of a playground, fell, I knew we had yet another generation. This is hardly rare. Most people have a sixth sense of some sort and degree. Our family just acknowledges it, encourages it, and uses it.

My sister’s particular Talent is one I found exceptionally annoying as a child. She can touch a package or envelope and know what’s in it (and sometimes its history) with unerring accuracy. A natural morning person, she’d be up and downstairs on Christmas morning, handling every gift she had not already probed. Next, she’d be bouncing on my bed (her usual method of awakening her grumpy, night-person sibling) telling me, not just what Santa brought, but every item in every wrapped package. I can’t emphasize how much I hated this. I am no actor, but had to fool my parents into thinking I was surprised and delighted by every gift.

Since she moved to the West Coast forty years ago, some mystery has returned to my life and the holidays in particular; although I now embrace a Pagan path, and celebrate the Solstice rather than Christmas, with feasting, gifts, and  libations. This Solstice Eve, however, I found surprises are not always gifts. My housemate walked down for the mail, as is her custom. I was just beginning to think she’d been gone longer than usual when I heard the door open and the sound of labored breathing. I leapt from my chair.

“Take a look at this shoulder, will you?” she said, her voice strained. One glance and I knew it was dislocated. My particular Talent told me more: this was not an injury I wanted to touch, or subject to my driving over Potter County roads. I followed the ambulance to the emergency room, and a few hours later X-rays showed a break at the ball-joint. Surprise! A Solstice gift neither one of us will ever forget.

Over a week has passed, and she has had surgery to reinforce the bone and joint and put it back in place. This is hardly the end; It will be weeks until she can actually use the arm muscles to lift its own weight, months until she can get back to her usual activities. In the emergency room we both voiced the thought that we’d thought our roles would be reversed: me taking the fall, her being caregiver. But here I am, Rabbit the Caregiver.

This is not a natural role for me. I tend to be impatient with helplessness, and my maternal instincts are limited to kittens. However, Maggi really tries to be independent and does everything a one-handed woman (on pain meds, too) can do. The big challenge for me has been mental organization and memory. I’m the one that has to remember appointments, care instructions, medications, and so on. I’ve been taking care of the sick cat, too, and the other five kitties. In addition, it has fallen to me to do the lion’s share of communicating her progress to family and friends. From the first call to 911, to the most recent appointment with the orthopedist, I’ve had to supply her insurance information, personal information, and even what vitamins she takes and in what strengths. This has exercised my poor, Swiss-cheese memory, yielding results I’ve found impressive; and required mental organization and cognition outside the limits of my testing that qualified me for Disability. My long-dormant paramedic training has supplied knowledge and even technical terms, which astonished me. Best of all, my slippery-slope of deepening chronic depression has ended. Nothing like having to take care of someone else, exercising abilities long-unused, and proving equal to the challenge, to nurture self-esteem and derail the depression train.

It’s probably selfish of me to be happy about the benefits I’m gaining from this while my friend is in pain and frustrated by her own helplessness. Perhaps it’s just me being a control freak and gloating over my current (temporary!) domination of the household. But I prefer to think that there is nothing bad that happens that one cannot derive some good from. In this case, a lesson: I’m more capable, and have fewer limitations, than I thought. A surprise Solstice gift, indeed.

A Wee Nip o' Holiday Cheer

Sometimes it seems I have only two default moods:  “Grouchy” and “Serene.”  When I’m expected to be “Jolly” for the holidays it’s usually a difficult job.  Perhaps it’s a sign of aging that it grows harder to get in the holiday spirit every year.  Maybe I just expect too much of myself.  After all, eleven months of the year my two moods are adequate;  why change just because it’s December?

When the holidays approach, my mind is filled with a singular combination of anticipation and dread;  combined with the stress of cooking, cleaning, decorating, spending money I don’t really have on gifts, food, and cards, and the numerous social and family functions that are too often duty rather than fun.  What will the family find to quarrel about this time?  Which friend am I going to unwittingly insult and have to beg forgiveness from this year?  Who is going to send me a card out of the blue, that I just dropped from my card list?

It seems the only thing that gets me through those social occasions where I’m expected to be “Jolly” is alcohol.  Normally a single glass of wine once or twice a month satisfies my taste buds, but not during the holidays.

It doesn’t do to be “Grouchy” at parties, one must appear to be having fun.  This requires at least one, usually two glasses of wine.  Unfortunately the quality of this wine is so variable that it occasionally kicks my Mood-O-Meter back to “Grouchy” and I’m forced to have another glass to numb my taste buds enough to restore my party mood.

Wine is often also served with the fancy dinners so common this time of year.  I normally prefer water with meals, but if wine is offered I feel obliged to pretend I’m cultured and accept a glass.  Not to mention, these feasts are social occasions and my usual silent surliness at meals is not appropriate.  I’m going to be expected to make pleasant, polite conversation.  Pour that wine, and quick!

There are occasions for toasts, such as the obligatory bubbly on New Year’s Eve.  For me, it had better be a good champagne and not sickening-sweet sparkling wines or (heaven forbid) non-alcoholic substitutes.

Cold evenings after a day of visiting or shopping (and shredded nerves from same) require a sleep-aid and restorative in the form of a nice liqueur such as Bailey’s or Amaretto.  Come to think of it, fortifying myself before such activities with a cup of coffee with either of these additions or a shot of Jameson’s added is needed to generate some holiday spirit and motivate me to actually visit or shop with a smile on my face.

What can I say about eggnog?  That it is necessary for the true holiday experience?  That this is the only time of year one can get it, so enjoy it while it’s here?  That it is not worth the calories unless enhanced by a large dollop of Kahlua or Amaretto?  Then it’s ambrosia… and the only thing that gets me through Christmas Eve and Day without committing homicide or suicide.

For those who accuse me of alcoholism, let me just ask this:  Would you rather have me drinking or “Grouchy?”  Please answer, the former.  I’m running out of places to hide the bodies.

The First Snow

Last night I looked at the weather radar last thing before going to sleep and the blue smudge of a snow storm was right over the house. I did not, as my Inner Child demanded, spring out of bed into my slippers and rush outdoors. There's plenty of time to see snow this year. I may be sick and tired of snow before winter ends. But probably not.

I didn't expect the little blue smudge to amount to anything, but when I got up this morning and looked out the window, there was snow on the ground in patches and big wet flakes falling! Any thought a mature adult from Pennsylvania would have had was totally absent from my head. It was the first snow of the year! As usual, I rushed from window to window wearing an uncharacteristic smile. The first snow! How lovely! And it only happens once a year. (Never mind that it's happened to me sixty times before.)

I love the first snowfall. I love almost ALL snowfalls. You think it's because I'm retired and have nowhere pressing to drive? Wrong. Even when I was working and my employer accepted no excuse (not even roads closed by the police) for lateness or absence, I loved snow. Back then, living within feet of a busy highway, the silence at night would wake me up. Winter. No trucks passing. A long, long silence. It could only mean one thing. I'd get up, pad in sock-feet to the front window, and look out across three lanes of unmarked white. I'd rejoice. I knew that, in the morning, I'd be shovelling, then scraping off the windshield and leaving an hour early for a white-knuckle commute. But I'd rejoice anyway, in the silence and the beauty.

The first snow, or any snow. It elevates my spirit, delights my Inner Child, draws me outside to experience it with all my senses. I snow-shoe in it, catch flakes on my tongue, and make the very occasional snow angel. I even enjoy shovelling, as long as some vehicle has not packed it down into a sheet of ice. I could live in a clime without snow, but I wouldn't want to. An important bit of magic would be missing from my life.

Especially that once-a-year miracle of transformation:  The first snow!

My Date with Mr. Brown

       October weather is frequently raw and wet.  For a week I’d been expecting the rain to change to snow overnight, or whenever the cold front driving it pushed through.  The forecasters were, no doubt, tearing their hair out in frustration at trying to predict the whims of the season.  Me, I wanted to fish.  I knew the brook trout were out there, spawning, ready to attack any gaudy dry fly that dared to invade their territories.  At last, an afternoon lull occurred between one cold front and the next.  No rain.  More than a little windy, cold and cloudy, but good enough for a Rabbit in the terminal stages of cabin fever.

As I drove, I noticed the autumn colors had been muted.  Most of the leaves had been stripped from the trees by the storms, and the mountains showed a subtle shading of gold-bronze, with occasional accents of dark green, bright orange, or red.  The birch thickets I passed showed signs of rebellion:  Within thirty yards, there would be trees with gold leaves, trees still green, and trees stripped bare.  Birches are the rugged individualists of the forest.

My original plan had been to take my annual pilgrimage to Young Woman’s Creek, but the briefness of my good-weather window convinced me that fishing closer to home would be wiser.  Kettle Creek had been fishing well three weeks earlier, so I headed there.  I was decked out in my “autumn camouflage,” an orange technical shirt, which was also a wise choice in an area bow-hunters frequent.  My choice of weapon?  My split-bamboo Ron Bennett “Pine Creek Special.”  As I was gearing up, I was annoyed by a swarm of those Korean Ladybugs.  They landed on me, tried crawling into my waders, and generally made themselves a nuisance, which is what they do best.  I found myself wondering if even the fish would eat the musk-reeking, disgusting things.  But I tied on my usual attractor dry fly and hiked in.

The water was almost a foot higher than it was three weeks earlier, and running faster, but was clear.  Once in awhile the sun would break through the wrack of fast-moving clouds, and the breeze was a bit stronger than I like for accurate, delicate casting.  I got quite a few bumps from small fish down in the deep cut below the big hole, but got distracted by a…  I can only describe it as a “flushing” sound under the drooping branch over the deep hole.

       “Holy cow!”  I exclaimed.  “Either something heavy fell out of that tree, or there’s a BIG fish in there!”  I wondered which as I worked my way up the seam, wading with the slow silence needed to approach wild trout.  What could possibly have fallen out of that tree and made that sound?  Or was it a fist-sized meteor I’d failed to spot?  When my fly finally landed in the “money slot,” another fish came up and nosed it, but this was not a small one.  This bump had been slow, a lot of water bulging in advance of the fish’s snout.  I cautiously waded closer to get a better float, and this time I saw the inspection-and-refusal.  “Holy cow” had been a fairly accurate description.  What I saw was at least fifteen inches, at a conservative guess.

Inspection-and-refusal.  Hmm.  Best tactics, change to an imitator.  I went for the reliable X-Caddis, although upon reflection I should have used a dark pattern rather than a light one.  A dozen casts with this drew no interest.  Then I thought about those Ladybugs.  I chose a Foam Beetle with peacock-colored tinsel chenille belly.  No interest from the big guy, but an unexpected rise in the current below the hole resulted in a six-inch wild brown who jumped and fought nicely for his size.  I was pleased;  A wild brown of any size makes me happy.

I looked up at the hole and considered my options.  I was “dueling,” concentrating on one fish rather than “looking for the stupid ones.”  There was a lot more very good water to cover, and it seemed to me the clouds had thickened overhead.  I could drop a Copper John or Green Weenie off a bushy dry fly for this big fellow, or weight a Wooly Bugger, and probably hook him.  Not land him, as I don’t carry a net when fishing the local brook-trout waters, and know well my ineptitude landing large trout by hand.  I could move on.  Or I could try one last dry fly:  The reliable Yellow Humpy had gotten his attention, perhaps the Royal Wulff, another attractor, might do better.  This is the fly Donna Trexler describes as “the hot fudge sundae of dry flies,” as it looks nothing like a trout meal, but oh, my, it looks luscious!  With great care, I made sure the knot was perfect, and served the delectable dessert fly right in the big trout’s alley.  Nothing.  A few more fruitless floats with this fly and the wind grabbed it on the back-cast, tangling it in a tall shrub.

Carefully I waded back and freed it, knowing that my attempts for this big fellow were over, at least for today.  I walked quietly up the bank and got a good clear look at him, not spooked but obviously not feeding anymore, unconcerned in the bottom of the hole.  A brown trout, undoubtedly wild, at least as big as my first estimate.  

       “You have defeated me,”  I told him formally, saluting him with my rod as a fencer would with a saber.  I’d be back, probably not until spring, with a net and my best flies.  But meanwhile, I wished him health, luck, and many progeny.

Be there in May, Mr. Brown.  It’s a date.