One Exit Past Happytown

I imagine life as a twisting, winding road surrounded by trees. It looks in my mind much like Hill Road, the main route into downtown Hoosick Falls from the nearby highway. Sometimes, the trees are full of lush, green leaves; and sometimes, the leaves are lit up in golds and coppers and reds, blowing in a gentle breeze. We drive up and down those hills, not always sure what might be around the next turn. We pass each mailbox, and sometimes we take note of the names or the numbers–and sometimes we just keep driving.

Brothers from Another Mother

I’ve told the story of how Wyatt Earp came to live with Patrick, and became the brother of Biscuit.  I believe I’ve also mentioned that Carter is not a huge Wyatt fan.  But sometimes, the two cats find a way to peacefully coexist.

Patrick was to help me today with some home improvement projects, so it made sense that he would come last night after I got off work and enjoy the British Comedies, and stay over in his room.  (I of course fell asleep halfway into the first program, so he ended up watching television by himself before shoving me off the couch.)  When he stays over, he brings Wyatt Earp.

Wyatt and Little Willie bonded while I was on vacation in June.  For the first half the week, I’m told, they fought for supremacy whenever they weren’t being chased by Katie.  In the second half the week, they found a mutual love for roughhousing and running crazy.  It was no surprise last night when I came home to find the two of them under my bed, waiting for an opportunity to make a break for it whenever Katie would let them out.

Carter, on the other hand, spent his usual Sunday atop the fridge.  He was in decent enough spirits, given the increased population of the Zoo, but he chose to remain as he always is, above the fray.  What surprised me was how Wyatt visited him as though they were famous friends.

Generally, Wyatt keeps his distance from the King of Ina Hall.  He is a wiley, witty kitty with a penchant for playing rough.  He is smart enough to know that Carter does not enjoy his company, and frankly, he doesn’t often seek it out.  If he feels the need to play, he now relies on Little Willie to satisfy the cravings.  Willie seems to enjoy having a cat around who is not easily beaten at a game of “bitey face.”

Brotherly Love

But today, while the dogs napped and the kitties had their run of the Hall, Wyatt chose to not only say Hello, but to hang out and rest a while with his older brother.  Even more odd, Carter showed no signs of displeasure.  His face was blank, minus the usual stinkface that accompanies most Wyatt-encounters.  It was as though the two had resolved to maintain respect, if not admiration, for one another.

The relationship between the two sometimes reminds me of that between myself and my own brother.  I think he was not too excited when I first came along and became the baby of the family.  He would have been very happy indeed if someone had adopted me into a different family.

Marcus and I have never seen eye to eye, on any topic of importance.  I could have done without the incessant repetition of his Joe Satriani cassette on the way to school.  I’m sure he did not appreciate my taking all his leftover toys and claiming them as my own.  Most of all, our views of politics and religion have taken divergent strides toward different sides of the universe.  While he shares my mother’s need for socializing and having millions of friends, I am a loner, lost in my own thoughts, like my dad.  And sadly, the one thing we have in common is a hair-trigger temper.

At times, my brother and I find peace with one another.  We even go for long stretches seeming to be friendly.  But something always happens to break the cease-fire, and we are back to fighting like–dare I say–cats and dogs.  Or Wyatt and Carter.  That “something” is usually related to my mother and her meddling.  Currently, we are back at war and I doubt we’ll ever find that lasting peace.

Wyatt Loves Carter

Soon after I took the photo, Wyatt puffed up three times his size and bit Carter between the shoulder blades.  Carter turned in disgust and lighted himself onto his cabinet.  Wyatt jumped and ran away.  At least I got a few good shots of the two of them together.

Pepper Pecker

Pepper Pecker

I’m not sure why the simplest lessons in life are often the most difficult to learn and absorb.

(See:  Attack of the Killer Tomato Killer)

Pecked Pepper

 

On a positive note, my backyard container garden is beginning to produce PROduce.

Premature Birth of an Idea

As of this moment, it looks as though I will not be moving home to the farm. At least, not while my parents are still alive.

I was speaking with my mother on the phone a while ago. She was doing her famous bluetooth-while-you-work babbling, standing on a ladder and talking while she painted, when she did something else she is famous for: she slipped an unintended nugget of information.

Peeling Back the Layers

When I moved into Ina Hall last summer, I vowed that the dining room would be one of my early projects–mostly because the narrow, vertical-striped blue-and-white paper made me dizzy every time I entered the room. It was perhaps the room with the most potential for transformation from shab to grandeur. But lo and behold, life took over and shaved layers off my project time here and there, and other things became more important than being able to enjoy a meal without falling off my chair.

In From the (Wild) West

Not too many people can say they’ve flown cross-country with a cat. Most of them wouldn’t want to. But I can say it. No, really, I can.

In a Box

I love wine from a box. It’s not because it tastes so great–because it doesn’t, let’s face it. I love the fact that I can open my fridge door, turn a spicket, and within seconds enjoy a tasty glass of chilled relaxation. I love that only a small glass can transport me from the stresses of the day, to a place where my shitty job and my money troubles just melt away. And I love that I have an excuse for misspelling things. Is that how you spell misspelling?

All the Comforts of Home Again

We received some bad news at work today, via the local newspaper.

When I returned from lunch, every associate approached me.  After the first, I spent the afternoon in a bit of a shock.  “Did you hear about Andrea’s boyfriend?” they asked with real concern and fear in their eyes.  His obituary appeared in today’s paper.  It did not list cause of death.

What we were able to put together was this:  her boyfriend’s best friend was killed in a motorcycle crash last weekend.  After coming home for the funeral, he returned to Florida, where they’ve lived only since my last post about Andrea.  And this past Saturday night, he was killed in his own crash.

I called Andrea right away.  She was headed for an airplane to come home for her boyfriend’s funeral.  Her voice sounded so small on the phone.  She’d realized, because her mother had already moved all her things out of their house here, that she had no place to stay.  The poor, sad girl asked whether she could impose and stay in my guest room.  I of course reminded her that she had a standing invitation to stay for as long as she wished.

I cannot fathom the pain of this girl.  First she is ejected from her life here by her mom; then she moves halfway across the country with a boyfriend she’s not sure about–but one whom she loved–and then, just as she begins a new life, he is dead.  She is so far from home; but her home, when she is forced to return, is gone.

I cleaned furiously this whole evening.  I was reminded that I tend to live like a pig.  Some girls say, all prim and proper while grinning, “I’m a messy person, but I’m not DIRTY!”  Well, folks, I am both messy and dirty.  Really, really dirty.  And my home is no place for visitors.

I must get back to it.  I still have a dress to iron for a funeral this week.

Have a good thought for Andrea.

Drawbacks and Big, Brown Eyes

In the lives of Us & Biscuit, there have been some trade-offs and some compromising.

Speechless.

For not the first time, I have little to say tonight. 

I’m seriously considering going home.  Not to visit.  To stay. 

I think I need to move the Zoo.

Lollygagger of the Fridge

I try to remind myself that Carter eventually adapted to having Biscuit in the house. It took more than a year, but he adjusted, and the two developed a warm relationship. Carter was always in control, of course, and it wasn’t until later that we learned this is as it has to be for a dog-cat relationship to work: the dog must rank below the cat in the pack.

Storm Clouds

Today is The Bill’s birthday. Last week, I ordered him a chocolate cake from one of my favorite vendors. He loves chocolate. He loves chocolate in the sick way that a woman in the throes of PMS loves chocolate–only he loves it all day, every day. Only the cigarettes and the hard, man-work help him to ward off its effects. Dishes of chocolate candies adorn his man-house, and many breakfasts-on-the-run consist of tiny chocolate doughnuts. I could think of nothing more appropriate.