Tuesday, February 24, 2015
The funny thing is that I don't even do it consciously anymore.
This morning I was humbled by apples.
I've been in one of my book-devouring moods lately, finishing 3 books in the last week. This morning, on the elliptical and treadmill at the gym, I was reading a young adult book about the Holocaust called Yellow Star. That grim period in history has produced so many amazing stories.
An old woman recounts her childhood experiences in a Polish ghetto to her niece. Food is scarce. Most meals consist of watery vegetable soup and weak coffee.
As the ghetto empties due to mass transports to the concentration camps, those who remain are able to eat slightly better.
One day the girl's father brings an apple to a group of children hiding in a cellar. He divides it up among the wide-eyed boys and girls and gives each of them one...small...slice.
It is a treasure.
It is a luxury.
It is a reminder of the way things were and a hopeful sign of the future.
One small slice.
After the gym it was time to buy groceries. At the top of the list I wrote out last night was "apples."
I live in Washington State, the Mecca of apples. Their quality is unsurpassed and their quantity abundant.
Looking down the rows and rows of apples at the store I almost felt shame at the cornucopia of colors and choices. Our favorite is the organic Fuji.
At home I sliced one up to include in my daily breakfast smoothie. I've made it a habit to haphazardly pop the first slice into my mouth because it's common knowledge the first slice always tastes the best.
But this time I was very aware that in a certain circumstance, something as simple as apples can be a gift. So I held that piece in my mouth a little longer, chewed it a little slower, and savored its sweetness a little more.
Then, I felt gratitude for that one small slice.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
(Recently I joined a newly-formed writers critique group in our community called Writers Haven. Although this piece was originally written on February 10, 2015, I saved it for publication in order to use it as a submission to my fellow group members.)
We all measure our lives in different ways. As a former teacher, my life used to be measured by the school year. While others used January to December, I measured the year from September to June, the months when Life was in its highest gear. Much was expected, much was given, and downtime was rare.
Now, 5 years away from the classroom and married to a shift worker, Life is a series of 4-4-4. Four days on, four days off. Four nights on, four off. Activities like writing in quiet solitude, reading for pleasure, and nosily bumping around doing housework revolve around my husband's schedule. Trust me, I'm not complaining. I much prefer Life as it is now.
Three weeks ago I was reminded of another of Life's yardsticks. Measuring time through the lives of our pets. What? You say? Well, if you have loved a pet, you'll understand. Relationships with our furry companions are some of the most enduring.
After 18 years and several months of declining health, it was time to say goodbye to my cat, Darcy, on January 21st. I realize it is playing God and, for me, the best thing to do is make the decision and make the appointment. The sooner the better.
As I knelt on the clinic floor, my hand under Darcy's chin while the sedative took effect, I thought about all that has transpired since that October afternoon in 1996 when I adopted a beautiful, blue-eyed seal-point kitten and his adorable black-and-white sister.
It had been a milestone Saturday morning. A small group of friends had helped me move into my first apartment in Alhambra, California. I was finally on my own, a few months into my first teaching job in Los Angeles, and still going to school to earn my credential. Sure, I had practiced living “independently” during those years at college, but this was different. I had picked my own living space, bought my own furniture and, best of all, there were no roommates. All I needed was a couple of kittens to add warmth to the atmosphere.
Yes, Darcy and his sister, Ashley, who died in 2013, were the kitties I had as a real grown up, doing grown-up things with grown-up responsibilities.
Darcy was my talkative love bug cat. He followed me from room to room, and slept between my feet or stretched out alongside my leg under the covers.
Over the years we lived together in 4 different places in 2 different states. We cuddled through the stress of changing jobs, losing a parent and grandparents, and even through the horrific loss in 2006 of a man I thought I would marry.
Darcy was there in January 2009 when a very nice man contacted me online. He was there a few weeks later when that man and I met in person. He was there when my future husband got on one knee in my California living room and proposed.
By the time I moved to Washington, in October 2010, Darcy was part of the older generation of pets, accompanied by his sister, Ashley, and my dog, Bailey. The new generation started with Ramius, an abandoned kitten I found under the hydrangea in my front yard.
At 6 o'clock in the morning, September 30, 2010, my new husband and I put my remaining belongings in the car and set off on an 18-hour trek up Interstate 5. The 3 kitties huddled, terrified, in a roomy carrier in the back of my SUV and 100 lb Bailey dominated the back seat. We arrived at our recently purchased house in the Old West Side at 1AM, exhausted and dazed from the whirlwind of the last few months.
And here it is, almost 5 years later and the end of an era. Ashley, Bailey, and now,Darcy, are all gone. Of the critters who made that journey, only Ramius remains, along with our newest kitty, 6 month old Maggie May.
I know it sounds silly to some, but our pets are part of the family. They don't replace children or friends, but they do carve unique marks on the heart. Of course, the greatest thing about a pet is that they offer no judgement, cynicism, or advice. All a pet wants is for its basic needs to be met. In return, it will give you the unconditional love that you'll be hard-pressed to find anywhere else.
|Confession: this is not actually Darcy. Although he was a beautiful cat, he took terrible pictures. But this gorgeous one looks identical to him when he was at his healthiest. (Picture borrowed from musicgirl094.wordpress.com.)|