Piawacket - A Love Story

I had a cat.  Well, now that's not quite correct.  A member of the feline persuasion agreed to share domicile with me.  And she was not just a cat.  She was Siamese.  AND she was cross-eyed part of the time.  Now the cross-eyed business was a good thing because you see this cat was pixilated.  When she was in the throes of this condition she was cross-eyed so we all had good enough warning to beware around her.  I named her Piawacket after the cat in Bell, Book and Candle.  Piawacket had a son, Chan Chan.  My son was 3 or so when Chan was born and he was attempting to name him Charlie Chan but it just kept coming out Chan Chan and so that is what it became.  Piawacket was an adept huntress and her preferred prey was lizards.  And she caught them too!  Then they would shed their tail and run off to safety and Piawacket would return to her pillow the supreme victor.  She caught her prey and did not have to (yechhhh) actually devour it.  She much preferred her Fancy Feast and roasted chicken.  Chan Chan liked to hunt birds.  Our yard always had many birds, both before and after Chan's arrival.  Piawacket ghosted through the ferns on silken paws.  Chan Chan sneaked across the tree branch BOOM BOOM BA BOOM BAMBA BOOM!  He just didn't have his mother's light touch with the paw.  Yes, we had plenty of birds in our yard.  It wasn't her fault that Chan was such a poor hunter, Piawacket tried and tried to teach him.  Somehow the birds always knew the days she was training him and they flew up much earlier than when Chan hunted alone.  Piawacket was a certain threat.  Witness all the lizard tails cluttering the yard.

Piawacket was not a cuddler in the traditional sense.  While you sat on the sofa, she would pace back and forth presenting various portions of herself to be petted and stroked.  She would allow herself to be picked up and held for short periods.  But it was most advisable to allow her to go free when she indicated that she was ready.  She didn't tend to signal politely more than once or twice.  Did I mention she was meticulous about herself?  Those silken paws sheathed claws honed to razor sharpness.  As a result, when Piawacket wished to be released to go on her way, 2 leggers tended to comply with alacrity.

Large parts of each day were taken in exploration.  She would go to the front door and demand release.  There was a doggie door and the gate in the fence present no barrier to her.  But when she wanted out the front door, she wanted out the front door and she did not want to go around Robin Hood's barn to get there.  And so she would be let out the front door and we would not see her for a few hours.  She had a route she followed.  She would walk across the street and hop up on the fence between 2 houses and continue on south into the fruit trees.  Beyond that I could not see her and travels could only be imagined.

Certain days she was cross-eyed.  Always when a Santa Ana wind was blowing.  And certain days when she out in the early morning dew she would return that way.  It could only be one thing.  She was talking to the pixies.  It accounted for her super stealth powers.  Once overtaken by pixilation, she would walk across the living room and without stopping raise straight up about 18 inches, return straight down and keep walking as though nothing had happened.  We always knew to check here eyes on those days.  She stayed close to home on pixilated days forsaking her explorations.  Perhaps it was hard to see to cross the street or perhaps her mind was cluttered with her "other" thoughts.  The things she discussed with the pixies.  This was always an interesting subject for me to ponder.

I did not know for years that Piawacket's explorations were really a round of home visits.  (She had 5 older ladies she visited, I later discovered.)  One fall when we had a lot of Santa Ana winds and Piawacket had been pixilated and staying home a lot, a nice lady came to my door.  She was inquiring about the health of my Siamese cat.  She was one of the ladies Piawacket visited.  I asked her in for a cup of coffee and we had a very informative talk for both of us.  Piawacket seemed glad to see her and presented herself for stroll by petting.  It turned out that Piawacket came by her house several time a week to be petted, show off her lizard hunting capabilities and be fed treats.  Who could ever guess that this was going with 4 other ladies as well?  She was always slim and sleek and lithe.  But her visits gave each of them something to look forward to.  They were all widowed and lived alone.  As exasperating as it might be, you just can't be angry with a cat for wandering off when you know where she's going.  But on pixilated days she stayed home.  She and the pixies had lots to share.  And much as I may have wanted to be, 2 leggers are just not on that wave length.

Piawacket lived to be 21 years old and did not die of natural causes at that.  A new neighbor across the street hit her with his truck.

I have not had a cat since.  Piawacket was just irreplaceable.

Our Feathers and other pithy translations.

My dearest friend, a thoughtful and caring man, leaves me a note on Google talk before he leaves for church in Brownsville, Texas, each Sunday morning.  I arise in Orange County, CA, a short time thereafter, get my coffee and go to the computer to read my morning greeting.  Oh I should probably mention the notes are almost always in Croatian which I do not speak or read.  I use Google Translator.  This is the best translator I have found on the internet but what with the dynamic shifts of our languages, especially with the internet, translation is a huge challenge.  And so there are bound to little slip-ups.  As in one of my lovely Sunday morning messages which the Translator told me  said:

 "Embrace the finches!  Happy mischief!  I'll see you after church."

Did I mention that the reason he leaves a bit early is because he is the pastor?  Now tell me if you could have kept from spraying just a little bit of coffee reading that one.

The thing is you just have to be kind of careful when you are using a translator and understand that what it is telling you may not be exactly what was said by the sender....quite.  I have found that the best policy is just to let people know first thing that you are using a translator.  That way if it comes out stupid, it isn't your fault.  And sometimes even if it is you saying the occasional really stupid and inane remark, you can blame the translator anyway.

Here is a translation of a comment left on one of my friend's YouTube videos:

"Hello dear friend, to sorrows were not enough to doubt lacking, Crazy, have fun, przymrz.  Eye, and smile broadly. Sieze every good moment to remember later miles.  laugh out loud, do not shred the head, then success is ready.  I wish wonderful day."

While causing a good bit of head shaking (no shredding mind you), you really can't help but smile at that.  Though I doubt that it expresses quite the sentiments intended.  The thing is, the internet has opened the possibilities for us to talk to people from all over the world in many different languages and then given us the tools (translators) to make it work.  AND the thing is, we have to learn to think to check up on those translators and not blindly accept every word as final.  Our sense of humor can make this whole thing a delight and a  journey of enlightenment and surprise.  I encourage others to get out into the international waters after getting to know their translator.    One thing the contributor above might have wanted to do was to check Google Translators suggestions.  This translator often gives you suggestions for other ways to say something in your translation that might be better.  Every language has ways of saying things that are more familiar to its users than the absolutely proper way.  It's a useful tool and helpful.  And if I joke about it please notice I am still using it.  So let's say we share the humor among friends.  As did my friend, unwittingly, when he reminded me not to forget to say my "Oče naš, koji jesi na nebesima".  And the translator advised me not to forget my "Our Feathers, who are in heaven".  Humor.  The people of the world talking to each other and humor.  Could it get any better than that?

Gunder's Goose

Years ago, our family had summer places in on the east slope of the Bighorn Mountains in Wyoming.  My Uncle Joe, my Uncle Arch and my Mom all had places.  Gunder and Carol lived across the road from our place and were always good neighbors and good friends.  They had a lovely place with a little man made lake and a big two story log "cabin".   And Gunder had a flock of geese.  A small flock but geese just the same.  They looked really good paddling around the lake.  One time Gunder and Carol were going away for a week and asked my Mom if we could look out for the geese.  She, of course, said sure.  So the first morning after they left, Mother and I went over to feed the geese.  I had no great experience with geese other than they were pretty but I had kept and ridden horses since I was very young and always had cats and dogs.  I was an animal lover from the word "go".  And so I really thought nothing of it when the big male goose started toward me.  I was going to reach and pet his sleek head and neck (or so I thought).  Then I realized that was not a spark of admiration in his eye.  It was something more of a glint.  Possibly even an evil glint.  I asked my Mother if she knew what he was doing.  She looked up and said, "Well, I never.  I'd heard they do this but I never saw it before."

"SAW WHAT?!", was my instantaneous reply.  "You'd better get behind that tree," she said and moved a bit in front of the tree.  That goose now had a look of hatred gleaming from his eyes aimed straight at me and he was picking up speed.  I got behind the trees as fast as could, no more questions asked.  My Mother moved in front of the goose's path and he stopped.  Apparently the hatred he showed for me did not extend to family members.  It was personal.  Mother finished passing out the goose food and I waited behind the tree with the big goose keeping a close eye on me.  On the trip home I walked directly in front with Mom bringing up the rear so the goose couldn't get a parting shot at me.

The next day it was pretty much the same routine.  That big goose saw me and headed for me.  I got behind the tree.  Mom passed out the food while I waited, hiding, sort of.  So, why you ask didn't I just stay away?  HA and leave my Mother to the mercy of that big monster??!!  No way.  I'm not called a hard headed Swede for nothing.  I went back every day and irritated that darned goose with my presence.  We tried to wait until we saw them out on the lake so I could help Mom get the feed and stuff out before he spotted me.  But as soon as he spied me, he came in on the double.  The odd thing was that as much as that goose hated me, he would not cross the road to get me.  I was safe on our place even with the evil thing staring at me and wishing I would just cross the road.  He stayed at his own place.  I don't think Mother ever knew the mean faces I made at him when I was out in the yard.  The old termagant (the goose, that is, not my Mother).

That was a LONG week.  And I was just ever so glad to see Gunder and Carol arrive home.  They were kind of pleased that I missed them so much.  Later Mom explained to them about the goose.  I hope they weren't very disappointed.  I don't trust geese much to this day though.  I never learned of that goose's fate.  I know I had day dreams of a platter and roasted potatoes on the side.  But, knowing Gunder, it probably has a proper tombstone somewhere on the east slope of the Bighorn Mountains.

There Goes The Judge

My grandfather, A.J., was the judge in our little county seat in Iowa.  He had been an attorney who handled everything as attorneys must in rural areas.  But he did have a specialty in accretion and evulsion law which was still being developed as our county bordered on the Missouri river.  And he did have a rather good reputation in the Midwest for that specialty.  The great dams that came along later made most of that area of law irrelevant.  But in my grandfather's time it was a big deal.  My grandfather was also a Methodist and a teetotaller.  Now the law of our great land has always had a little problem with private stills.  Martinis come and go but White Lightning always seems to have it's problems and it's following.

My grandfather also followed the stills, except that he had an ax in the trunk of his big Buick Roadster.  A bootleggers blood would run cold at the sight of that big car going down his road  And Grandfather did personally go out and bust up a good many stills.  He always took the sheriff along with him to observe the proprieties.  The problem was that Grandfather didn't really trust the sheriff.  He was pretty sure that the sheriff was just a bit too friendly with some of the bootleggers.  On the occasions when A.J. had told the sheriff ahead of time when and where they would be going, they had arrived to find an empty clearing just once or twice too often. So Grandfather started showing up at the sheriff's house just a bit late for supper and saying, "Let's go!"  The sheriff had little choice but to grab his hat and go with the judge.  And down the road they would go in that big Buick.  And another still would be in pieces by dark.

So the big thing was, if you were a bootlegger in our county you tried to figure out if Effie was fixing supper early.  And if she was, you might give some real thought to moving your still.  It might not survive the evening.

Effie's Quilts

My Grandmother had a huge bedroom in the old house.  It was part bedroom part work area.  And it seems now to me that there was almost always a quilt frame up there.  Her quilt frame held about a half of a double bed quilt.  And something was always going on there. Her name was Effie.  No bit of fancy or bright or unusual material escaped Effie's stash box.  Effie made quilts.  She called them "crazy quilts" but each was a witty, whimsical piece of original art.  My father and grandfather's old neckties were a favorite material of hers.  I remember in particular a little black felt Scottie dog on the satiny background of a red necktie that I had always loved to see my father wearing.  His tail was up and you could tell it was just about to wag and his little button eye had a glint to it.


As a young woman Effie had gone to "normal" school.  That's what they used to call teacher's colleges.  And, yes, there were institutions of higher learning that just taught how to be a teacher.  They were nearly all women's colleges.  She was a teacher and a very good one.  Her best friend had been Katie, the wife of a local attorney.  Katie had many children (eventually 10) and all had been Effie's students at one point or another.  All except the last one.  And baby Katie and her mother died within a few months of each other.  Katie's husband Alfred was just decimated.  And Effie mourned for her dear friend.    Effie helped A.L. (as he  was known) with the children as much as she could.


A.L. and Effie were married about a year and half after Katie's death.  If they weren't head over heels in love with each other then love surely grew between them because by the time I came along they were certainly devoted to one another.  My mother, Harriett, is their only child together.  Elizabeth is the daughter of Effie's sister who died when Elizabeth was just a baby.  And then Elizabeth was theirs.  She just came by a little different route to get to be their darling daughter.  So Effie came home from her wedding to a household with 6 children still at home.  If she wasn't accomplished at household skills then, she got that way pretty fast.  But she was teacher and a good one.  And she could manage children.  Two essential points for her situation.


I asked her once why on earth she would marry a man with that many children?  She looked at me and said, quite honestly I believe, "I was either truly in love or just plain crazy, don't know which."


We have already talked about her stationery.  And how she wrote to everyone and kept up with them.  She also volunteered at church and was in the garden club and the ladies aide society.  And she had all those children to raise.  And this woman had a husband who by that time was the district judge.  And whatever social obligations attended with that were taken care of in good order too.  He was a very happy husband.  How she did all that I don't know.  But I do know that I don't complain about having too little time without thinking of her.  There was always time to talk to a child, I know that.  My Uncles and Aunts have told me that.  And she made quilts too!  Wonderful magical creations.  One for each of her children (she had no "steps" in her mind, they were hers).  


I learned how to embroider and do hand stitching on one of those quilts.  Don't know which one.  But there was plenty of practice to be had.  I imagine quite a few other little girls in our family did as well.  "Aunt Effie" (and she was everybody's Aunt Effie) never turned down a little girl's willing hands, trained or not.  She was always happy to show another one how thread a needle and hold it and how to stitch.  


My Aunt Ruth, Uncle Arch's wife gave me hers after I was all grown up.  She found out that I never got one.  Effie ran out of time finally.  And I treasure that quilt and I love my Aunt Ruth for her good heart and treasure her memory right along with my Grandmother Effie's.  Just a memory, but a very happy one.


Until next time, happy searching!

Learning in Lousiana

For a couple of young people from California, Louisiana can be an excursion into the world of insects and other leggedy pests that is a true odyssey.  The first night we spent in our new home a mouse ran up my arm bringing me awake with a shriek.  My husband, Bob, swore he didn't know I could levitate that high in a horizontal position.  And when we got our puppies, I had never removed so many ticks from a little wiggling body in my life.  My husband began collecting ticks as well outdoors with the puppies.  They have mosquitoes in Louisiana too, in California we call them small aircraft and limit them to airports.   Also, at that time (this was ahem years ago, you know), there was a very nice man known as the Standard man.  He came to your house every 2 weeks and he had every product you might ever need to make life possible.  And one thing he had was a bug spray that really got rid of bugs.  So, silverfish and flies and mosquitoes and 17 other brands of flying, creeping and scuttling things left my house.  Except the ticks.  They were outside and I couldn't command them.  So I just got a really good touch with the cotton ball saturated with isopropyl alcohol.  You hold the cotton ball over the tick just a second or two and the tick thinks it's being smothered and backs out.  You don't want to kill the tick with it's head inside your skin because you can get really sick that way.  Who wants a dead tick head stuck in their skin anyway?


And so Bob and the puppies would go out for walks and then line up for tick inspection upon their return.  And we all rocked along pretty well.  Louisiana truly is one of the most beautiful places on earth once you deal with the 4, 6, 8 or more legged critters.  And thanks to that spray the Standard man brought, my opinion of the place was rising every day as I was finally able to sleep at night.


One day I went shopping leaving my husband in charge of the puppies.  I figured they would go for a walk and a romp and I would check them for ticks when I got back.  When I arrived home, Bob was, in fact, laying on the sofa contemplating his navel which was filled with clear liquid.  Now you just have to ask what that is all about, it's not something to you see when you walk in the door even in the strangest of households.  Holding very still he began to explain to me that he and the puppies had indeed gone for a walk and a romp.  He got back before I was home and he very thoughtfully began the tick check to save me the trouble.  He had found a tick in his belly button.  Knowing that I would apply a cotton ball saturated with rubbing alcohol, he figured if some is good, more must be better so he just laid down on the sofa and filled it up to the rim.  I grabbed some cotton balls quickly and absorbed all the alcohol from the area but, alas, it was too late.  The tick had drowned.  And was still stuck in his skin.  So the next move, much to my poor husband's embarrassment was the emergency room.  After they shooed me out of the little curtained space I did hear recurring giggles, but they must have at least given Bob enough local anesthetic because he didn't howl while they extracted the tick.  After the ER nurse had brought the paperwork over to the station, the desk nurse said, "Thank you, honey, they haven't had that good a  laugh in months!  Please bring him here the next time he does something."


The lesson to be learned here I think is that with ticks as with many other things in life there is too much of a good thing.


Until next time, Happy Searching!

Effie's Stationery

Effie loved flower arranging.  She was quite good at it too.  In fact, she was artistically talented and very inventive.  One day as she was in the back yard "visiting" with her flowers she spotted a small feather in the flower bed.  She picked it up and, looking at it, decided it looked like a flower.  She put it in her apron pocket where it stayed until later in the day.  With Alfred gone, Harriett and her husband, Deke,  had moved into the big old home place with her.  It was too big for her to keep by herself.  Then those horrible days when Deke became ill.  And then too quickly he was gone. Then it was just her and her girls. But she once again had a family to care for.  A very small family but she was glad to have her girls there.


Christie came home from school later that afternoon.   After Christie had her snack, they both went to the big work room for homework time.  A quilting frame was set up in the middle of the room and Alfred's old partners desk sat down at the end.  Christie put her homework down on her side of the desk and Effie got some stationery out of the drawer along with her old fashioned quill type pen and a bottle of ink.  It was then she remembered the feather.  Quickly she made a few light strokes in the upper left hand corner of the page and glued the feather at the top of one of them.  And sure enough.  It looked like a fluffy little flower, quite a pretty one too.  And the first letter was written on Effie's stationery.


That stationery would be treasured and coveted by most of the family in years to come.  But for that day, it was just something a little different to do with a piece of paper.


Her home had a huge back yard.  At the very back was a fenced in chicken yard and Effie kept chickens.  Each spring the new chicks would come (much to Christie's delight) and were kept in an incubator on the enclosed back porch until they were ready to move into the chicken house.   Effie kept a large vegetable garden and each fall vegetables were canned and put into the big freezer in the basement.  Kettles of the best cream of tomato soup in the world were made and canned in the big pressure canner. She had lovely flower gardens with fruit trees and grape vines and gooseberry bushes.  She fixed breakfast, lunch, and dinner for her little family because in a small town people go home for lunch.  Effie made crazy quilts.  As a former teacher she tutored her granddaughter in special subjects and projects.  And, of course, there was the church, the garden club and her canasta club, all which received her willing and unstinting efforts.  If you asked her, she would tell you that she didn't work, she stayed at home.


She bought stationery at the Rexall drug store down town.  The kept a nice line of boxed stationery.  And now she bought a couple of extra boxes and began to experiment with the feathers and light wispy pen strokes.  She began to hear back from recipients of her letters asking where she got that lovely stationery.  They wanted some.  She made a few extra sheets of stationery every time she sat down now.  Slowly, slowly a couple of extra boxes accumulated.  Over the years, if you were good, very good, if you graduated high school or college with honors and you were also very lucky, you would get a box of that stationery.  Most family members upon receiving their longed-for box of stationery would would lock it away with the other valuables with one exception.  They would use just one sheet.  That was the thank-you letter to Aunt Effie.  Well, if you were even luckier you might get to use a second sheet.  But that's a story for another day.

~~The End~~

Crandall Note:  My box of stationery is locked away with valuables in a safe.  I get it out and look at it once in awhile and I see my Grandmother sitting at that partners desk with her old fashioned pen and her jar of ink and the feathers scattered out.  I didn't get many of her letters because I lived with her.  But those who did treasure them.  Written in Spencerian script and containing a wealth of homey information, they are each one priceless. 

Until next time.....Happy Searching!