Sherlock Holmes

It's been over an hour, and I'm still numb. Dr. Heppner, my dentist (I love that man), "contoured" the base of one of my lower molars and put a sealant on it. This was because my gum had receded slightly and part of the root was exposed, causing the gum to become infected. Antibiotics cured the infection, but without the contouring and sealant, it would happen again.

He said the numbness would wear off in "about" an hour. We're well into the "about" period, and I see no sign of it even starting to wear off. Sigh. In the meantime, I would relish a cup of tea (probably 500 Mile Chai or gunpowder, the ones I usually go to in times of stress), but that will have to wait—I don't want to risk dribbling all over my tee shirt, much less burning my mouth. Lunch must also wait. So you have your tea, and I'll just enjoy it vicariously.

Today's quote:  "If you are cold, tea will warm you.  If you are too heated, it will cool you.  If you are depressed, it will cheer you.  If you are excited, it will calm you." – Gladstone, 1865

I made Easter dinner yesterday, and I burned the cheesecake. I don't know why it is, but when I do something for myself, where no one else will see it, it always (well, almost) works out perfectly. But when I make or do something that will be seen or used by others, I almost always screw something up. Every time I fix dinner for a holiday, I burn something, or I put something in the refrigerator and forget it until everyone has left. Sigh.

We got a new oven a year ago, and it bakes faster than the old one. I knew this but forgot it (because I had so many things going on – that's my story) and put the cheesecake in for one hour when fifty minutes would have been sufficient. The cheesecake was too brown on the top, and the crust was like sun-baked brick—the forks almost bent trying to dig into it. It tasted fine. Everyone ate it. But it was a little embarrassing, nonetheless. At age sixty-one one would think I could put together a whole meal without such a mishap. But no… I tell people, it's hard being me.

So I'm sitting here, wanting tea and burnt cheesecake, and I turn on the TV to find there are a couple of Sherlock Holmes movies, back to back. The first one, "Hound of the Baskervilles" was half over when I tuned in. The second one is "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes". Both star Basil Rathbone as the legendary Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes is one of my all-time favorite fictional characters. He is intelligent beyond nine-tenths of the population, which makes him insufferably arrogant. Because of his intelligence, the world holds little mystery or interest for him. He uses opium to blunt his constant boredom with the world and people around him—dabbling in those things which society dictates are off-limits gives him an adrenaline rush.

But he is brilliant when he's solving mysteries. His creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, must have been smarter than Sherlock Holmes or he couldn't have written him so well. Of course Holmes' arch-nemesis Moriarty was Holmes' equal in every way. So Doyle had to keep these two brilliant characters going and constantly out-doing each other.

Many actors have portrayed Holmes over the years. Basil Rathbone played the character splendidly. And Robert Downey Jr. was good in the recent movie. But I think my favorite Sherlock Holmes was Benedict Cumberbatch. He played the part (updated to allow modern technology, like wi-fi) in a limited run series by the BBC in 2009/2010. He conveyed Holmes' tinge of insanity that was missing in the other characterizations.

Of course the best thing about Sherlock Holmes is that he, and the cause of good, always triumphs. I know—the same thing can be said about many other fictional characters (Henri Poirot and Jessica Fletcher are just two that popped up in my mind). But there's something about Sherlock Holmes… A certain charisma, a "je ne sais quoi"… Maybe it's just the touch of madness, after all. But he has remained one of fiction's favorite characters since he first appeared in "A Study in Scarlet" in 1887.

Speaking of "A Study in Scarlet", you can read it online for free (it's in the public domain now) here:  http://www.publicbookshelf.com/mystery/study-scarlet/mr-sherlock-holmes. There are other books offered to read online free at www.publicbookshelf.com.

Well, after three hours, the numbness has finally worn off, so I'm off to the kitchen. Burnt cheesecake and tea await. 

God bless you. Have a happy day.

Rain

I started out with lots of coffee this a.m. I didn't get to sleep until after five this morning. It happens sometimes—I just am not sleepy. So I slept until 10:00, and chugged coffee. Now I'm drinking Twinings Lady Grey tea.

Lady Grey is similar to Earl Grey tea. They both have lemon, lime, orange, and bergamot flavorings, but the bergamot is much lighter in Lady Grey. Bergamot is a citrus fruit that is kind of a cross between a lemon and grapefruit. Its juice isn't used much, but the oil from the peel has a distinct aroma and flavor, and it's bergamot that makes these teas unique.

My mug today is beige and has a dot matrix map of the world, with the native words for "coffee" printed over the different countries.

Today's quote:  "Criticism, like rain, should be gentle enough to nourish a man's growth without destroying his roots." –  Frank Howard Clark

Rain

After several days of rain, rain, and more rain, the sun is finally shining again. We had hail and rain, and high winds and rain, thunder and lightning and rain… The sump pump has really had a work out the past couple of weeks.

I love rain. I love storms. I love sitting on the glider on the porch and watching storms, especially summer storms.

When I was a child, we would often visit our cousins in southern Kentucky for long summer weekends. It was a small town and we ran through the countryside without fear, and our parents felt comfortable letting us roam at will.

We would usually start out right after breakfast, and wouldn't return to my cousin's house until about noon, when we were starving. After lunch we ran off again. Our time was spent exploring the fields and ponds and even the graveyard, where we would read the sentiments on the gravestones.

But many afternoon's, about two o'clock, a soft summer rain would start. We would run back to the house and sit on their porch glider, watching the rain fall and the lightning streak, and counting the seconds between thunderclaps. "One one thousand, two one thousand…" That glider, and those summer afternoons, were where I came to love storms.

During a storm I can see the wind as it moves through the trees, and watch it push leaves, twigs, and other items across the pavement in the street in front of my house. The trees bob up and down, leaves fly through the air, and rain makes an unending flow of patterns in the ebb and flow of the capricious wind.

I love the loud, crashing claps of thunder and the streaks of lightning that zoom across the sky. I love the storm clouds as they gather, as they clump, as they darken, and then disperse as the storm passes.

I love the rain as it falls in a soft mist, as it drizzles, as it comes down in fat drops, and as it pelts the world in furious water bullets. I love it as it bounces off the pavement, as it sparkles like diamonds under street lamps, and as it softens the world as if looking at everything through a camera filter. I even love sleet and hail, as long as I can watch it from behind the safety and warmth of a window.

I love the way the world gleams and shines after a storm. The way beads of water set daintily on rose petals and leaves. The way they punctuate the delicate threads of a spider's web.

And then there's the rainbow—the prism of bent light that spreads its beautiful colors across the sky. It was God's covenant with Noah, but it's our consolation prize for either enduring the storm or mourning its passing, depending on our point of view. It's the anticlimax to the light and water shows we're treated to for free.

What I don't love is the smell of earthworms after the storm, or trying to walk across concrete where their swollen, water-saturated bodies lie dormant. Even worse is when the sun dehydrates them, and then their flat, dried bodies lie baking on the sidewalk. Ewww!

Sometimes, when I see a live one wiggling, trying hard to reach the grass, I'll take a twig (I can't stand to touch an earthworm with my hands) and help it on its way. I can't save them all, but I try to save the ones that are fighting to survive.

I wrote a poem I titled "Summer Storm" when I was in high school:

One raindrop chases another down my windowpane.

Soon they come in hordes, descending from the darkening sky

In numbers known only by God.

Thunder rumbles through charged air,

Sounding like the grumbling of a giant hungry beast.

Lightning illuminates its own broken path

To the earth below,

Like rays erupting from a magician’s fingers.

Wind whips itself into a frenzy,

Angrily thrashing the limbs of the trees in its fury.

But soon enough, it’s over.

The lightning’s power wanes

As the thunder loses its courage,

And the wind pretends it never lost its temper.

A soft summer rain continues to wash the world

Until the dirt is gone, and only stains remain.

Now a solitary raindrop

Holds to my soffit, trying not to fall.

But its own weight becomes too much

And it falls.

A hidden bird sits in a tree and sings,

As if to announce, it’s over.

Only then does the sun

Swagger from behind sullen clouds

And shout its warmth at the world.

So how do you feel about storms? Do they frighten you? Thrill you? Are they something you enjoy, or simply endure? If you usually just endure them, then the next time you have occasion to be in one, look closer. There are beauties and surprises awaiting you. At least try to enjoy it, a little. I believe you will be rewarded for your efforts.

As usual, heave a great day, and God bless you.

Holy Week

This morning I chose Celestial Seasonings "Sweet Coconut Thai Chai" tea. It's spicy but mellow, which I found very appealing today. My mug is covered with dogwood blossoms, and the legend of the dogwood is printed on one side. I'm not going to take the time to relate the legend—you can Google it if you're interested.

But I will relate that the dogwood "blossom" usually has four white leaves which resemble flower petals (actually bracts), and the real flower buds are in the middle of the blossom. Each leaf is heart-shaped, and the vee of the leaf has a reddish stain which is reminiscent of the nail holes and blood stains in Christ's hands and feet as He hung on the cross. The flower buds themselves are likened to the crown of thorns placed on His head. It is a visual reminder of what He endured when He was crucified.

When I was a child, Easter was almost exclusively a Christian holiday, and most of the decorations and merchandise for sale bore Christian symbology. Most Easter activities were Christian in nature and designed to teach and remind people, especially children, of the meaning of Easter.

We dyed eggs, but all the stickers and decals included in the dye packages were Christian in design. We bought candy eggs and cakes, and all their wrappers sported Christian images. When we made a trip to the grocery store, the hardware store, the clothing store, all were decorated with Christian motifs.

We went to church on Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, where we heard sermons about Christ's death and resurrection. We even, please brace yourselves, read about it and took part in Easter activities in public schools. I will now pause while you find a container for your horror and grief.

Back then retailers catered to Christians, and they knew most parents would only buy Easter products that had Christian themes. Was everything pastoral and wholesome? No. There were a number of things that should not have been allowed. Most notably a number of merchandisers sold live baby chicks that had been dyed in pastel colors. I wouldn't even hazard a guess of the number of baby chicks that suffered from the effects of the dye, not to mention at the hands of ignorant and insensitive, if not downright cruel children. The practice continued for years, so there were probably tens of thousands of dead baby chicks across the country each year.

But today I find it almost impossible to find any Christian-themed Easter item unless I go to a Christian store. Most people celebrate "Easter", but they don't want the Christian story or Christian images and symbols to intrude on their holiday. Everyone wants the colored eggs, the bunnies, the baskets, the candy, the new clothes, but don't inflict them with any of that Jesus claptrap.

I find that very sad.

Do you know why Christians invite people to church? It's because once a person becomes aware, really and truly aware, of Jesus as a true, living person, and they feel the Holy Spirit move in them, there is a joy that bubbles up inside of them, and they can't contain it. They want to share it. They want to give that gift to others. They want everyone to feel what they feel.

One of my favorite movies is "When Harry Met Sally". Harry, played by Billy Crystal, and Sally, played by Meg Ryan, move in and out of each others lives for a number of years. Then one day they both come to the end of relationships with other people at the same time. At loose ends, they develop their own relationship that develops into a deep friendship. Then one night they share a disastrous sexual encounter which ends the friendship. Harry desperately wants to put the friendship back together, but Sally is too hurt, and they are at an impasse.

But then, on New Year's Eve, Harry suddenly has en epiphany. He runs through the streets of New York City to a hotel where Sally is attending a party. He rushes up to her and announces that, after a good deal of thinking, he realizes he loves her.

There is more dialog, but Sally remains unswayed until Harry says the one thing that hooks Sally, and the viewer, and almost guarantees to heal the rift between them:

"I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

Take that scene, and that feeling, and now instead of Harry and Sally substitute a Christian and someone else and change the line to, "When you realize there is a real Jesus, and He has prepared a place for you to spend eternity and it's wonderful, and the alternative is horrible, you kind of want to gather everyone you know and tell them about it so they can know it, too."

Why is that so offensive to some people?

I think maybe some people get hung up on thinking Christians want to "convert" them (like maybe "converted rice", where they would be fundamentally changed?). But conversion to Christianity, at its core, is simply a desire to let others in on a really good deal.

But then, the problem with some of us Christians is our enthusiasm gets the best of us and we go for the hard sell, because we just don't want to take "no" for an answer. We tend to treat people as if they were either deaf, so we raise our voices, or mentally deficient, because they don't "get it", so we try to drag them along.

Compare this to someone who is determined to lead someone out of a burning building while the person doesn't know the building is on fire. "I'm doing this for your own good," doesn’t' sway the would-be victim if the would-be hero looks and sounds like a nut or a crazed kidnapper.  

The sad thing is Jesus and Christianity get the bad rap for our bad behavior. Mahatma Gandhi said, "I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ." It is sad. It is true. But Christ was the Son of God, and perfect, and no mere human being can obtain perfection. So we are left to make mistakes.

The truth is that Christians can behave badly. We are, after all, only human. Anyone who thinks most Christians think they're perfect should realize that most of us are well aware of just how imperfect we are. But we have two things we hold to when we blow it: God isn't finished with us yet, and we're not perfect, but we are forgiven. Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Anyhow, this week, Holy Week, I plan on attending the Maundy Thursday dinner at church, and I will spend Good Friday reflecting on Christ's life and death. And then Easter Sunday I will go to church where I will join others in celebrating His resurrection and our salvation. I will also eat Easter dinner with family members. During all this I will pray that everyone I know will find the joy and peace I have found in knowing Jesus as a real person, a real friend.

Happy Easter, however you choose to celebrate it. And God bless you.

Slumdog Millionaire

One of the things they don't tell us about aging is that we start losing our vocabulary. It's part of the ugly underbelly of aging. And it's very easy for us to lose our train of thought. I was just thinking about my next blog while ago, and decided what topic I wanted to cover, and then walked into the kitchen. By the time I got back to the computer room I had completely forgotten it and had to back track my train of thought. Sheesh.

I watched the movie "Slumdog Millionaire" yesterday. It was hard to watch. Harrowing. I felt so bad for the Indian children and the things they had to endure—no child should have to go through things like they did, and yet I know from what I've read similar things actually happen all over the world.

In London, England, up until about 1850, orphaned street children were subjected to many of the same kinds of things portrayed in "Slumdog". Charles Dickens saw the plight of some of them and wrote books about what he saw, notably "Oliver Twist", which helped galvanize the public against some of the worst crimes against the poor and helpless. I read one time (can't remember where) that sometimes some of the more unsavory criminals would literally carve the faces of street children to make them either more pitiful, thus better beggars, or to attract more money as street performers. I don't know what kind of paths people go down that make them capable of doing these kinds of things. What must their own lives have been like? Brutal. Must have been.

There was also a book written in 1970 by R. F. Delderfield, "God is an Englishman", that has a scene I remember vividly. The book is set in the 1850's, and the main female character, Henrietta, discovers one of their fireplaces is stopped up, and sends a servant to fetch a chimney sweep. Seems innocent enough.

But, as was often the case in those days, the chimney sweep uses a small boy to climb up and down the chimney to clean it. As was also often the case in those days, the child dies during the course of the cleaning. Henrietta and the servant are understandably upset over the death, but when Henrietta's husband Adam comes home and discovers the matter, he is furious.

Adam is a character much to be admired. He is horrified by the many social injustices he observes daily, and he is completely disgusted that Henrietta didn't know what terrible fates awaited the children used by sweeps. He catalogs for her a list of things the sweep boys endured.

Besides lung diseases caused by breathing the noxious fumes built up in the chimneys, they often fell or got wedged inside and suffocated. Add to this the fact the boys were usually fed very little, to keep down their weight. And they were often abused in other ways by the sweeps.

When the boys grew too large to fit into the chimneys, the sweeps simply cast them aside and found another, smaller boy to use. By the time a boy had outgrown the job, he usually had diseased lungs and couldn't work at any honest job, so he often had no option but to turn to a life of crime. If he lived long enough, he often ended up in prison.

The way Adam chooses to deal with his wife's ignorance and insensitivity is, in my opinion, harsh. He makes her and her servant wash and prepare the boy's body for burial. As they carry out Adam's order, they are horrified by the ravages on the poor child's body. It was indeed harsh punishment, but it was also a lesson neither of them ever forgot. Nor have I.

I believe we are sheltered by our ignorance of the injustices of our own society, just as Henrietta was sheltered by her ignorance of the plight of the sweep boys. If we don't see something, we can pretend it never happened. Books written by people like Charles Dickens forced people to open their eyes and look at the injustices surrounding them. Once we look, we can no longer pretend we don't see.

Today there is a wealth of information all over the internet about social injustices. Here are a few sites that will open your eyes:

http://www.humantrafficking.org/

http://www.persecution.com/

http://christianinternational.com/

If you know of others, please let me know. I'll add them to the list.

My daughter Amber told me she couldn't read my blog any more because every post made her cry, and she was tired of crying. I didn't realize how dark the things I was writing about had gotten. So I'm going to have to lighten up. In my own defense I have to say there are a lot of really sad and horrible things going on in the world right now. But in Amber's defense, I suppose I don't have to chronicle them each and every day.

With that in mind, here's one of my favorite jokes:

A string goes into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender says, "We don't serve strings in here."

The dejected string leaves, but outside he has an idea. He rubs his top end until it it's all frayed, then ties himself into a knot. He returns to the bar and orders a beer.

The bartender says, "Say, aren't you that string that was just in here?"

The string replies, "No, I'm a frayed knot." Word play. Think about it.

Today's quote:  "There is a higher court than courts of justice and that is the court of conscience. It supersedes all other courts." -- Mohandas Gandhi

The mug I'm drinking from has the music and words to all four verses of "Amazing Grace" wrapping around it. Today's tea is gunpowder. It gets its name from its color, not from any explosive quality. It's a green tea, and my absolute favorite tea. I drink it when I need a lift for any reason. And sometimes I drink it "just because". Today is a "just because" day.

Regardless of what time you may read this, God bless you, and have a great rest of the day. If the day is almost over, have a great tomorrow.

Kristallnacht

Because I spent a lot of my teenage and early adult years listening to and singing Bob Dylan songs, I'm intrigued by his son, Jakob. The young man sings country, and he's easier to understand than his father has become in the past few years. But his voice is mellow, his songs interesting, and if I were still in song-buying mode, I'd spring for one of his CD's. Really, I've accumulated so many CD's over the years, and I don't listen to half of them anymore, I can't justify the cost. But if you haven't heard him yet, I think he's worth a listen. There are youtube clips out there. I especially like "Everybody's Hurting".

Today's quote:  "How many times must the cannonballs fly, before they're forever banned? The answer, my friend, is blowin in the wind. The answer is blowin in the wind." – Bob Dylan, "Blowin in the Wind", 1962.

On a heavier note, I spent a few hours today watching "The Third Reich" on the History channel. It was an excellent documentary. It showed how Hitler rose to power in Germany. In my over-simplified recap, Hitler first built up Aryan pride while blaming all Germany's problems on the Jews, and then he nationalized everything, including the schools. Once the children and youth were indoctrinated to his ideology, he turned children against parents, neighbor against neighbor, and then it was just a matter of time before he went after the Jews. Any German who might have been sympathetic to the plight of the Jews was too frightened to intercede.

There was a lot off footage of so many atrocities against the Jews it was heart-breaking. If you haven't seen or read about it, have the courage to at least Google Kristallnacht ("Crystal Night"), "The Night of Broken Glass".

"Kristallnacht" took place throughout Germany and German occupied areas of Austria and Czechoslovakia on November 9 and 10, 1938. Over 260 synagogues were burned, while German firemen stood and watched. An estimated 7500 Jewish businesses were destroyed while the German police watched. Twenty-six thousand Jews were arrested and sent to concentration camps. Many Jews were physically attacked, and at least ninety-one died. Jewish homes were looted, Jewish cemeteries were destroyed. These were people whose only crime was having been born Jews.

Anti-Semitism, hostility and hatred toward Jews, was the tinder for Kristallnacht. And unfortunately anti-Semitism is on the rise again, throughout Europe and the Middle East. I hope, I pray, that no one makes the mistake of repeating the travesties of the past.

Oh, and if you're into horror stories, do some research on Josef Rudolf Mengele, the "Angel of Death". If ever there was a man straight out of the bowels of hell, it was Josef Mengele. There is absolutely no fictional monster that could hold a candle to him. And he was sanctioned by Hitler. Read about him early in the day, and then watch or read something light-hearted before bed, and maybe, maybe you won't have nightmares.

Tonight I'm drinking lapsang souchong tea. It has a very smoky flavor. If you don't love the smell of wood smoke, you wouldn't like lapsang souchong.

My mug has a picture that reminds me of Vincent van Gogh's "Irises". There's a thatch-roofed cottage with coneflowers and what might be petunias in the foreground. The Bible verse on the side is Joshua 24:15—"As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."

If you want, you could comment and let me know what your own mug looks like, and what kind or tea you're drinking. I'd like to know. That way it would be more like you were actually having tea with me.

Dieu vous bénisse! ("God bless you", in French)

Tom

I was going through my tea cabinet today, and came across my Mexican Sweet Chili herbal tea, from Yogi Tea. It contains, among other things, cayenne and black pepper. These are the last ingredients listed, so they're used in the least amounts, and truthfully I can hardly taste them. But they do give the tea a little "bite". The first ingredient is licorice root, and the licorice taste is distinct. It's one of my favorite herbal teas.

My mug is a tall, thin one, covered with pink roses. It was a gift from my favorite aunt and good friend, Georgia. When I use it, I always think of her, and all thoughts of her are pleasant. I love her and her husband, Uncle Ed.

Today's quote: "All the great things are simple, and many can be expressed in a single word: freedom, justice, honor, duty, mercy, hope." – Winston Churchill.

Tom came to us when my daughter Tara and her children moved back to Ohio from Georgia in 2001. They stayed with my mother until they could get a place of their own, and since Mom is not an animal person, we got Tom.

Tom was born in an apartment, and we kept him inside because he had no front claws, but he tried to get out every time the door opened. On occasion he would manage a jailbreak, but he never got past the bushes by the door. We figured he heard the call of the wild, but couldn't speak the language.

Things happened, and it was several years before Tara and her children acquired a house where they could keep pets, and Austin, my grandson, wanted "his" cat back. It was hard, but I couldn't tell him no. They packed up Tom one day and off they went.

It was about then that our younger daughter, Amber, called. Their apartment complex had changed hands and the new owners wouldn't allow animals larger than twenty pounds. Their dog Sally Mae was over seventy pounds. Could we take her until they found a new place? Of course we could.

That's how Sallie Mae came to live with us. And she settled in quickly, though she missed her other family and always got excited when they visited. But it didn't take her long to get used to the freedom of a fenced back yard that she could spend hours exploring. She especially loved lying out by the pool in the early morning sun.

While Sally was thriving in her new home, Tom was languishing in his. Suddenly the little family that had to give up their one pet had plenty of room, and before long they also owned a dog, two ferrets, and two more cats. Tom had a hard time dealing with all the noise from so many people and pets, and never quite adjusted to the large menagerie.

One day he got out, and they didn't find him for three days. Tara called and asked if we wanted him back—he just wasn't happy. I sighed and said, "Yeah, we can take him back," but inwardly I was going, "YESSS!" I had missed him.

For two weeks after they brought him back he stayed in the basement and wouldn't come near us. We left him alone, figuring he would rejoin us in his own time. Then one day he just appeared upstairs, and it was as if he had never left.

Life fell back into its same pattern, Tom trying to get out every time we opened a door, and Bill and I running interference. He seemed to resent the fact that Sally came and went, but he was house-bound. Then one day as I opened the door, I saw him preparing to make a run for it. I opened the door wide and said, "Okay, it seems to be really important to you, so go on out."

Bill said, "What if he doesn't come back?"

"I think he will. But he's not happy. And I want him to be happy."

At first Tom didn't make any attempt to go out. He just looked up at me, as if trying to decide if I was serious or it was a bad joke. Suddenly he lunged for the door, maybe deciding to go before I changed my mind. I watched him go, and then stood by the door to see what he would do.

He got to the end of the deck and hesitated before finally trotting out to the middle of the yard. It must have been too scary, because he immediately ran back to the door and started scratching at it. I opened it and he ran in and zoomed into the living room and disappeared behind the couch. I shook my head and went into the kitchen to start dinner.

A few minutes later I heard Tom meowing at the door. I went in and opened it and he inched toward it, and finally lumbered out. This time he went to the middle of the yard and actually stood there for a few minutes before coming back and scratching at the door.

Over the next few hours he repeated this process a dozen times, each time becoming a little bit bolder when he got outside. By the time night fell, he was ready for bed, and so was I. It had been a long, grueling day.

After that he came and went as he pleased, just like Sally Mae, and it pleased him a lot to "went". And he became more affectionate toward me. He would curl up beside me on the couch sometimes, which he had never done before.

He slept downstairs at night, and one morning in early November 2009 when he came up we looked at him and Bill said, "There's something wrong with that cat." He was right. Tom was all swollen around his head, neck, shoulders, and front legs.

I bundled him up and took him to the vet. I love my vet. She is so knowledgeable, and she's great with animals. She diagnosed Tom with a blood disease. She gave him a couple of shots and sent us home with several bottles of pills, and hope.

A couple of weeks later, Tom took a turn for the worse. He dragged around the house, looking miserable. At one point I picked him up to love him and noticed he had litter glued to his paws. Anyone who knows cats knows they keep themselves clean, and when I saw the litter on his paws, my heart sunk into my stomach. I knew it was bad.

I was supposed to get my granddaughter Celeste off the school bus that afternoon, and shortly before she was due I decided Tom really needed to see the vet. I called and they said to bring him in as soon as possible. So I put him in his carrier and put him in the car and as soon as the school bus pulled away Celeste, Tom, and I headed out.

When we got to the vet, she looked at him and said, "I was afraid of this." She examined him and, in a very sad voice said, "He's suffering, and there's no chance he will get better. What do you want to do?"

These things are never easy, and I didn't want to have to answer her. But the decision was made, and poor Tom was put down. Celeste and I cried all the way home, and I cried for weeks. I still cry when I think about him.

And then Zacc, who I blogged about yesterday, came to us. He didn't replace Tom, but he's part of the family now. I like to picture Tom and Sallie romping around Heaven together, much as they did the back yard, and that the angels love them as much as I did.

As usual, have a great day, and God bless you and yours.

Zacc

Today my mug is white with three angels flying across the side. The angels have "quilted" wings and gowns, giving them a distinctive country look. Woven around the angels are the words, "Grandmas are Angels on Earth". This mug was a Christmas gift from my beautiful granddaughter Celeste a few years ago. I love that girl.

Today's tea is "Precious Dew Pearl", a green tea from The Tao of Tea. This is the most expensive tea I ever bought. Three ounces cost $22. And I can't say I like it all that much. I usually mix it with another tea, to make it more palatable, but today I decided to tough it out and drink it plain. I must be getting used to it, because I don't think it's awful.

I don't normally pay more than $5 or $6 for a box or can of tea—there are too many good teas out there for a nominal cost. But occasionally we go to Jungle Jim's here in Cincinnati, and they carry more teas than I can count in one trip. Each time we go I buy one new tea ("Yeah," Bill says, "we need more tea, don't we?"), and I really felt indulgent that day, and the name was so appealing. Well, names aren't everything, and this tea, as of now, is just tolerable.

Today's quote is from the fictional Sir Percy, from the novel The Scarlet Pimpernel: "This little revolution of yours is monstrous intolerable." I've been saying [kinda] the same thing to my Representative and Senators.

I was going to blog about Tom, my last cat, but Zacc, our current cat, has insinuated himself into my consciousness, so he's in the spotlight today.

Zacc (or Zacc-a-lac, or Zacc-Zacc-bo-back, or Zacc-a-roni) came to us after we lost Tom. I was sad, crying a lot, and friend I will just call Sweet Pea called and said, "My boss found a kitten, and she can't keep it—allergies—and since you just lost Tom, I wondered if you could take him."

"He's a stray?"

"Yes."

Bill was laid off, and we had just spent all our extra income on poor Tom, when he became so ill. "I can't take him. I can't afford to get his shots and any other meds, much less get him neutered." We hung up and I started crying again, over Tom, over money, over poor, pitiful me…

A night or so later, the phone rang again. It was Gail, er, Sweet Pea. "The woman who found the cat says she will take him to the vet, get him neutered and fixed up, if you'll agree to take him."

What? "She would do that for a cat she's giving away?"

"Yes."

"I'll take him."

A few days later I met Sweet Pea and she gave me the kitten (actually about three months old, close to being a cat), cat food, and a bag of litter*.

We had to figure out what to name him. It was just a couple of weeks before Christmas, so we thought about Noel, Chris, Angel, the usual. But Sweet Pea called to see how we were getting along, and she said, "You know, he was found in a tree. It seems to me that would be a good clue to what to name him."

In the Bible, there's the story of a tax collector named Zacchaeus, who wants to see Jesus when He passes by. But Zacchaeus is short ("wee", in the song), so he climbs up a sycamore tree to get a get view of Him.

Zacchaeus it was. Zacc for short.

We already had Sally Mae, our dog, and she had been raised with a cat, so she had no problem with this new addition to the family, but it took Zacc about a month before he finally decided Sally didn't see him as a walking appetizer. And a couple of weeks later they actually started interacting.

At first when Sally passed, Zacc acted like he didn't even notice. But over the past weeks he has been showing signs of depression. He isn't as active; he occasionally goes into a room and just stands in the middle and looks around. It's almost like he's either looking for her, or remembering her… Sometimes I'll be crying over her, and he'll plop down near me, watching me, just blinking. I often wonder what's going on in his little cat head.

But he's also gotten more aggressive recently, and at first I thought it was cabin fever. We have a fenced back yard, so he and Sally came and went as they pleased, as long as Bill or I was willing to play doorman. But sometimes I wonder if it isn't something more. I think he might be lonely. After all, Bill and I only have two paws each and we don't enjoy playing in the toilet. Boring.

Anyhow, he went through that "juvenile delinquent" period a while back, but then he settled down and started behaving better. But in the past week or so he's gotten back into the stalking, biting, scratching thing. We spend a lot of time filling the water bottle we use on him when he gets out of control.

And yet, in the evenings he's become more affectionate. It's like he needs the comfort. I don't know how much he knows or understands, but I think if he could just let go and cry, like I do, he might feel better. I try to tell him that, but he just won't listen. Cats.

Tea's gone, and I'm determined to make soap today. I love making soap. I'll blog about that some time. Maybe next week. But for now, the sun is shining and it's a beautiful day, so go do something. And God bless you.

*That Sweet Pea is so sweet. While Bill was out of work, she would often buy cat food and litter for us. I have so many wonderful friends. How blessed am I?

Nikki

I didn't sleep well again last night. I was wide awake until 3:00 a.m., then awoke at 6:30, which means I'll be dragging probably most of the day. Oh well. I've settled in with a gray mug with a Cape Cod look. On the outside are a couple of rustic houses, and sailboats moored to a dock, with sea gulls circling overhead. Today's tea is Morning Thunder, by Celestial Seasonings. It's a black tea with roasted mate. It's hot, strong, and delicious.

I like the Celestial Seasonings boxes—artwork on them is beautiful. The Morning Thunder box features a snorting American buffalo standing on a grassy plain. There are more buffalo off in the distance. If I didn't like their tea so much, I'd have to buy some anyway just to have the boxes.

Today's quote: "Few men have virtue to withstand the highest bidder." – George Washington.

Nikki was the love of my life. He was a Yorkshire terrier that thought he was a Doberman pinscher. He weighed seven pounds soaking wet, but his heart was so large it had to take up his whole rib cage. I fell in love with him the first time I saw him. He was my father's dog.

I went to visit my parents one day, and the three of us were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee when Dad suddenly stood up and went into the back bedroom. He came out, holding something behind his back. Then he set this tiny black ball of fur on the floor. It immediately started chewing on my shoe.

"This is Nikki," Dad said. "His full name is Nicodemus." I think that was the last time anyone used that big name to refer to that little dog. When I tried to pull my shoe out of his mouth he started growling, the cutest little "I have no idea how tiny I am" growl you will ever hear.

Later we went outside, and Dad and I were talking when I realized I could hear a tiny little "baroo" somewhere behind us. Nikki was sitting, looking off into the yard, and barking. "Baroo!"

I looked over and saw a plastic grocery bag. The wind was gentle that day, but it would fill the bag and give it a tumble. Then the bag would come to rest for a few seconds before the cycle repeated.

I decided to go pick up the bag and put it in the trash. As I got to Nikki, he looked up at me and gave an enthusiastic, "Yip!" Then he ran ahead a few yards, stopped, sat down, and looked over his shoulder at me. "Yip!" He repeated this behavior a couple of times, and I finally realized he saw me as "reinforcements".

Finally we got to the bag and he pounced on it and ferociously subdued it, for which I praised him enthusiastically. It was obvious from his behavior he considered himself the "big game hunter". I was smitten. How could a woman not love such a brave, heroic dog?

It wasn't long after that that my father's health began to fail, and the burden of a puppy that chewed and barked and had high energy was more than he could handle. He decided to sell the dog.

"I'll buy him," I said, expecting Dad to give him to me instead. And Dad, being Dad, of course did give the dog to me.

I stopped after work that day and took Nikki, his bed, his dishes, his food, and drove home. For days he was the saddest little dog. He just laid on his little bed, depressed, only getting up occasionally to eat, drink, or go outside. His eyes were so sad.

His coat started to look shaggy; he needed to be groomed. Dad offered to pick him up and take him to the groomer he had used. I agreed. So while I was at work, Dad got Nikki, took him for his grooming, then went back to his house. I stopped there after work and picked up the now well-coiffed Yorkie.

When we got home, I took him inside and set him down by the door. That dog, that seven-pound ball of black fur, looked up at me, looked me straight in the eye, hiked his rear leg, and peed on my carpet.

I looked at him, and realized that, from his perspective, I had kidnapped him from his home, twice. And he was mad, and he wanted me to know it.

I stared back, and probably for the only time in his life, he blinked first. Finally I bent down and picked him up and loved him. I could only imagine how unfair it must have seemed to him—he had no idea of the verbal exchanges between Dad and me. To him, I was just a large thief.

At first he held himself rigid, but when it sunk in that I wasn't going to hurt him, he relaxed a bit and licked my face, and I think finally he started to like me a little.

It was just a few days later that my younger daughter was diagnosed with mononucleosis. Half her soccer team was down with it. A couple of days after that I got the same diagnosis.

Amber, at age eight, was back to school in three weeks, but I was out three months. Poor Nikki was still pining for Dad, and I couldn't really play with him. Then one day, as I sat on the couch, I took an old dish towel Bill had left for me with my morning coffee and waved it in front of Nikki's face. He looked up at me, and then took a corner of the towel in his mouth and gave it little tug. I pulled back, and he pulled, and I pulled. Thus our daily ritual started.

Sometimes I would let him win, and he was so smug. He would chew on the towel, just out of my reach, to show me he was in control. But eventually he would bring it back and we'd play tug again. He finally started to settle in.

When I went back to work, it was difficult for both of us to be parted. He really loved me by that time, and he was my dog. All mine. He liked Bill and the girls well enough, but he was MY dog. I have no doubt that little Yorkie would have died protecting me, without ever giving a thought to himself.

In September, 2001, Nikki was fifteen years old. He was blind and deaf, and his kidneys were starting to fail. I was constantly cleaning up after him, but it was okay. After all—I loved him. But when he could no longer control his bowels, it became more of a health concern. I put it off as long as I could, but finally I called and made an appointment with a mobile vet unit.

The appointment was for Wednesday, September 12, and of course there was the attack on the World Trade Center in New York on the eleventh. I called my sister-in-law Cindy, who had recently gone through this with her dog, and told her what was happening. God love her, she simply said, "I'm on my way."

The vet unit arrived first, and it was one of the most painful experiences of my life. I can't describe what it felt like to have that little dog put down.

When Cindy arrived, she said, "Let's get out of here. We'll get lunch."

She took me to Panera Bread, a place we both loved, and I ordered a sandwich, and I can't say what kind. But when I tried to eat it, the bread tasted like cardboard, and the meat… The meat made me gag.

Bill and I had made reservations at a condo in Destin, Florida, for the following week. I cried the entire week. I cried for the people in the World Trade Center, and the ones on the hijacked planes. I cried for their families. I cried for the country. And I cried for Nikki, who was gone, and for me, because I missed him so much.

I couldn't eat meat of any kind for two months after the trip to Panera Bread. It sounds crazy, but it was like the World Trade Center travesty and losing Nikki got all jumbled in me emotionally, and it manifested itself in revulsion to meat. But Thanksgiving was coming up, and it was my turn to cook the turkey.

I didn't really know how to tell the family that I couldn't make the turkey, because I didn't think I could articulate my feelings, or that they would understand. I decided to tough it out, and I expected it was going to be an ordeal, but to my surprise it wasn't a problem at all. I roasted the bird, and then I ate turkey along with everyone else. The curse had lifted.

When September eleven comes around this year, it will be the tenth anniversary of the World Trade Center. I expect it will be a difficult time for many Americans. The next day will mark ten years since I lost Nikki. And I can only say, I still miss him.

But just as I know Sally Mae is following St. Peter from cloud to cloud, I'm certain Nikki is standing sentry in front of the pearly gates, barooing to warn any evil entities, "You will not pass. Not on my watch." He was that kind of dog.

I hope you have a peaceful and restful day. God bless you.

Sallie Mae

I'm drinking Constant Comment tea today. It's nothing exotic, but I love the spicy, citrus taste. Drinking Constant Comment is like eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes and gravy—pure comfort. My mug is adorned with Greek columns and the quote, "I can do all things through Christ, which strengthens me." (Philippians 4:13).

As luck would have it, as I tried to read the quote to make sure I typed it correctly I managed to spill some into the key board. Thank goodness I don't use sweetener, else it could have been a "sticky" situation (excuse the bad pun). So I just held the keyboard over the trash can and poured out the tea.

I did this same thing at work a number of years ago, but with a whole mug of coffee (also, thankfully, unsweetened). I called the tech who took care of our equipment and practically cried at him. He laughed and said, "Do you think you're the first one who did that? Just hold it over the trash and drain it. It will be fine when it dries." He was right.

I'm going to start a new thing today: a daily quote. Today's quote is from W. Somerset Maugham: "Any nation that thinks more of its ease and comfort than its freedom will soon lose its freedom; and the ironical thing about it is that it will lose its ease and comfort too." We might be close.

This week I'm blogging about pets. Last month I lost a dear friend, Sallie Mae. I cry every day. She was such company, and such fun. Some of the things I miss about her:

The way she stretched. She would spread out her toes as she pushed against the floor, rump in the air, then give her tail a wag as she looked at me with her, "Did you say something?" look.

I miss the way she followed me from room to room. If I went to the bedroom, she would lay down just outside the door, guarding me. If I moved to another room, she did the same thing. I was cleaning and doing laundry one day, and I moved from room to room putting away clothes and moving mislaid things to their proper places. That poor dog tried to keep up with me, even though I explained she didn't have to—she could just find a comfortable place and take a nap. But she seemed to feel she had to follow me. Finally, after an hour or so, she finally gave up in frustration and plopped down right in the middle of the hall, which forced me to then walk around her as I finished my work. As she was not a small dog (as Bill once said, "when Sally lays around the house, she lays around the house"), I really got my exercise that day.

Sally dreamed when she slept. And while she dreamed she usually barked. Not loud. But I would be sitting in some room, with Sally Mae lying in the doorway, and when she got into deep sleep I would hear her. It would start with a soft "Woof." Then a few seconds later, "Woof! Woof!" And a few seconds after that, "Woof, woof, woof! Woof, woof, woof, woof!" The woofs would get louder until she finally woke herself up. Then she would look around as if trying to figure who, or what, dared disturb her slumber.

One thing I didn't like was that she shed A LOT. We could put her outside and vacuum, but as soon as she came back in the cloud of hair that always surrounded her came in, too, and settled into all the corners that had just been vacuumed. Her hair actually came out in huge clumps, and when I took her outside, armed with a brush, a comb, and a bag, I could fill the bag in just a few minutes. And still she would have her hair cloud.

I even miss her hair.

She started going downhill several weeks before she died. I noticed she wasn't herself and we took her to the vet. She was diagnosed with severe anemia, but the vet had no idea why. Over the next weeks I fried lots of hamburgers in a cast iron skillet and plied her with pills to try to raise her iron level, and it worked. For a few days she was her old self.

But then she started to flag again, and one Friday morning I got up and she followed me to the bathroom, as always, but suddenly her rear feet just dropped out from under her and she collapsed. She started panting really hard, and I yelled for Bill. We bundled her into the car, not dreaming of what was coming. We had to drop her off, as the vet was in surgery, but the attendant assured us she would be looking at Sally at her first opportunity.

I got the call later that she was gone. The vet said she had had an aneurism. She suspected Sally had a tumor or growth in her chest that was causing the anemia, and that it had finally grown so large that it had ripped open a vein. I couldn't believe it. "Sally Mae is gone." The words hurt so much it's hard to describe.

I have one regret (there are always regrets). The bed she slept on was lumpy. I bought foam and fleece to make her a new bed, but I put it off. I felt so bad that I hadn't gone ahead and just made the darn bed. But then I think, Sally was happy. She was well-fed. Got regular checkups and saw the vet when she was sick. She got the usual meds, fresh food and water daily, and the peanut butter biscuits she loved several times each day. She got to come and go as she pleased, and was well-loved. It was a dog's life.

Now I'm left with the foam and fleece, but no dog. I started to give it away, but in the back of my mind there's that thought, "Maybe we'll get another dog." I hated to type it, because it seems disloyal, like I'd be replacing her, but I know there's no dog that could ever replace her—it would have to make its own place in my heart.

A person who doesn't have and love pets would not understand this post. A person who has and loves pets will understand perfectly. Sally Mae wasn't just a dog--she was a true friend. A month later, I still cry for the loss of Sally Mae, but I figure she's in Heaven following St. Peter from cloud to cloud. I wonder if they have to vacuum them every day.

Have a wonderful day, and God bless you.

Tea and Praise

Right now I'm drinking a mug of Harney & Sons Queen Catherine black tea. It's not one of my favorites, but I like it well enough. The mug I'm using has my name, Judy, and its meaning, "praise", imprinted on the outside. It is one of my favorites. Later, I'll tell you why.

I started drinking tea sometime in my twenties. At that time I wasn't too fond of coffee, and tea seemed like a good caffeine alternative. Of course, in those days my only exposure to tea was Lipton and Tetley (anyone remember those "tiny little tea leaves"?). I bought the tea in bags, which was nice and neat, no mess, easy to toss. Then one day I found Red Rose tea bags. It was bad tea, but there was a cute little ceramic animal nestled inside each box. I bought it occasionally, and choked down the tea.

Then, when I was in my thirties, I found the Jewel Tea Company. The tea was still in bags, but it was a much better quality, and they had a large variety of flavors. One of the ones I like best was black cherry. Just remembering it makes me want it.

I remember the days when I would see the Jewel Tea truck turning onto our street, and I would get excited. The driver knew me, and usually had some new flavor or "commemorative tin" to offer, and I was an easy sale.

About that time I also discovered herbal tea and loose tea. The herbal tea was mostly from Celestial Seasonings (have you tried "Sleepy Time"?—when I'm feeling poorly, it perks me up just smelling it). The loose tea was more adventurous. And of course I had to buy tea balls to accommodate the loose leaves. Using a tea ball is more "green", but messier. If I'm not careful, I can sling the tea leaves beyond the compost container, as they often tend to cling to the ball. Letting the leaves dry out in the ball makes disposal neater, but to accomplish this I had to buy multiple tea balls, as I often drink several cups daily.

Of course there are many types of tea: black, green, white, red (rooibos, pronounced "roy-boss", actually an herb). And there are categories of tea within the types: Darjeeling, oolong, pekoe, Lapsang Souchong, etc. I love (almost) all of them.

Now, about the mug. When I was growing up, there were very few girls name Judy. It seemed such an old-fashioned name. And I didn't know anyone who named their baby Judy. It seemed the name was doomed to pass into obscurity. Then a friend who knew I collected mugs gave me this one. Judy means "praise". Suddenly I felt as though my name wasn't so mundane, so old-fashioned. I remembered the hymn, "Praise the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within me. Praise His holy name." Yeah… I praise Him.

A couple of years ago I was in a store and I heard someone say, "Judy!" I turned around, because I am always the only Judy. I started to say, "What?", but I saw a woman running after a little girl who looked to be about eighteen months old.

"Judy come back here!" she called. The woman finally caught up the little girl, scooped her up in her arms, and kissed her.

I wanted to go over and hug and kiss them both, but the world being what it is, I refrained. But I did say a little prayer of praise for them both.

Well, my tea is gone, so I need to finish today's blog. Have a great day, however much is left of it. And may God bless you.

Memories

My husband Bill still doesn't like to talk about it. It's been forty-one years, but I know it still seems fresh in his mind. His brother Jerry was twenty-two years old on February 16, 1970, the day he was murdered. Bill was eighteen.

Jerry was parking his car outside the building where he worked when a man apparently got into his car and forced him to drive to Mt. Adams, where he shot Jerry three times. One bullet hit his wrist, breaking his watch, which stopped at 7:21 a.m. He wasn't found until 8:10 a.m.

The man who murdered him, Otis Fairbanks, had shot another man, Leroy Vincent Johnson, seven hours earlier, and robbed him of two dollars. Johnson, also twenty-two, survived. Otis Fairbanks was nineteen.

It would be learned in the following weeks that Otis Fairbanks had also killed a UC co-ed, Carol Sander, on January 29 of the previous year. Sander Hall, a UC dormitory built in 1971 and imploded in 1991, was named and dedicated to Carol Sander.

At the time of his death, Jerry was married with a small daughter, and his wife was pregnant with their son. In a matter of seconds, a wife became a widow, a daughter lost her father, an unborn child would come into the world without ever seeing his father's face, two sisters and a brother were left with memories, and a mother and father lost the child they had loved and nurtured into adulthood. One young man dead, and eight family member's lives shattered, in one family. I don't know the impact on Carol Sander's family, but I'm certain it was equally devastating. Sad to say, probably Otis Fairbanks had family members whose lives were shattered, too.

As can be expected, the events of that day were imprinted on Bill's heart and mind, and he has had an antipathy for guns ever since. So when I say he reluctantly accompanied me to Target World (TW) a few days hence, I guess it is a testimony to how much he indulges me.

I've wanted to learn to shoot a gun for a long time. My father always had guns, and if he were still alive he would have taught me. But he went home in 1987, and there are many, many more things besides shooting a gun I could learn from him, if he were still with us. But he gave me a Smith and Wesson .32 revolver before he died, and I decided to, finally, learn to shoot it.

Imagine my surprise when the guy at TW told me they make very little ammo for that gun these days, and to purchase it, if I can find it, I would have to pay $40 for 50 bullets, er, cartridges. WHAT? He went on to say I can get .38 or 9mm cartridges (the most common) for $16-$18 for 50. WHAT? Suffice it to say I had to rethink the entire "learn to shoot a gun" thing. I know Bill breathed a heavy sigh of relief. But after a brief discussion I asked him to sign us up for beginner lessons. And he even did that with good grace. What a man.

Getting back to the original topic, I think it was a great thing that a dormitory was dedicated to Carol Sander. She should not be forgotten. There were no halls built for Jerry, but then, as long as there are family members to remember, I guess a hall isn't necessary. Forty-one years later, Jerry's brother and sisters haven't forgotten him. I still remember my father, and I miss him, twenty-four years later. Love isn't enhanced by a building dedication, and it doesn't diminish for lack of one. Death robs us, but memories comfort us.

God bless you. Have a great day.