I brought home two kittens back in 1989. Littermates. Sisters. I wanted them to be company for each other. I wanted them to be best friends, to groom each other and sleep in a little heap. As it turned out, they have barely tolerated each other through the years, but at least it has given them something to do all day. They have always been extremely jealous of each other. In their kitten days, this often manifested itself as a wholesale cat fight in my bed once we all settled down for the night to sleep.
I asked one of my cat savvy friends at work what to do about the turmoil in my house, and her advice was to play with the cats vigorously every night right before we went to bed. That started a ritual of wild games each night for many years, my cats and I, charging about the house from one end to the other, in high spirits, until we all fell into bed, exhausted and ready to sleep. My friend's suggestion was a good one.
In truth, Cindy never really got into the games too much. She is much too prim and proper, and probably too smart for her own good. Bonnie, on the other hand, loved to stalk and be stalked. One of her favorite "hiding" places was between the tub and the shower curtain in the upstairs bathroom. I would walk into the bathroom and see her big grey cat butt sticking out from under the shower curtain draped on the outside of the tub. I would walk over, give her fuzzy butt a little nudge with my toe, and she would take a swipe at me. I'd give her another nudge, she'd take another swipe, and then she'd take off for another round of tag through the house.
So, one evening, when I walked into the bathroom and saw a cat butt sticking out from under the curtain, I thought nothing of walking over and giving it a nudge with my foot. Except this time, the cat came whirling out of the curtain, ran into the hall, and turned and looked at me piercingly with a gaze full of shock and indignation. "You kicked me!! I can't believe you kicked me!" her eyes said. It was Cindy, not Bonnie. I was too taken aback by the genuine hurt in her eyes to laugh.
It's a funny memory, now, but bittersweet.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Sunday, November 18, 2007
My First Ill-Advised Love Affair
I started piano when I was about 8, I believe. I did reasonably well at it and could have done much, much better if I'd really applied myself. I was good enough to accompany for the vocal music programs when I got to junior high and high school, and still I accompany for my flute students today.
What I really wanted to do, though, was play the flute in the high school band.
Band started in seventh grade where I went to school. I don't ever remember having the conversation where I was told that I absolutely couldn't be in the band, but I was well aware that my mother thought that band took up too much time, and there was something veiled about money for the flute in there, too. In those days, I didn't really express myself or push my wishes too much, so I quietly acquiesed and enrolled in vocal music instead.
One of my grandmothers felt sorry for me and brought me an accordion from her basement. I taught myself to play and she paid for lessons with Mrs. Yeck for the next few years.
Mrs. Yeck was a wonderful, kind, happy person. I worked hard for her and quickly became the best student she had ever had. She had an accordion band for her students and we traveled all over the place, playing for all sorts of events. Later, she formed a full polka band which played for dances on Saturday nights at Czech Hall. I played piano in the band, occasionally accordion, and several of my school friends were drafted to play trumpet and clarinet amd trombone. It was wonderful fun and we actually got paid $20 a night apiece, which was a princely sum in those days. And, after all of my mother's worries about high school band taking up too much time, she now had to deal with me crawling in from dances at 2 in the morning!
The dance music was fun but what I really loved was classical accordion. In those days, I thought that classical accordion was all about trying to make the accordion sound like an organ or a harpsicord; it was many years later when I finally learned that the accordion is a classical instrument in its own right. Mrs. Yeck fully supported me in this pursuit and even encouraged me to go to the University of Denver to study with Robert Davine the summer after I graduted from high school.
During my high school years, accordion was a passion. I practiced for hours and hours. I loved it more than anything else in the world. That summer in Denver was an incredible adventure; Mr. Davine was also a wonderful person and an inspirational teacher. I will cherish that summer for the rest of my life. It was an awakening on so many levels.
When I got back from Denver, I settled in at the University of Oklahoma, wishing that I could be a music major (and taking theory courses) but resigned to the fact that I would be going into the sciences. I still practiced hard, though, generally in the ladies' restroom in the basement of my dorm (which is a whole 'nother set of stories!).
And then, Mrs. Yeck died. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly. A blood clot after surgery. I was devasted. I loved her. She had totally believed in me. It's still not totally clear to me if I played accordion for myself or for Mrs. Yeck.
I went back to Denver the next summer and once again, had a wonderful time. But it was never the same. I was growing tired of the fact that no one took me seriously -- not even most other accordionists. There was no place to play and no one to play with. Little by little, that next year, I played less and less; my major, chemistry, began to take over my life instead. I was falling in love with research.
I still have my accordion. I get it out once and a while and noodle around. It's hard to believe that I was once so good, and so passionate. I have a couple of Mr. Davine's CDs. They are wonderful and through them, I understand the instrument much more than I did when I was playing.
Mr. Davine died, too, in 2001. I found out one day when I was Googling. I remember the moment of discovery quite well, because it was more than just the blow that once feels at the loss of a good friend. It was an even bigger loss -- the last link to a special, beloved part of my past. My first love, my first great passion. There were so many reasons why the relationship was doomed to fail. But I still feel the loss, and more than a little guilt every time I pass that instrument case in the den.
What I really wanted to do, though, was play the flute in the high school band.
Band started in seventh grade where I went to school. I don't ever remember having the conversation where I was told that I absolutely couldn't be in the band, but I was well aware that my mother thought that band took up too much time, and there was something veiled about money for the flute in there, too. In those days, I didn't really express myself or push my wishes too much, so I quietly acquiesed and enrolled in vocal music instead.
One of my grandmothers felt sorry for me and brought me an accordion from her basement. I taught myself to play and she paid for lessons with Mrs. Yeck for the next few years.
Mrs. Yeck was a wonderful, kind, happy person. I worked hard for her and quickly became the best student she had ever had. She had an accordion band for her students and we traveled all over the place, playing for all sorts of events. Later, she formed a full polka band which played for dances on Saturday nights at Czech Hall. I played piano in the band, occasionally accordion, and several of my school friends were drafted to play trumpet and clarinet amd trombone. It was wonderful fun and we actually got paid $20 a night apiece, which was a princely sum in those days. And, after all of my mother's worries about high school band taking up too much time, she now had to deal with me crawling in from dances at 2 in the morning!
The dance music was fun but what I really loved was classical accordion. In those days, I thought that classical accordion was all about trying to make the accordion sound like an organ or a harpsicord; it was many years later when I finally learned that the accordion is a classical instrument in its own right. Mrs. Yeck fully supported me in this pursuit and even encouraged me to go to the University of Denver to study with Robert Davine the summer after I graduted from high school.
During my high school years, accordion was a passion. I practiced for hours and hours. I loved it more than anything else in the world. That summer in Denver was an incredible adventure; Mr. Davine was also a wonderful person and an inspirational teacher. I will cherish that summer for the rest of my life. It was an awakening on so many levels.
When I got back from Denver, I settled in at the University of Oklahoma, wishing that I could be a music major (and taking theory courses) but resigned to the fact that I would be going into the sciences. I still practiced hard, though, generally in the ladies' restroom in the basement of my dorm (which is a whole 'nother set of stories!).
And then, Mrs. Yeck died. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly. A blood clot after surgery. I was devasted. I loved her. She had totally believed in me. It's still not totally clear to me if I played accordion for myself or for Mrs. Yeck.
I went back to Denver the next summer and once again, had a wonderful time. But it was never the same. I was growing tired of the fact that no one took me seriously -- not even most other accordionists. There was no place to play and no one to play with. Little by little, that next year, I played less and less; my major, chemistry, began to take over my life instead. I was falling in love with research.
I still have my accordion. I get it out once and a while and noodle around. It's hard to believe that I was once so good, and so passionate. I have a couple of Mr. Davine's CDs. They are wonderful and through them, I understand the instrument much more than I did when I was playing.
Mr. Davine died, too, in 2001. I found out one day when I was Googling. I remember the moment of discovery quite well, because it was more than just the blow that once feels at the loss of a good friend. It was an even bigger loss -- the last link to a special, beloved part of my past. My first love, my first great passion. There were so many reasons why the relationship was doomed to fail. But I still feel the loss, and more than a little guilt every time I pass that instrument case in the den.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
The Cats Come Home
I waited a long time to have cats.
I was well into my 30s and had bought a house before I considered myself stable enough to have cats. I had seen friends back in college bring home a kitten and then wondered how they could go off and leave it so easily as their plans changed and they moved onward through life. I couldn't even bring myself to be that cavalier with my car!
So, finally, I was grown up enough to have cats! I watched the want-ads and finally saw an ad for free kittens. I went down one evening after work to pick them up and was told that I would be taking two females from the litter of six; I was given no choice in the matter at all. I had requested two, and definitely wanted two; I couldn't image keeping a cat alone, with no one else in the house being a native speaker of "cat".
So, I brought them home, one evening in November, the week after Thanksgiving in 1989. They were about 8 weeks old and looked like tiny little grey rats! I had pictured myself with a pair of white-and-tabby critters, but I ended up with a couple of little Russian Blue wannabes who grew up to be gorgeous creatures.
I had to run off to my night job so I shut the kittens up in the basement while I went off to earn my grocery money as a telemarketer; things were tight around here the first few years in the house. When I got home, I went down to the basement to play with these two little creatures who had suddenly come into my life. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of responsibility and wondered how much more onerous it must be for people who bring home human newborns.
Finally, I had to go to bed but I didn't feel good about leaving the kittens with the run of the house. I also didn't have the heart to leave them in the basement, so I brought them, their litterbox, their food and water up to my room and shut us all in to hopefully go to sleep.
Well, that didn't happen. The kittens bounced around the room for hours and I despaired of ever getting to sleep. At some point, though, I did drop off and when the alarm went off the next morning, I looked down at the foot of the bed where the two little kittens were sound asleep in a little heap. I reached over to pet them and they started to purr. At that moment, we bonded and I knew for certain that I had done something wonderful which would change my life.
I was well into my 30s and had bought a house before I considered myself stable enough to have cats. I had seen friends back in college bring home a kitten and then wondered how they could go off and leave it so easily as their plans changed and they moved onward through life. I couldn't even bring myself to be that cavalier with my car!
So, finally, I was grown up enough to have cats! I watched the want-ads and finally saw an ad for free kittens. I went down one evening after work to pick them up and was told that I would be taking two females from the litter of six; I was given no choice in the matter at all. I had requested two, and definitely wanted two; I couldn't image keeping a cat alone, with no one else in the house being a native speaker of "cat".
So, I brought them home, one evening in November, the week after Thanksgiving in 1989. They were about 8 weeks old and looked like tiny little grey rats! I had pictured myself with a pair of white-and-tabby critters, but I ended up with a couple of little Russian Blue wannabes who grew up to be gorgeous creatures.
I had to run off to my night job so I shut the kittens up in the basement while I went off to earn my grocery money as a telemarketer; things were tight around here the first few years in the house. When I got home, I went down to the basement to play with these two little creatures who had suddenly come into my life. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of responsibility and wondered how much more onerous it must be for people who bring home human newborns.
Finally, I had to go to bed but I didn't feel good about leaving the kittens with the run of the house. I also didn't have the heart to leave them in the basement, so I brought them, their litterbox, their food and water up to my room and shut us all in to hopefully go to sleep.
Well, that didn't happen. The kittens bounced around the room for hours and I despaired of ever getting to sleep. At some point, though, I did drop off and when the alarm went off the next morning, I looked down at the foot of the bed where the two little kittens were sound asleep in a little heap. I reached over to pet them and they started to purr. At that moment, we bonded and I knew for certain that I had done something wonderful which would change my life.
Toe in the Water
What an interesting conceit this is: I dump thoughts from my mind and post them for all the world to see! As if anyone cared. But so many have already taken the leap.
I write often and well for my work. I miss writing often and well for the sheer joy of writing. So, perhaps, this will be an outlet for me -- to get back to something which I once did very, very well.
So this is the deal I will make with myself: an essay a day. Trying to create something special from the mundane.
I write often and well for my work. I miss writing often and well for the sheer joy of writing. So, perhaps, this will be an outlet for me -- to get back to something which I once did very, very well.
So this is the deal I will make with myself: an essay a day. Trying to create something special from the mundane.
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