The Cat Who Came for Breakfast

He appeared at our kitchen door one rainy morning looking like, well, something the cat dragged in. He was soaking wet, had protruding ribs, and was missing a chunk from his left ear.  He didn't meow, he chirped as if he'd been raised by grackles.

   "Don't feed that cat," I said to Fred, "or he'll never leave."  So, of course, Fred did--and the cat didn't.

   He set up housekeeping under our back deck, never letting us pet him, but roaming the neighborhood at night and returning "home" each day to empty a bowl of kibbles. Bed and board greatly improved his appearance. His ear mended, his ribs disappeared, and his bright orange fur began to glisten in the sunlight. We named him Sammy Davis, Jr., our very own Golden Boy.

   Sam was a happy cat--but lonesome. Over and over he tried to ingratiate himself with Callie, our pretty female cat, but she would only hiss and walk away. 

   We decided if he was going to fraternize with other neighborhood cats, we should have his health checked. But how? Street-wise and wily, he wouldn't let us get close enough to grab him. So we stopped filling the kibble bowl for a couple of days and caught him in a humane trap. Off to the vet he went. 

   Our instructions were to put him down if he was diseased, and to nip him in the bud and inoculate him if he was healthy. The news was good, and he came home the next day. Not much time passed before he began to accept an occasional scratch behind the ears, and he seemed to have lost interest in his nightly wandering.

   Except once.

   One afternoon we looked out the kitchen window and saw Sam with something in his mouth--a bird? a rat? Upon closer inspection we saw that it was a barely weaned kitten that he had carried home over the high board fence. Fred likes to think Sammy went out for one last peregrination and ran into an old girlfriend, who said, "I bore her, I weaned her, now you raise her."

   Sam didn't mind that she was a really ugly kitten, who looked to me as if she'd been fashioned from leftover pieces of others people's cats. He loved her and cuddled her and licked her face and ears. We named her "Pie" because of her coat of many colors.

   Sam took to fatherhood like an old pro.  When Pie needed to suckle, he would lie on his back and indulge her to whatever extent he could. So that she could defend herself, he taught her to play/fight, letting her sneak up behind him to pounce, then roll over helplessly as if she'd gotten the best of him.

  When Sam's kitten died of cancer at age five, we were afraid we would lose him, too, so bonded were the two. But Sam was stoic. After two days of investigating every closet and cranny, he went on about his business and continued his attempt to court Callie.

  It took him fourteen years, but he finally won her over. On warm, sunny days we would find them sleeping beside each other out on the deck. On a wintry day they would snuggle together in the wicker basket in front of the fire. And of course all four of us shared our bed.

  Last Christmas, Callie died at age sixteen, and shortly thereafter Sam began to lose weight and have other health complications. Trips to the vet became more and more frequent. Yet Sam handled it with the same stoicism he had always shown, never once in seventeen years using a claw or a tooth inn protest. There are cats, and then there are great cats.  Sam was one of the greatest.

   We did our best to medicate him and to encourage him to eat, yet once an eleven pounder, he now weighed five. "When his quality of life is nil, we'll know it's time," we said to each other. And that time turned out to be this morning--June 18, 2011.

   Our thoughtful vet put us in a room by ourselves and let me hold my golden boy until he left the world.

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Voila! The Square

Some genius has made my life a lot easier by designing the “Square.”  It’s a marvelous little piece of technology that attaches to my Droid phone via the earphone port, allowing me to accept a credit card payment for one of my books or paintings from someone who carries neither checkbook nor cash.

       The best part is—both the Square and the app that operates it are FREE!  My only expense is a per-transaction charge of 2.75%.  For example, my novel Spirit Willing: A Savannah Haunting sells for $20, so when someone buys a copy from me using a credit card, $19.45 goes directly into my bank account, and the other 55¢ goes to www.squareup.com. My customer will receive a receipt via email, which I provide by keying in his email address and clicking “send.”

       The app records the amount of the credit card purchase—as well as cash purchases—for bookkeeping purposes. And if I wish to do so, I can use my phone’s camera, accessed by an icon on the app's home page, to photograph the item purchased and/or the buyer himself.

       The Square works with iPhones, iPads, and Droids. It accepts Visa, MasterCard, American Express, and Discover. What a cool concept!

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National Read Across America Week

This week the country is celebrating books in general and the 107th birthday of Dr. Seuss (Theodor Geisel) in particular.
     A successful cartoonist, he wrote much loved children's books that subtly promote racial equality, respect for the environment, generosity, ecumenism, and world peace. I once assigned The Butter Battle Book to my college composition class in hopes that the absurd warfare between the "Yooks" and the "Zooks" would spark lively debate and provide good fodder for essays on the subject of nuclear arms. It did. The book became a New York Times "Notable Book of the Year."
     My husband and I chose to honor Dr. Seuss by volunteering to read Green Eggs and Ham and Horton Hears a Who to kindergartners at Garrison Elementary School for the Arts. We each wore a red-and-white-striped-cat-in-a-hat for the occasion, and audience participation needed no encouragement.
     The school, by the way, is WONDERFUL!  We walked down halls showcasing student drawings and paintings, saw a dance class in progress, heard a sixth-grade orchestra rehearsing, and noticed a classroom full of electric pianos enabling students to practice while wearing headphones. As we were leaving, a fifty-voice chorus of eighth-graders stood in a circle in the first floor gallery and sang a lovely six-part round, their teachers conducting from the center.
     Yes, an academic curriculum--math, science, and English--is an important part of the plan.  But unlike most schools, the arts are valued and encouraged at Garrison, where artistically inclined children are swaddled in a nurturing environment.
     Dr. Seuss would approve.

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Chemistry 101

Take seven women writers who have never met. Isolate them for four days and three nights. Provide them with comfortable accommodations, abundant good food, a bit of wine, and a goal. Watch what happens. 

     For the first hour they “make nice.” Then they begin to share their stories—fictional, non-fictional, and poetic. They have retreated to lovely Ossabaw Island, Georgia, to hone their skills and serve as each others’ sounding boards. Most already have publishing credits.  All are passionate about their craft. All have at least one manuscript in progress.

     They gather for work sessions, then withdraw to their rooms, to the porch, to the forest, where they can think and absorb and revise. As the days progress, egos are set aside and friendships blossom. A camera appears, and they pose for group photographs. A guitar appears, and someone starts to sing.

     On the afternoon of the last day, email addresses are exchanged. And plans for future get-togethers. And hugs. 
     The full moon of the night before delays the rising tide, so the boat trip home must wait an extra half-hour. All the better. No one wants to leave anyway.
     Who says women aren’t good at chemistry?

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Ossabaw Island Paradise

Beautiful Georgia knows how to protect her barrier islands, and Ossabaw is one of the loveliest.

     Pottery shards unearthed there confirm that it was inhabited at least 4,000 years ago. Eventually, it passed from the Guale Indians to the Creeks, who sold it to King George II in 1758.

     The island was purchased in 1924 by the Torrey family of Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Their daughter, Eleanor “Sandy” Torrey West, inherited life estate in 1960, and since 1978 has been the only permanent resident. That same year the island was sold to the State of Georgia as its first “heritage preserve,” set aside in perpetuity for scientific, educational, and cultural uses only.

     One of the largest of Georgia’s barrier islands, Ossabaw has wooded uplands with freshwater ponds, marshlands threaded by tidal creeks, and a long stretch of pristine, white sand beach. It is accessible only by boat, a half-hour trip I have made a number of times.

Click to enlarge.

     I’ll be making that trip again next week to participate in the island’s first four-day Writers’ Retreat. Can’t wait to sleep with the whisper of wind in the pines and awaken to the sight of free-range donkeys, wild hogs, and maybe an alligator or two.

Click to enlarge.

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Pardon My Rant

Some grammatical blunders shouldn't be forgiven. For instance, "rise up."  When was the last time you noticed a balloon "rising down"? Ditto "raise," "lift," and "hoist."

If you're not careful, you'll commit "a myriad of mistakes." Well, I hope not. "Myriad" is an adjective. Used correctly it should directly precede the noun it modifies: "myriad mistakes." Think of "myriad" as an upscale substitute for "many," and you'll get it right every time.

When you work on a tan, you don't "lay on the beach," you "lie on the beach." "Lie" means "to rest or recline." Its principal parts are "lie" (present tense), "lay" (past tense), and "lain" (past participle). "Lay" means "to put or place." Its principle parts are "lay," "laid," and "laid."  The confusion happens because "lay" plays two roles--as the present tense of one and the past tense of the other. I know it's confusing--but you're not a dummy. You can learn this!

Doesn't everyone love their mother?  No, everyone loves his (or her) mother. Forget the "every" part and concentrate on "one." That way you'll remember that "everyone" is singular, requiring a singular pronoun referring to it.  I know, I know, "anyone" sounds singular, and "everyone" sounds plural. But both are singular, as are anybody, everybody, someone, and somebody.

Class dismissed.

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A Simple Proposal

     In the wake of last week's tragic shooting in Tucson, Arizona, much finger-pointing and name-calling concerning culpability has taken place, yet on the playground we all learned--or should have--that such tactics accomplish nothing positive. I suspect you feel as I do--that it is "others" who are indulging in inflammatory invective, not us, and we sigh and step back prepared wait until "they" get over themselves. This, I am realizing, also accomplishes nothing of lasting value. Meanwhile, during this period of back-and-forth negative rhetoric, a terrific opportunity is being squandered.
     One very astute person named Elizabeth Lesser has come up with a simple way to begin a dialog that can elevate the way we treat each other. I commend to you her short video, which you can find here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AsSd2nmoKNA

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An Inauspicious Beginning

What a way to start the new year!
     I’m sure you knew about the 5,000 red wing blackbirds that fell to their deaths in Arkansas on New Year’s Eve, but did you know about the 100,000 Drum fish that went belly-up in the Arkansas River at the same time? How about the 500 blackbirds, starlings, and sparrows that dropped dead in Kentucky? Or the 450 red wing blackbirds and brown-headed cowbirds that died in Louisiana? Or the millions of spot fish that carpeted the Chesapeake Bay?
     You were mistaken if you thought the carnage was an American phenomenon. During the same first few days of the new year, 100 tons of sardines came ashore in Brazil, 40,000 Devil Crabs washed up in Britain, 50 jackdaws bit the dust in Sweden, 1500 endangered and protected Sooty Shearwater birds died in Chile, and hundreds of (eyeless) snapper littered the beaches of New Zealand.
     The blame has alternately been assigned to fireworks, an atmospheric disturbance, a microburst, high altitude hail, Nostradamus, and the Antichrist. The scientific community has promised a definitive answer in February. Or maybe August.
     I’m glad I’m a prose-titute and not an apocalyptician.

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Check It Out

Set in the sultry, moss-draped South, Spirit Willing: A Savannah Haunting offers a tale of conniving and greed. It concerns the extremes to which Charlotte Horner will go to oust her aging Aunt Olivia from her historic Savannah home, not only "to put it to better use" but also to exact revenge.
     With the help of Great Great Grandfather Cyrus (dead for 100 years and motivated by an agenda of his own), Olivia sets about to foil Charlotte's plans. In time this unconventional alliance causes Olivia's staunchest supporters--even the lady herself--to question her mental stability, a complication that plays neatly into Charlotte's devious hands.
     The love between Charlotte's brother, a struggling artist and his British model ultimately helps to resolve the conflict, but not before his avaricious sister has done her worst.
     Does Cyrus exist? Or does he live merely in Olivia's imagination? In this ghost story for non-believers, only the reader know for sure.

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New Literary Journal

Today's Savannah Morning News announces the launch of Literary Savannah, a new online journal "designed for readers and writers in Savannah and the Tidewater."  It features prose and poetry by area writers--of which I am one.  Other contributors to the first edition are Thomas A. Williams, Manly Heidt, Henry Precht, Kevin McCrary, Maryanne Stahl, Lisbeth Thom, Judy Trout, and Phil Linz.  It is published bi-monthly by Williams & Company, Book Publishers of Savannah and can be viewed at www.publishingentrepreneur.com.

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