by Kathy Warnes Jan's Story Why didn't we make the big move in after Valentine's Day?" Jan asked their Golden Lab Neptune. Neptune barked a short, staccato "I don't know." "I don't either, Jan said. Neptune barked another short comment. "Ask Tim? I'll ask him when he comes home," she said. She looked around. Home. This kitchen where she was cooking their first married Valentine's Day dinner together in the same house didn't feel like home yet. Tim had inherited the house from his folks and he had lived in it by himself after he and Gina had gotten divorced. Gina had moved out of state with their two children and Tim stayed in the house where he had grown up. "I couldn't insist that he move out of his house," Jan told Neptune. "He belongs here. I'm just not sure that I do." Jan sat the apple pie beside the pan of bread pudding that was baking in the oven of the 1960s stove and checked the pot of stew that bubbled on top. When she asked Tim what he wanted for their first Valentine's Day dinner he said, "Anything but a heart shaped cake." Then he told her that he wanted beef stew, biscuits, and bread pudding and apple pie-comfort food that she felt sure that his mother had made on this very same stove. Then they had a fight and she stormed out of the house to go bow hunting with Dave, his old hunting buddy. She sat down in the rocking chair that stood beside the wood burning stove- yes, a wood burning stove. Tim had informed her that it burned coal as well as wood and that he used it in the winter to warm the downstairs rooms. Jan got up from the rocking chair and took some paper and kindling out of the box beside the stove. Some of the broken up kindling looked like a wooden bow that someone had chopped up, but no, she had to be imagining things. Jan put them in the stove and reached on the top shelf for a match, After the fire took, she piled on a log to get the fire burning and then she put on a few lumps of coal from the bucket on the back porch. Tim was right. The heat from the wood stove flowed from the kitchen in waves and encouraged her to take off her sweater. She opened the oven door again and put in a pan of biscuits. Then she sat back down in the rocking chair to wait for the biscuits, bread pudding, and apple pie and the stew to finish cooking. A warning bark from Neptune stopped Jan in mid rock. The rocker rungs were about to hit the edge of the braided rug where the table sat. She had rocked all of the way across the room. "I didn't know I was that nervous," she told Neptune. "This starting over is more stressful than my divorce, a new job, new children, and new whatever life throws at me! Can I do it, Neptune?" She buried her face in the soft fur around his neck and she felt him give her a warm, kiss on her hand. "I love him, Neptune, but I don't know if I can compromise me enough at my age for us to stay together." Neptune looked at her and barked a question. "Take today, Neptune. It's Valentine's Day and he's out bow hunting. I know, I know. I made jokes about Cupid shooting arrows blindly and to be sure to duck, but I am really hurt because he's out hunting white tailed buck instead of spending Valentine's Day with me. "Why didn't you tell him that?" Jan jumped. "Neptune? " "No silly, it's your daughter Susan." "Oh, Susan. I thought your voice was a little high for Neptune." Jan watched Susan take off her coat and boots and sit down at the round, drop leaf kitchen table. She handed Susan a cup of coffee and watched her sip it before she repeated her question. "Why didn't you tell Tim that you didn't want him to go hunting on Valentine's Day?" "The same reason I don't tell him any of my doubts about us. I'm afraid he'll laugh at me and I'm afraid they will come true if I say them. Besides, we had a fight this morning before he left." "What did you have a fight about?" "I want to paint the kitchen yellow and he wants to repaint it with the same color of green that it is now." "Who spends more time in the kitchen?" Susan asked. "I do. When I'm not painting and drawing I'm cooking." Susan shrugged. "Well then…" "Your father says that my work drove him away." Susan snorted. "My father cheated on you with the blonde bimbo." "He calls her his blonde bombshell," Jan said, adding another layer to a healing scar. "He was happy enough about your work when it earned money when he didn't," Susan said. "How can you take him seriously when he's just blaming you for his own behavior, Mom?" Jan stared at her daughter. Had she really carried relationship baggage with her into Tim's house? Tim's house. That was part of the problem. The house was Tim's and she felt like a guest, not his wife. The other part was that she didn't trust Tim enough to tell him how she felt. "I don't take what your father says seriously any longer," Jan said firmly. And she meant it. "Mom, you deserve a huge red heart for Valentine's Day to match your heart, but you have to speak up for yourself." I'm speaking up. Wait until my cooking's done and drop me off at the hardware store? I have to buy a few things." "Sure, Mom," Susan said. By the time Jan got home from the hardware store, the bread pudding and apple pie had cooled, the biscuits were still warm, and the stew gently simmered on the top of the wood burning stove. She set the table and put her packages from the hardware store in Tim's chair. She sat in the rocking chair beside the stove to wait for Tim to come home. Neptune stretched out on the rug beside her and they both fell asleep. Tim's Story Tim couldn't get comfortable in his deer blind. He thumped and rustled so loudly that Dave, his hunting partner of ten years, asked, "Are you sure you don't have Neptune stashed in your duffel bag?" "No, he's home with Jan," Tim said. His tongue linger over the unfamiliar with the contours of the name Jan, it had said the name Gina for so many years. Jan's name felt good to say, though. He thought about her cooking in his mother's kitchen, her long brown hair tumbling around her face as she stirred pots and pans and he felt a wave of love for her as strong as the heat waves from the wood cook stove. "How are you guys settling in? Dave asked. Tim scowled. "We had a fight this morning. "Let me guess. She wanted to change something in your house." Tim stared at him. "She wanted to paint the kitchen yellow instead of green. How did you know?" Gina used to have the same problem with you. Your Mom's kitchen has been the same for the last forty years." "Gina didn't spend very much time cooking in my Mom's kitchen or anywhere else. She taught the kids to make macaroni and cheese and left the rest up to me." "She also left you for another man." Tim smiled. "That was almost a relief." "Then what's the problem if you're not still hung up on Gina." "The problem is I love Jan, but I don't know if I can compromise me enough at my age for us to stay together." "Seems to me she's doing a lot of compromising for you. She's the one that moved here to Dexter and she's the one that has to live in your mother's house that you don't want to change. "I'm old and set in my ways, Dave. You should know that. Look at how many years we've gone bow hunting on Valentine's Day." Dave bent over and started to put his bow in its case. "I gotta break tradition today, Tim." "Does that have something to do with Betty wanting you home for dinner on Valentine's Day?" "It sure does. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight, not on the lumpy couch in the den." "My heart's not really into hunting today either. I broke an old bow this morning and didn't even try to fix it. I just chopped it up and put it in the wood box. I thought if l told you I couldn't hunt today I could stay home. I knew it wouldn't work though. You know how many extras I have stashed away in the barn." "Why don't you go home, Tim?" I can't go home yet. I have to figure it out." "You'll figure it out," Dave whispered as he climbed down the steps of their blind and disappeared into the woods. Tim sat gazing out over the square of meadow that reminded him of a handkerchief hemmed on four sides by woods. He saw at least two deer grazing in the meadow, but he didn't even have the heart to raise his bow. He just sat staring and imaging Jan cooking his Valentine's Day dinner in his mother's old kitchen. That morning in that very kitchen he had shouted at her, his new wife, that he wouldn't be home for the special dinner that she had cooked for Valentine's Day. "I'll bet she fixed all of my favorite things like stew and biscuits and bread pudding, and apple pie," he told the two does that were grazing at the foot of the oak tree that held his blind. "I'll bet she would really like a heart shaped cake for dessert instead of apple pie like I wanted," Tim told the buck at the edge of the woods. For some strange reason women think Valentine's Day is romantic. For the life of me I can't figure out why they think a naked little boy with a bow and arrow named Cupid is romantic!" Tim's voice must have been louder than he realized, because the buck disappeared into the woods and the does stopped eating grass and bounded across the meadow. The idea hit Tim. Cupid and bow and arrow. That was it! Maybe that was a way to tell Jan what he really wanted without getting all mushy about it. He shoved his bow and arrows into their bag and hastily clambered down the steps of the blind, not caring how much noise he made. If he hurried he could make it to the hardware store and the other store before they closed. Ken Matlock at the hardware store was just putting the closed sign on his door when Tim rushed over from the other store. They were old friends from high school days so Ken opened back up and Tim bought what he needed. After he left the hardware store, Tim took his time getting home. He had to think this through. He had to have a Cupid aim with words instead of arrows at Jan's heart. He turned off his truck in the garage and sat there for a few minutes, still thinking. Finally he had the words straight in his mind. He gathered up his packages, opened the back door and walked into the kitchen. Neptune greeted him with welcoming barks. "Where's Jan, Neptune," Tim said. "Find Jan." Carefully, Tim set his packages on the table, shoving aside some packages that someone, probably Jan, had already put there. He spotted her sleeping in his mother's rocking chair beside the stove and he quietly eased out a kitchen chair and sat down. Jan and Tim's Story Jan woke with a start. Neptune's barking had chased away her dream of a romantic dinner with Tim, but at least she was still sitting in the kitchen rocker. "What were you barking at, Neptune? Yawning and stretching, Jan looked at the clock above the stove. It was long past supper time and no Tim. She might have known he would stay out late hunting on Valentine's Day. "Well, Neptune, want to have dinner with me?" she asked. "I want to have dinner with you." Jan whirled around. "What did you say, Neptune?" "It isn't, Neptune. It's Tim. Late, but I'm here." "Dinner's ready, Tim." "First I want you to open your presents." "Why presents? It's not Christmas." "Didn't you remind me that it's Valentine's Day this morning during our fight?" Jan smiled. "I reminded you that today is Valentine's Day." Tim smiled back. "Sit down and open your presents." "There's some presents on the table for you, too.” "Open yours first," Tim said. "Are you ordering me or asking me?" Jan demanded. "I'm begging you, please open your Valentine's Day presents first." Jan tore the wrappings off a can of yellow paint. She tore the wrappings off a bronze statue of cupid with a broken bow and arrow. She stared at Tim. "Open the other one," he said. Jan opened the other package and pulled out a heart shaped Valentine's Day cake from Norman's Bakery. "I want to compromise with you," Tim said. Jan smiled at him through her tears. "Now open my gifts," she said. Tim tore the wrapping off a can of green paint. "Open the other package," Jan said. Tim opened the other package, a long, skinny one. It was a bow with its Browning logo etched on its polished surface. "I want to compromise with you," Jan said. They reached across the table and held hands. From a long distance, Jan heard Neptune's barking. "I think he's hungry," Tim said. "I think we should feed Neptune and eat our Valentine's Day dinner," Jan said. "We have a lot to talk about." "There's something I have to tell you," Tim said, pointing to his heart. "Cupid hit me with an arrow today when I was out hunting. I don't think I'll recover. And we have other things to do besides compromise." Jan smiled at Tim. "Why Tim, you do have a romantic side." "I meant we have to paint, Jan. What did you think I meant?" She laughed and kissed him. "Happy Valentine's Day!" I start the New Year with good intention, I resolve not to do food intervention, I resolve not to make carrot sticks a habit, With the excuse that I am not a rabbit! At the holiday spread I firmly try, Everything, including two kinds of pie. As I gobble another piece of pie, Momentary guilt prods good intention, I adjust my will and I intensely try, Celery stick and carrot intervention. I nibble like a dedicated rabbit! Determined not to indulge my food habit. I will train myself to court healthy habit, To desire apples and spinach pie, To bend wayward will like the ears of a rabbit, To conform to my culinary intention, To common sense, healthy intervention, I'll strive for the disciplined, dietary try! For a time I take the dietary try, Then temptation destroys my weak new habit, Temptation stages drastic intervention, Temptation stronger than pumpkin pie. Chocolate cheesecake destroys every good intention, I eat cheesecake like a lettuce starved rabbit. I'll leave the lettuce with the lettuce starved rabbit, I won't pretend will power, I won't even try, Curb chocolate cheesecake is not my intention, I love my chocolate cheese cake habit. There isn't a possible piece of pie, That would work for a cheesecake intervention. Ice cream won't work for an intervention, Banished is the lettuce starved role model rabbit, No cherry or any other kind of pie, Will remotely make me desire to try, To give up my chocolate cheesecake habit, I claim no New Year’s Resolution intention. I claim no New Year's Resolution intention, Of resolving my chocolate cheesecake habit I won't even pretend I want to try! The holiday season stealthily sneaks up on the unorganized, multi-tasking millions of us whose intentions are good, but who never miss turning down the fork in the road to unrealized ambitions. I just sent out my Christmas cards this Christmas week, crossing my fingers and with this verse, a handwritten message, and an appropriately harried Christmas cartoon. For close friends, I included a heart melting picture of a little girl holding a walking doll to set the appropriate tender, sentimental tone to warm their hearts into sentimentality and forgiveness for the tardy Christmas greeting. There is also the potential to make fun of the younger me to relieve some of their annoyance at receiving a tardy Christmas card! Christmas Card For Christmas Latecomers Feel free to use the verse. I would love some company to alleviate the guilt and the psychological self talk that keeps pounding in my ear, if you really care, you’d be on time. I really care, but I’m just better at making excuses than I am being on time! I Just Wanted to Say In case this misses Christmas Day: I had such good intentions this year, The house would be full of Christmas cheer, The cookies all baked, the stockings all hung, I’d be relaxed and full of fun. The gifts aren’t wrapped, the tree is askew, I still have a million things to do, Reality hits me extra hard, I’m late sending you this Christmas card. Yes I’m late, but I wanted to share, That you’re in my thoughts and I really care, Next year I’ll get an early start, This year, Merry Christmas from my heart! Realistic Rules (Tongue in Cheek) For a Sleek, Resolute New Year The procrastinating, unorganized, and umotivated among us can apply our lifestyle to Holiday Festive Feasting and New Year’s Resolutions. The most important thing to remember about Festive Feasting, other than all of the correct, well meant advice about calories and longevity is that eat and treat both are the same word, rearranged. Treat without the tr leaves eat which is an activity of choice during the holiday season. Customize this list of Ten Tenets of Festive Feasting and repeat before you get out of bed every morning in December and January. Print the list on an index card, pin it to the inside of your coat and take it to the holiday parties with you. Ten Tenets of Festive Feasting Avoid carrot sticks unless you are a rabbit. Run to the holiday spread that includes rum balls, eggnog and pumpkin pie. Guzzle as much eggnog as you can as long as you can. Remember that eggnog doesn’t survive and thrive outside of the holiday season. Don’t count its calories-about 10,000 a nip- or if you do put a negative symbol in front of the number and keep drinking. Treat yourself to lakes of gravy. After all, the gravy container is called a gravy boat. Gravy does not live by gravy alone. It needs mashed potatoes or biscuits to be fulfilled. Use it liberally on mashed potatoes mountains and bales of biscuits. Forget that calorie and cookie both begin with C. Remember that cookies caress your craving for sweets and can change your holiday frazzled snares to smiles. Arrive at holiday parties with a growling stomach instead of sensibly eating a snack before going to the party to curb your eating. After all, someone else slaved all day over the party food and there is no admission charge at the door. Avoid exercise except giving your chewing muscles a workout and walking between the television and the refrigerator in December and January. Those long, cold winter months after the holidays are better for pain and pushups and there is always plenty of snow to pat on your aching muscles. Troll the Buffet Table. If you see a plate of Santa cookies with icing or a pan of lemon bars, be a troll and pile a skyscraper of them on your plate. Ignore the banner across the door that says the holidays are for sharing. After all, it doesn’t mention food. Pleasure yourself with pie. Pumpkin pie, mince and apple. Make all of that pie self discipline your practiced all year worthwhile and don’t be stingy with the ice cream or Cool Whip topping. Remember that life is short, and eternity is a long time to ponder a sleek, well preserved body that never experienced the joys of chocolate or wine. Maintain safety and alcohol intake common sense and after the holidays, return to your measured eating, exercising self. Realistic New Year’s Resolutions Every year I resolve not to procrastinate or backslide or feel guilty when I do both. This year I am making a list of Realistic New Year’s Resolutions. I am trying to improve myself in small increments instead of doing a comprehensive one hour, Oprah makeover. I can comfortably cross out and add to my list of Realistic New Year’s Resolutions and try to be realistic about keeping them. Make a Resolution Reminder card and a template to customize for Realistic New Year’s Resolutions. Just remove the underline with a click of the mouse and your list is revised. Resolution Reminder I resolve to improve myself this year, I will lose fifty pounds, stop drinking beer, I will be kind to family and friends, Be quick to forgive and slow to offend. But whatever resolution I make, I will leave room to make a mistake, Forgive falls from grace and keep on sleeping Renew resolutions and keep on keeping. Customize This List of New Year’s Resolutions and/or Add Your Own I will not procrastinate, and will not take my time while doing it. I will evaluate myself and my goals and try to achieve at least three of them this year. I will work toward my goals in hops instead of broad jumps. I will be kinder to others and kinder to myself. And most important of all, Have a blessed, Food Festive holiday season and a Happy, Resolute New Year! We can change the heartbreak if we choose… The image of a Christmas tree with unopened presents piled underneath is heart breaking because of what will not happen for twenty families in Newtown, Connecticut on Christmas morning. The parents who bought and wrapped the presents for their children won’t be able to watch them open their gifts. Their children went to school on December 14, 2012, and they never came home because a gunman entered their school and twenty of them died along with their principal, the school psychologist, and several teachers. By the end of that Friday, a week and three days before Christmas, the news of the Sandy Hook School murders and the suicide of the gunman had spread across the country and around the world. There are no words to capture the horror and tragedy at the school. Even the tears of the entire world cannot adequately mourn this kind of senseless violence. How Can This Keep Happening? The pattern of our reactions to the mass shootings is getting to be as horrifyingly predictable as the shootings themselves. Americans use words to describe their actions and reactions to this senseless violence. Many of these words are horrified, heartbroken, traumatized, disbelieving. We are horrified, we ask ‘how can this keep happening,’ we pray, we mourn, we remember, we call for action, and then the horror fades into everyday life and we move on with our lives. In conversation and in Internet comments and essays, Americans are already debating in words, sometimes vitriolic, uncompromising words, what they believe caused this latest mass shooting tragedy in America. The gun control and anti-gun control forces often overlook the victims and continue their passionate debate before the victims are buried. We are a Society Steeped in Violence Americans and violence, especially gun violence, walk hand in hand. In 2010, nearly 5.5 million firearms were manufactured in the United States, 95 percent of them for the domestic market. Support for handguns has grown over the decades. In 1969, a Gallup Poll reported that 60 percent of Americans supported a handgun ban, but by 2011, only 26 percent of Americans favored such a ban. Between 2001 and 2010, about 270,000 Americans died in shootings, including homicide, suicide, and accidents. According to the University of Chicago Crime Lab and the Centers for Disease Control, America averages 87 gun deaths every day, 31,672 a year in 2010, with an average of 183 people injured. The Chicago Crime Lab’s research estimates that gun violence costs society $100 billion dollars a year. Even mass killings don’t seem to make a dent in the gun culture. According to the Washington Post and Mother Jones, there have been at least 61 mass murders with firearms across America in 30 states from Massachusetts to Hawaii. In most cases the murders legally acquired their weapons. A week after Jared Loughner shot and severely wounded Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and killed six other people in Tucson, Arizona on January 8, 2011, thousands of people attended a gun show in Tucson. Some of them bought semiautomatic handguns similar to the one that Loughner used to fire 31 rounds into the crowd gathered outside a supermarket to meet with Congresswoman Giffords. The escalating number of mass killings doesn’t seem to soften hardened words and attitudes or inspire people to rethink their attitudes toward guns. In 2012 alone, mass killings took place at a movie theater in Colorado, a Sikh temple in Wisconsin, a mall in Oregon, and an elementary school in Connecticut. Are Mentally Ill People on a Decades-Long Rampage? A superficial reading of the backgrounds of some of the mass shooters might tempt us to conclude that they were all mentally ill, evil people and we as a country need not concern ourselves with them except to despise and condemn them. A blanket condemnation of mentally ill people or locking them or their guns away will not eliminate mass shootings in America. Studies by Fazel & Grann, 2006 and Swanson, 1994 suggest only 3% – 5% of violent acts are attributable to serious mental illness, and most don’t involve firearms. Not all mentally ill people are dangerous and science has not come up with a method to predict which ones will become violent. Research shows that people with mental health problems for the most part do not contribute to gun violence. Studies by Fazel & Grann, 2006 and Swanson, 1994 suggest that even if we completely eliminated mental illness as a violence risk factor, less than four percent of mentally ill people turn violent. A three part science blog from the Petrie-Flom Center at Harvard cites study findings that suggest that bringing suicide into the gun violence picture transforms mental illness into an important component in formulating a policy to prevent firearm violence. The Center for Disease Control in estimates that suicides account for 61 percent of all firearm fatalities in the United States in 2010, that is for 19,393 of the 31,672 gun deaths recorded. Suicide is the third leading cause of death in Americans aged 15-24, the age group that goes to college, joins the military and in some cases experience the first episode of a major mental illness. Most suicide victims in this age group had diagnosed mental health problems and some even had some treatment. Many states, including Maryland already have bans on gun sales to people with mental disorders or who have a history of violence. A study by Appelbaum & Swanson – 2010- examined federal and state laws to restrict access to firearms among people mentally ill people and they concluded that laws and restrictions don’t have much measurable impact. How did the mentally ill person get a gun is a crucial question to answer, but an equally crucial question for society is “what treatment did this person have and why didn’t it work? Do we need to improve our methods of identifying and treating mentally ill people who have the potential to be violent?” To See Ourselves as the World Sees Us? The world sent condolences to the United States after the theater shooting in Aurora, Colorado on Friday, July 20, 2012, but newspapers around the globe expressed surprise and dismay that the United States did not act more forcefully to curb gun violence. A list in the Atlantic Wire of July 2012 compiled some of the world reaction. The Berliner Zeitung noted that in the United States the probability of being shot is 40 times greater than in Canada, England or Germany, but “politicians are too afraid to challenge the gun lobby. The reaction is always the same: shock, disbelief, sadness, prayers, repression. How can it be?” The Guardian in Britain wrote that there was little hope of changing American gun laws and the difficulty wasn’t just checks, balances, and partisanship, but also in many of the American people’s love of guns. Columnist Alex Slater asked: “How many gun deaths does it take for American politicians to crack down on the availability of deadly weapons? Seemingly no number is high enough.” The list of six and seven year olds from Sandy Hook School and their principal and teachers is far too high a number. It is time to stare at the violence nose to nose and see ourselves reflected there. To See Ourselves as We Are We need to argue the legality and illegality of guns with each other with the goal of moderating the violence, not creating more violence towards each other. We need to acknowledge that people kill with legal guns and well as illegal guns. We need to discuss whether or not arming more people will prevent future massacres and curtail the gun violence. We need to examine the concealed carry argument in all of its nuances. We need to debate the pros and cons of Congress reinstating the federal ban on assault weapons that expired in 2004. We need to use stiletto words to question Congress and the National Rifle Association about even limited gun control and demand answers. In a study called Firearms and Violence the National Academy of Sciences reported that it found no evidence that increased legal access to guns is related to increases in gun violence. The study suggests that an increasing body of evidence reveals that right to carry laws lead to less gun violence. Joan Ozanne-Smith of Monash University in Australia and her researchers studied fire arm deaths over a period of 22 years in Australia. They noted a significant drop in deaths, especially suicides after Australia instituted strict gun control laws in the late 1980s and mid 1990s. The United States has different variables than Australia, but the research proves that gun control prevents deaths. We need to discuss and debate these pro and con studies and find a middle ground. A significant point to ponder is that the level of non-gun homicide is higher in the United States than in other countries of the world. Perhaps a high level of violence is the cause of a high level of firearms available instead of the other way around. Further studies about this premise would reveal much about us and our country. People use words that interpret the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, the “right to keep and bear arms,” amendment. Some people contend that the Second Amendment gives citizens the right to keep and bear arms to protect themselves against the hostile government. They believe an armed citizenry is an essential defense against dictatorship, gun wielding criminals and unbalanced, sociopathic people who perpetrate massacres. Others interpret the Second Amendment differently in the context of the time it was written and the necessity for states to create and maintain militias with the hostile government being Great Britain. It is a stretch of the imagination to think that the Founding Fathers could have foreseen assault weapons and Americans killing each other by the thousands. Many people don’t want to give up their guns, but they want to curtail the use of guns to kill people. We need to moderate our words and our violence. Words Can Bring Hope and Healing as Well as Hatred and Havoc Children are forever gifts and they are our future. Heated words, arguments, and even reconciliation and a reduction in violence won’t bring back the ones we have lost. Words are lost in the enormity of evil acts and bottomless loss. Not even twenty-first century medical science can bring back people we have lost to gun violence, and there are no adequate words to express this kind of loss and sorrow. We can find the words to stop at least some of the violence, to talk to each other, and to vanquish violence. We can rediscover words like Outrage, Resolve, and Courage, and apply them to reduce gun and other violence and save lives. If we act on these words, eventually we will be able to wrap our victories against violence as Christmas presents, put them under the Christmas tree, and the children of the future will be there to open them as a loving legacy. Thanks to the feline capers of Bob and Harry, my Christmas tree has listed south since the day after I put it up. Twice I have been jolted awake by a nocturnal crash – yes, Bob and Harry are nocturnal cats-and when I investigated I discovered the tree sprawled across the floor in a prone, submissive position. The tree ornaments have been scattered, stashed under furniture for later, baptized in the bathtub and buried under the rug. They have been placed and replaced and taped back together. The wooden manger underneath the tree has a row of teeth marks that look like a beaver chewed it for lunch. Threats of permanent exile and temporary deportation in the snow hover in the air above the sounds of Christmas carols. Bob and Harry sleep on the couch, after stashing a few stray ornaments underneath for later in the day, blissfully unaware of Christmas tree transgressions and the peril to their collective eighteen lives. The Yearly Battle of the Christmas Cats Each year when I put up my Christmas tree, I repeat the mantra of their Christmas tree transgressions and my cat safety commandments for cat and Christmas Tree survival. Veterinarians and pet experts do have some suggestions to keep your cat and your Christmas trees safe. Cat Survival Avoid using tinsel. Veterinarians warn that Tinsel lures cats with its glitter, but if cats swallow tinsel, it can do much damage to their digestive systems. There isn’t a strand of tinsel in the house. Sigh of relief. Spray light cords with bitter apple spray to discourage cats from chewing on them. Aerosol deodorant or antiperspirant sprays work too. Bob thinks bitter apple is catnip and acts accordingly. He isn’t as enthusiastic about tape. Sigh of frustration. Protect Tree Water. The tree water keeps a Christmas tree from drying out, but thirsty pets want to drink it too. Drinking tree water isn’t good for pets. It can make them sick. Protect your tree water with screen or mesh fabric duct taped over the pan. I have an artificial tree, so I don’t worry about water. Sigh of weariness. Clean up pine needles if you have a live tree. Eating pine needles can disrupt and seriously harm a cat’s digestive system. My tree is fabric green branch artificial, so I just have to restrain Harry from nipping off branches and eating them like a chicken leg. Sigh of relief. Avoid edible ornaments like candy canes. Cats know they are there and relentlessly hunt them down. One year when I was still becoming cat savvy, I put candy canes on the tree and over two nights acquired a new brand of candy cane, the teeth marks clearly visible among the stripes. Sigh of amusement. Use a strong and steady tree stand. Put a small hook on the ceiling and attach a fishing string from the top of the tree to the hook. My tree stand has the strength of ten, but Bob and Harry combined are an eleven. Sigh of Resignation. Avoid fresh mistletoe with its tempting red berries. Mistletoe and its red berries means a sweet treat instead of a kiss to cats and eating the leaves and berries can cause drops in blood pressure. Avoid live holly and ivy. Ivy can give cats diarrhea, convulsions and occasionally even kill them if they eat large amounts of it. Avoid Poinsettias as they can cause digestive harm to your cat. Poinsettias have large, red, white, pink or mottled leaves and they contain a thick milky, irritating sap. Veterinarians say that a cat would have to eat a large amount of poinsettia leaves or stems to harm your cat. Signs of poinsettia reaction include vomiting, anorexia, and depression. Other authorities say that they are not toxic to most cats. I wouldn’t take a chance on Bob and Harry’s Poinsettia self discipline or speculative the effects of ingested poinsettias on their digestive systems. Christmas Tree Survival Some cats don’t like the way aluminum foil feels. To protect your Christmas tree, wrap the lower trunk of the tree in foil and extend the foil to make a tree skirt. Foil comes in a variety of colors and sparkles in the light, so it looks like part of the holiday décor. Generally speaking, cats don’t like the feel of pine cones. Pile pine cones around the base of your Christmas tree to keep cats away. Some cats don’t like the scent or oranges. Placing orange peels under and around the base of your Christmas tree might keep the cats away. Use unbreakable ornaments. If you do put glass ornaments on your Christmas tree, place them closer to the top so it will be more difficult for your cats to reach them. Unplug Christmas lights when you are not using them. Inspect them periodically for chew marks. Use a baby gate to fence off your Christmas tree or keep it in a closed off room. Bob and Harry’s Feedback Bob and Harry find the tree survival tip about using a baby gate to protect your Christmas tree particularly hilarious. They can zip to the top of the Christmas tree quicker than a ho ho ho, and bury themselves securely under the bed at a change in voice from indulgent to irate. The Christmas Tree Will Survive, Bedraggled, but Recognizable and so Will Bob and Harry I sit in the rocking chair by the Christmas tree after a long, hard day of snatching pieces of it back from the paws and jaws of Bob and Harry. I touch the tree with one glance and Bob and Harry with the other, and I think about the meaning of Christmas. The cats, the Christmas tree, and I are bathed in the light and meaning of Christmas. We all survive another year. References Davis, Ann. The Wonderful World of Christmas Trees. Mid-Prairie Books, 1997 Hill, Lewis. Christmas Trees: Growing and Selling Trees, Wreaths, and Greens. Storey Publishing, LL, 1989 Rey, H.A. Curious George Christmas Countdown. Houghton Mifflin Company, 2009 Links http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/living/2002479239_petproof08.html http://news.holidash.com/2009/11/11/christmas-tree-safety-pet-proof-your-tree/ http://www.petco.com/Content/ArticleList/Article/52/2/3437/How-to-Pet-Proof-Your-Home-for-the-Holidays.aspx http://www.marthastewart.com/article/pet-proofing-your-christmas-tree http://www.altasierraveterinaryhospital.com/altasierraveterinaryhospital.com/veterinary_topics/c_976_pet_proofing_your_home.html by Kathy Warnes
My small daughter Amy and I come to live with Carol in October when the oak and maple trees around her house are shedding their leaves and preparing for their long winter’s nap. My mind is on Santa Claus awakening from his long summer’s nap and delivering his Christmas gifts. Will I be able to make sure there were several gifts for Amy in Santa’s pack? I’m not too certain. Five years ago, Amy’s father and my husband pursues a dream and a blonde and does not bother to contact us again. My wallet is as flat as my hopes and dreams and emotions. Then Carol and her Christmas trees come into our lives. During the Christmas season, people in Carol’s neighborhood decorate their evergreens and arrange outdoor lights in artistic patterns in windows and on lawn displays. In front of Carol’s house stately evergreens survey the neighborhood with an aristocratic gaze. Inside of Carol’s house, the scraggly Christmas tree shouts "Merry Christmas" like a worn out Santa with his hat over one eye and toys spilling out of his pack. It tilts in the bay window so the birds and squirrels at the feeder outside of the window can laugh and point gleefully at the straight trees growing around them. Family stories have it that every year Carol vows that she will pick out a better tree this time. She vows that she will reject the tree that looks bald because the branches are spaced in light year distances. She vows she will reject the tree with branches so thick that it looks like a one-tree forest. Carol vows she will reject the tree with dandruff needles and also the tree with finger fat needles. Every year Carol vows she will pick out the perfect tree and every year Carol brings home the tree that cries out for rescue from the Christmas tree lot. Every year Carol vows that she will not listen to the feeble Help from a forsaken tree the tree and every year she rescues one from the Christmas tree lot. One year someone practices saw surgery on the stump of a tree and puts it back as too lopsided to be able to decorate. Carol takes it home, puts it in a Christmas tree stand, stands it up, and decorates it. She laughs while people lean sideways and compliment her tree. Our first Christmas at Carol’s my daughter Amy is six. She loves to cut out paper snowflakes and other decorations and she and Carol spend a happy Saturday together cutting and pasting while I fret and worry and dart out to do one bag shopping. That evening Carol pops popcorn in the fireplace and we – mostly she and Amy – make popcorn strings to put on the tree, which looks like a green and white checkerboard. I watch them laughing together and scowl. I know I am using the unredeemed Ebenezer Scrooge for my role model, but I tell myself I don’t care. It’s better to be known as crotchety than heartbroken. As they string the popcorn around the tree, the crooked end leans over too far and the entire tree topples over on the floor. "Amy, would you go into the kitchen and get me some string?" Carol asks my daughter. Eagerly, Amy runs to the kitchen. "Grinch!" Carol mutters loud enough for me to hear. "That’s Christmas for you," I mutter back. Carol frowns at me, her golden blonde hair glinting in the firelight. Then she walks over and puts a Christmas carol on the record turntable. Carol picks up the tree, takes the string that Amy brings her from the kitchen, and together they repair the tree and work on it so it will be able to stand on its own. Ashamed of myself, I help them retrieve the decorations and together we put them back on the tree. The idea filters through my mind as I help them put the last popcorn chain on the lopsided Christmas tree. It’s how you work on an imperfect object or situation that counts. It’s how you shape it and decorate it like the crooked Christmas tree that loving input and eyes make beautiful. It’s loving someone enough to help them stand on their own, whether it’s a Christmas tree or a friend down on her luck. This year will be Carol’s first Christmas in heaven, the place where Christmas trees, too, are supposed to be perfect. But I know Carol’s won’t be, because her love is still shaping crooked Christmas trees here on earth. Merry Christmas from one of your crooked Christmas trees, Carol! I’m Proud of You, Mom
It never occurred to me during those long ago summer days when I wore my blond hair tightly braided so I could play baseball more efficiently that my soul was braided just as tightly. I like to think that every child starts out that way, but as he or she grows their compassion and their humanity grow along with them. I forgot about my teenage years. The older me fingers my blond again – natural after years of being mousy brown but now mixed with gray –hair and it reminds me when I was eleven playing baseball in the vacant lot beside the Zawoysky house on Goodell Street. (It’s now filled with a house, sigh!!) All of the neighborhood kids played baseball in that lot and it didn’t matter what color your hair or skin was as long as you were a good player at least most of the time. I imagined that those long summer afternoons of playing ball and trading insults and baseball cards and drinking Koolaide would last forever. Growing up loomed like a thunderstorm over the horizon but as long as the thunder remained distant, I was content.I braided my hair as tightly as I could to preserve the status quo. Two years later we didn’t play ball at the vacant lot any longer. We went to dances at school and were in involved in young people’s activities at church. We were immersed in the process of growing up. Bouffant hairdos were in and I teased my hair along with the rest of the girls and sprayed its free flying masses with hairspray, but my soul was still braided. Two years later, my Mom decided to finish the one year of high school she had left so that she could receive her diploma. Instead of discretely going at night, she decided to attend day classes. I was mortified. Passing her in the hall, I pretended I didn’t know her. When the few teachers that had taught both her and my father before inheriting their children said something about her courage, I tossed my long hair and tuned them out. My Mom graduated, but she didn’t attend commencement so I thought her achievement was over and I could go on being a teenager with a selective memory. Forty years later and twenty years after her death, I am far beyond being a teenager and my hair is more gray than blond until I decide to consult Lady Clairol. But my soul is gradually becoming unbraided. I am proud of you, mom!! I TOOK HIM TO THE FIN FIXER
Joe is a fisherman. I knew that when I reeled him in, so I can't claim ignorance of his passion. It didn't bother my children Janice and Tom too much either. In fact, they thought that going out in a boat with Joe, hauling fishing poles, tackle boxes and a smorgasbord of bait was great fun. I even vaguely recall Joe saying something about Musky fishing up North and how proud he is of his trophy fish that costs him nearly one hundred bucks at the fish-fixers. At the time, I let all of this pass over my head without registering it too deeply in my mind, because I was at the stage of love where anything that Joe did or had was all right with me. It wasn't until we had tied the monofilament that it really hit me. Joe is a FISHERMAN! When we got married, Joe decided to move in with me and the kids since my house was bigger than his apartment and now we needed the room. We endured the trauma of settling most of his furniture in the house. I was dusting off my hands and heaving a sigh of satisfaction when Joe dropped the sinker smack in my lap. "Uh, hon, there's one thing I forgot." "Oh Joe, I hope it isn't bigger than a bread box!" "Well, er, taken as a whole it is, but broken into component parts, it's not so bad." "How do you break it into component parts?" "Fin by fin. Scale by scale," he told me. "Joe, you don't mean you have a fish you've stashed somewhere!" "Well, honey, it's out in the car. Do you remember that very fragile bundle that I wrapped in blankets and put on the back seat?" I thought I remembered. "You mean the one you carried out in your arms and wouldn't let the kids breathe on for fear they'd break it?" He frowned. "That's the one, but you're exaggerating aren't you?" I learned over for a closer look. "Watch out, honey. Don't breathe too hard. You might break it," he told me. I backed away,holding my breath as tightly as I could. He eased the blanket-wrapped bundle out of the car, handling it like a hand grenade. There, he had it out of the car! "It's okay to breathe now," he said. "Joe, what are you planning to do with that fish? We don't have a fur-lined room where you can hang it safely. And it won't fit in your drawer under your socks," I teased him. "I was going to hang it on the wall over the fireplace." I stared at him. "Over the fireplace! But Joe, my sampler that I needle pointed is hanging there. What will I do with that?" He frowned again. "Couldn't you hang it somewhere else?" "Where would I hang it, Joe?" "How about in the kitchen? Or in Janice's room? She would enjoy looking at it." "Oh, Joe, a fish over the fireplace??" "Couldn't we at least try it, honey? It means a lot to me." When Joe puts things in that light, it's hard for me to refuse him. I nodded and took down the sampler. "Here, put up the fish." "Thanks, honey." He aimed a kiss in my direction, but I could tell he really meant the fish, not me. "I didn't bring any of those special screws that you're supposed to use, but for now these nails ought to hold her all right." Joe pounded them in like he was using a sledge hammer to break concrete. I could see the plaster chipping and the walls cracking right down the middle. "Joe, don't you think you've pounded them enough?" Joe stepped back and looked at the nails, now forever a part of the wall. "Yeah, that ought to hold. Now for the most beautiful fish in the world..." I walked over and pulled the blanket off the fish. Joe snatched it from my hand. "Be careful, honey. You have to be gentle with her. Just look at those sleek lines and the coloration of the fins. Did you notice he size, the beautiful size of her?" "Anyone who can get sentimental over a fish is fishy," I muttered as Joe ran his fingers over the back of the fish tenderly and lifted it into its place on the wall. He paced back a few steps and admired it. "Yup, it's hanging just right. Now when the guys come over, I won't have to say a word. All I have to do is bring them in here, stand under the fish and clear my throat!" Joe fished all night in his sleep,too, and the next morning at breakfast I felt like I should be fixing pan-fried trout instead of eggs and bacon. The kids came running into the kitchen when Joe and I were still sitting at the breakfast table. "Daddy, the fish is gone!" Tom shouted. Janice stood right behind her brother. "Daddy, it just disappeared. What are we going to do?" Joe jumped up so quickly that I got the platter of toast in my lap. "What do you mean the fish is gone? It can't be!" "It is, Daddy." Two tears slid down Janice's cheeks. "Do you think someone kidnapped the fish and is holding it for ransom?" "We can give the kidnappers the money in our piggy banks," Tom offered. By now, I appreciated the seriousness of the situation. I raced to the living room with the rest of my family close at my heels. I stared at the blank wall. The nail was still there, but the fish was gone. "I hope it didn't swim too far upstream," I cracked. Joe's eyes were suspiciously moist so I hurried over and put my arm around him. "We'll find it, Joe." "Here it is! I found it! I found it!" Tom pointed to the asbestos squares in front of the fireplace. Sure enough, there sat the fish in a crumpled heap. Joe ran over and picked it up so tenderly I expected him to put it over his shoulder and pat it on the back. he smoothed it out as best as he could, then I heard a horrified gasp. "The fins are broken off. Both of them!" What does a wife do when the fins break off her husband's mounted Musky and his heart breaks right along with them? She takes the Musky to a fin-fixer and has the fins fixed. What better way to say "I love you?" by Kathy Warnes
The photo of her nested in the leaves with her arm around her granddaughter and my daughter occupies the place of honor on my living room bookcase. October with its crisp apple air, porcelain skies, and rainbow leaves was her favorite month. October and its promise of a restful and productive winter bring her beside me as I wrestle with storm doors and deck dismantling. October rakes the leaves of my memories of her and piles them high against the sides of the house for winter insulation and examination. No matter where I rake October leaves, my sorrow for her is as real as raking leaves in her yard once was part of my fall reality. She died in October, but that isn’t the only time I think about her. She sits as firmly in my thoughts as she held her glass every night as she drank, trying to blot out the pain, trying to soothe the raw emotions that burned at her heart and soul like a shot of straight whiskey. My sorrow for her goes beyond mourning the death of a beloved friend who spent eight decades and a few years living and loving people. She overflowed with love, creativity and compassion toward other people, but she had a difficult time loving herself. She believed in the relaxed approach to life, but she couldn’t relax about herself. She summed up her philosophy of life in a sign that hung on her refrigerator that said: “Looseth not thine cool.” She didn’t lose her outside cool, but she buried her sorrow at the loss of a husband, friends, a significant other, and other things in her life deep inside. She lost her cool a lot in her innermost being. She caged her anger inside and the alcohol released it to demonize parts of her life. The tug of war between her outer tranquility and inner chaos and the alcohol between made her later years as unpredictable as the autumn release of the oak leaves from her backyard trees. At times they drifted slowly down throughout the weeks of fall without fuss or fanfare and disappeared politely under the snow. Other years they marched down one after the other and besieged her house and yard all winter long swirling brazenly above the snow. Her daily life followed that pattern and alcohol laid siege to her soul. She couldn’t find a flag of truce. She did not modify her drinking; instead she continued it at a steady pace throughout the years that followed. She would not stop it, could not stop it even for her family whom she loved beyond anything else in her life. She did not stop her drinking for God’s sake, even though she loved Him beyond anything else in her life. Her legacy of love, caring, and concern for people, the memory of her joy and creativity and talent is laced with pain, especially for the people who loved her. Her drinking freed the demons that she managed to control when she was sober and often angry, hurting words would hit the people close to her like barbed arrows because she never spoke them when she was sober. This uncharacteristic anger and lashing out at people was painful to watch and more painful to endure. Time and reflection have taught me that her arrow words were not aimed at the people they hit; instead, they were scattered shots at the unfairness and ambiguity of life and at her own hurt that she unwisely buried instead of expressed. She believed in life and love and hope, not bitterness and disappointment. She was an idealist, which is why life so disappointed her at times. But her soul, underneath the strata of life and alcohol, rested on a bedrock of love and faith in God. I look at the picture of her on my bookcase, her arms around her granddaughter and my daughter. She is smiling and there is honestly and warmth in her smile. Her expression radiates hope. She gave me hope and joy when I felt that my life had neither. Somehow beyond the barriers of time and death, I know that she has found joy. I rejoice in her joy when my thoughts turn to her outside of October and inside of October. I rejoice in her joy when in imagination I finish raking the leaves in her yard and she stands in the doorway holding out two cups of hot tea. |
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