What's in a Name? (Lynn Kerstan)

“And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field....”

So it began. Well, I’m presuming he was providing species names like dogs and cats and canaries, not dubbing individual beasties Fido or Fluffy or Tweetie Pie. Practically speaking, Adam couldn’t name every form of non-plant life, of which there are many millions, but the biblical passage does signify that the human need to give names is hard-wired in us.

Most significant, I expect, is the naming of children. Parents consult books for the meanings of names, consider family names, think about people they admire and wish to honor, even wonder if great-uncle Ezra would be kind in his will to a toddler namesake. And of course, there are the “what were they thinking?” names. I used to enjoy chef Jamie Oliver’s TV shows, but what persuaded Jamie and Jools to name their daughters Daisy Boo, Poppy Honey, and Petal Blossom Rainbow? Do they have any clue how the mean kids in school will torment their poor daughters? Another child is due in the autumn, and we can only shudder at what J&J have in store for him or her.

I didn’t know my own real name until 7th grade. Thought it was Len. Yawn. Turned out I was christened Helen, after my mom, but the parents chose to call me by the second half. Coulda been worse. I might have been Hel. I changed to Lynn a couple years later when I met a baseball player named Len and decided to feminize the spelling.

Me and my mom, on the day I got my next name.
In the convent, I was expected to adopt a “name in religion” and asked to submit three names for consideration. My first choice (which I got) was Sister Michael Damien, after the warrior archangel and the missionary priest from Belgium, Father Damien, who ministered to the lepers on Molokai until he contracted the disease and died.

Always a fan of heroic guys (or angels) I admired his courage and devotion (of which I have practically none). Long after leaving the convent, I made a pilgrimage of sorts to Kaluapapa and what remains of the leper colony to which Damien devoted himself.


Here’s me at his grave, in which he is (for the most part) no longer buried. His remains were toted back to Belgium in the 30's, although his right hand was re-interred here in the 90's.


I hadn’t realized that getting to his grave required a 2 ½ -hour mule ride down a precipitous cliff, during which I decided to buy a cottage in the colony rather than endure the ride back up. Persuaded the upward direction was not nearly so scary, I reluctantly changed my mind, only to discover (no way to turn around) the persuader had lied. Nothing is sacred! Well, except Father Damien, who was canonized Saint Damien in October 2009.

Naming pets is less controversial or intensive. Okay, not for me. My first cat, acquired when I was in second grade, was Smoky. Later, my sister and I refined his name to Smoky Bowtie Beltbuckle Puddycat Eeknay, Esq. Otherwise gray, he had white spots where a bowtie and beltbuckle would be. He was a puddycat. And we were Yankee fans. Clearly, we usually have reasons for the names we give, but they are not always reasonable. Over the years,the names of my Siamese cats were drawn from an admired professor-mentor, Giles, and from literature: Phaedra, Cassandra, Malvolio, and Dante. Terribly pretentious.

I’d speak of Present Company, but the current pet informs me that he wishes to blog, at a future time, about his name and why it suits him. I will be interested to read his analysis. He’s pretty fanciful for a housecat.

I also want to talk about authors and the naming of our characters, but that will also have to wait. This is a concert weekend with the San Diego Master Chorale, so I’m tied up with rehearsals and other associated tasks, like laundering the formal attire. Black pantyhose are soaking in Woolite as I type!

I’ve named them “The Iron Maiden.”

Waiting for Touchdown (Tara Taylor Quinn)

I was mugged in Italy once. It was my first trip overseas. No male escort to keep me safe. And I survived, not only with body intact, but possessions untouched as well - other than the back seat of my rental car which had been frighteningly occupied by a large male for a very brief span. The experience changed my life. I came through. Was able to do what was necessary on the spur of the moment to take care of myself, regardless of the danger, in spite of the fact that I'm only 5' 2" and weigh...not enough. I didn't fall apart until hours later when I was safely ensconced on the balcony of a quiet, luxurious resort, enjoying the waves of the Mediterranean sea that were gently meeting the rocks three stories below me, and becoming best friends with the bottle of exquisite and rare Italian wine I'd been given to calm my nerves. The wine was locally made and I've never been able to find a bottle of it since.

But I haven't forgotten it. More, I haven't forgotten the inner strength I discovered on that trip. A strength that until that day, I hadn't even known I possessed. I've tapped into the strength many times since then. Sometimes in big ways that I notice, and other times without even realizing that I'm doing so. Probably the most memorable time - maybe given to me as a bit of a reminder so that I didn't lose sight of the abilities that are there to serve me - was this past summer when my little canine brother took a header into a freezing cold and rapidly moving stream after midnight on a very dark and moonless night in the middle of nowhere. I didn't have time to think then, either, or he'd have been lost to us. I went in after him - in spite of the fact that you couldn't pay me to get into that water on a hot summer day without waders. I got us to my mother on the bank, who pulled us out of the water. I didn't fall apart until afterward then, either.

I've been thinking of these times often over the past week as I sit and pretend that I'm carefree and happy and unworried to have my mother in Israel. I'm still waiting to grow up enough to be as strong as my mother is. (That's her up there in the picture with Tim - having lunch on a saddle.) Last year she decided she had to have a trip to the holy land. She planned for a year. And now she's in Israel. She left last week, in spite of the worries of her daughter and son-in-law, her son, her granddaughter - even her niece who had to call her the night before she left to wish her safe travels. Mom had life to experience. And off she went.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad that she went. I fully support her decision. She's alive and living and I wholeheartedly want her that way. I want her to experience life to the fullest extent her spirit takes her. I'm just...uneasy.

I expressed the sentiment last week to my aunt who just returned from Israel not long ago. She told me not to worry as our vice president was in Israel as well so the security, which is good, is even better now. I feel relieved for all of the five minutes it takes me to google the vice presidential trip to Israel on the Internet. I was just checking to make certain that my mother was in the right towns - right there where his security was waiting to come to the aid of all Americans. Instead, I find out that something's gone wrong. Political figures have reverted to high school type behaviors. Our vice president is trading barbs with Israeli higher ups. American/Israeli relations are tense.

I've been following the news, and my mother's itinerary, daily. More than daily. She's a good mom. Even though she's having the time of her life, and life-changing experiences, she's still taken the time to email me. Regularly. And this morning, very early this morning her flight home took off from Tel Aviv.

And so today, in the midst of trying to finish book three of four, I am pouring all of my energy into keeping that plane in the air. Until it reaches US airspace. Then, I plan to help it gently land on US soil - where, as she so succinctly pointed out to me before she left - we've lost two family members and a best friend to car accidents.

So why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we expend so much energy and emotion on things that we cannot control? On things that our minds tell us are not worth worrying about. Why do we put negative energy out there when all we want to send out is positive?

I'm thinking that's the real challenge before me. Not just to be strong enough to do something little like fight off a mugger, but to be strong enough to overcome the worries that life brings to me and put positive energy in their stead.

Cats are funny like that (Suzanne Forster)

So, here’s today’s question about strange cat behavior: Why must they lay on everything? Newspapers. Computer keyboards. Clothing. Mandy is obsessed with laying on anything and everything except her bed! Fortunately, she loves her cat tree and often sleeps there, snoozing in the highest tier, but she will abandon it in a heartbeat to plop down on a sock I might have dropped on the floor.

Paper products are also a big favorite of hers. She takes possession of books, magazines, newspapers, manuscript pages, even the monthly bills. Our electric bill went unpaid one month because Mandy was sleeping on it while I was diligently writing checks. When she rolled over, the bill dropped to the floor and ended up under a cabinet, out of sight. We’re lucky we didn’t get our lights turned off.

I suppose it could be a scent thing. I’ve heard cats are attracted to anything that bear their owner’s scent, but Mandy also loves to crawl into a laundry basket and sleep on freshly washed clothes. That could also be because of the warmth. When I work on the bed with the laptop, Mandy will sleep on the power source for my computer because it generates so much heat. It’s just 5X3X2 inches, small enough that she covers it completely with her body, but you can see the lump it makes in her stretched-out form.

Surely, those sharp edges are uncomfortable. I’ve even tried to move her, but she won’t go. Maybe it’s all the fur padding.

She’s also quite the sunbather. Even in the summer when the rest of us are blotting our foreheads and fanning ourselves from the heat, she’ll bask contentedly in the sun from the window.

For awhile I thought she was laying on things to get my attention, especially when she would wander over and flop on my keyboard while I was diligently working, covering my hands as I typed. She definitely got my attention with that move. But it’s not just about attention because she does it when I’m not around.

The other day I was sorting through things to donate to charity and I left a tall stack of research books on my bed. When I came back later, I found her draped over the books, trying to lay on them. It was hilarious. Her front feet were dangling over the side. They couldn’t touch down because the stack was too high. It looked like she’d tried to jump over and got stuck, but I knew what she was up to.

I read a great story on a pet web site about a cat who’d taken ownership of a comfy lounge chair in the great room. She wouldn’t share it with anyone but the family’s little dog. One day a neighbor who weighed nearly 400 pounds dropped by and while the humans were chatting, he decided to sit down. Apparently he either didn’t see the furry things in the chair or mistook them for pillows!

The pet owner only had time to save one animal. He grabbed the dog, and yes, the neighbor sat on the cat. Luckily, he was able to get up quickly, but the cat was extremely upset and spent the rest of the visit perched on an end table, glaring at the neighbor. The cat wasn’t too happy with his owner, either, and could not be coaxed, even with offerings of yummy tidbits to sleep in that chair again, which proves that cats may be strange, but they’re not crazy. In a house where humans can’t be bothered not to sit on them, it only makes sense to stay out of the chairs.

Here’s my theory: Cats have their own brand of entitlement psychology and it’s called ownership of everything in their domain, including the human. If it exists in their realm, they own it, and they prove it by laying on it, sitting on it, rubbing up against it or licking it. You mess with their stuff at your own peril—and that includes you, should you decide to get up whilst they’re laying on your lap or any other part of your body. They won’t hurt you, but they’ll sure give you a look and freeze you out for awhile and they may go sulk in the bed springs and refuse to come out for dinner.

It may take us humans awhile, but eventually most of us get the message that we don’t own our cats, they own us and they’re way more stubborn than we are—-and much smarter, obviously—-so the sooner we get used to it the better. Allan and I surrendered a long time ago. How about the rest of you who are owned by furry, four-legged creatures, cat or dogs? Anyone out there still fighting the battle for human autonomy?

Good luck!
Suz

Desert Song (Lynn Kerstan)

Aeons ago (I was a high school sophomore), playing the hero (all-girls school) in an operetta, I sang “My desert is calling....”
In reality, deserts rarely call me. That’s because they are generally hot. But yesterday, I set out for what I thought would be a 2-hour drive to the largest state park in California: Anza Borrego. I thought that because the website said it was a 2-hour drive from the west, and that’s where I was coming from. When I exited the freeway ninety miles later and headed north into the park, I figured I would arrive on time to meet a visiting friend and a possible new friend at 10am, as arranged.

For a half hour, I was the only one traveling on the two-lane county road. No cars, no birds, not even any road kill. Just me and the desert. I was playing a CD, Mozart’s Great Mass in C. The sky was blue, the temperature around 70, the road good. Where else could I see a large grove of orange trees surrounded by miles of desert with a snow-capped mountain in the distance? Or be stopped at a Border Patrol checkpoint manned by three very hunky young men. I wondered how I could get them to arrest me.

An hour later, my love affair with the landscape had cooled. It was beautiful, but all of a sameness. A couple of RVs coming from where I was going broke the monotony, and I passed a few small marker signs that intrigued me: Canyon Sin Nombre (Canyon without a Name) and The Well of Eight Echoes. A couple of bicyclists pedaled relentlessly in the middle of nowhere. I drove and drove and drove.

When I finally arrived at the park’s Visitor Center, I was late by nearly two hours. But my tribe of two had wisely entertained themselves meantime, so we set out in fine fettle to enjoy us some desert delights.
In the spring (which lasts maybe three weeks), that means wildflowers.



This is an ocotillo (like the one in the upper left-hand picture), just beginning to bloom.





And of course, there is the fearsome desert wildlife.



Being intrepid adventurers, we stalked these clever critters to their favorite hangout: a restaurant.

Yup. After a gruelling drive of maybe ten minutes and an exhausting trek several yards from our vehicle to photograph wildflowers, it was time for lunch! To the left is long-time treasured buddy Sharon Knolls (aka Nurse Ratchitt), not long retired from her career as an RN in the San Francisco area. In the middle is me, looking unnaturately demure. And to my right is Cammie, Sharon's friend, who lives about thirty miles north of here and is a lot of fun to be with.

Proving that our priorities remain firmly in place, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch (about two hours) before realizing the time to head home was looming. They advised me that the perilous precipitous edges on the over-the-mountains northern route they'd used (presumably a shorter drive) would be fine, because going back, I would be on the inside lane and not the edgy one.

But before leaving, we went to see the horses I'd spotted driving into Borrego Springs, the quirky spread-out desert town near the heart of the state park. These are the ones I first saw, and I assumed they were a mother and foal.

Until I saw this guy in an adjacent field. And he never moved. Neither did the eight or ten horses nearby, grazing or quarreling or downright trying to to kill one another. They are sculptures created from scrap metals, wires, and rebar by Ricardo Breceda, who had been mostly producing dinosaurs in another part of California when he was commissioned to populate a wealthy man's extensive properties in Borrego Springs with animals that had roamed Anza Borrego in the distant past. Hence the mastodon, saber-toothed tigers, fanciful dinos, tortoises, and primeval birds. Later, the millionaire extended the metallic zoo to include more contemporary denizens of the desert such as camels, llamas, donkeys, and horses. Dozens of creature now grace the landscape, with more to follow.

Breceda, an immigrant from Mexico, bussed tables and washed dishes before getting into construction. After a literally back-breaking fall from a roof, he tinkered his way into sculpting and opened his own business. His work will delight visitors to Anza for year and years to come.

After reluctant farewells to Sharon and Cammie, I took their advice about the "safe" return trip and found myself driving the edgy side for mile after terrifying mile. I know they wouldn't deliberately mislead me, but...What Were They Thinking?!

As a result of driving about five miles an hour for a long, long time, only to get caught in rush-hour traffic when I reached civilization, I arrived home very late and utterly knackered.
Seven or eight hours of driving to enjoy half an hour of sightseeing and a long lunch! Would I do that again? No. Would I sic the fighting horses on Sharon and Cammie for getting confused about inside lane/edge lane? No.

Am I glad I went? You betcha!

The Cat Patsy (Lymond de Sevigny)

So here I am again, making apologies for the Can-Opener. Mind you, I should have been suspicious when she filled my food-bowl full before I was even awake this morning and then disappeared for eons. She was going to write about where she went and what she did, or so she told me, but by the time she slumped in again, she was worn down and there wasn't time.

I had to believe her. She looked like something the cat dragged in. That's a metaphor. I can't drag anything in because I never go out, unlike this rogue cat (probably flea-bitten) who came to call the other day.

As it happens, someone named Pat Potter says all sorts of stuff is happening at once in her own life and she couldn't write her own blog either. Peoples are soooo complicated. I might care, if I knew what a blog was. Or, Nah. But the CO says she'll cover for Pat tomorrow, the same way I'm covering for her today, and Pat will be back when things settle.