Wandering and Wondering

Traveling is in my blood. I fell in love with mountains when 8 years old and my family undertook a rare family car vacation to visit relatives in Colorado. I was 10 years old the first time I rode on an airplane. My mom and I flew to Chicago to see my Aunt and Uncle. I did get a little motion sickness, as did my mom, but we nibbled on saltine crackers. The feeling of speed and anticipation was exhilarating as the twin propeller airplane raced down the Cedar Rapids runway.

My love for travel adventure came from my parents. We seldom took vacations (being farmers was a 24/7 year-round job), but my parents relished the opportunities they made for the family including a cross country train trip to visit my grandparents in Arizona when I was in junior high and a much longer flight to California to visit relatives when I was in high school.

My parents also reenforced travel as important with the Sunday afternoon outings the family took to hear the Iowa Mountaineers presentations in Iowa City. Lest you laugh at the idea of Iowa Mountaineers, it was a group that encouraged trips around the world for a variety of activities. My parents loved these vicarious experiences.

The opportunity that changed my life, aside from the initial flight, was my first international trip where I spent six months in Turkey. Almost 50 years ago, I was part of the International 4-H Youth Exchange (IFYE) program to build international understanding among rural people. I lived with 20 families across the country. Living conditions ranged from sleeping in a bedroom that I shared with the family’s children across from a low partition that separated us from the sleeping farm animals, contrasted to a mansion on the Aegean Sea where I had my own personal servant for the 10 days I was there.

The Turkish cultural experience profoundly altered my view of the world and established an interest in other cultures—the food, music, religion, politics, and other everyday aspects that I had not considered. Although I grew up in a low/middle income farm family, I had not realized that most Americans had such material wealth compared to others in the world. I was forever transformed regarding what I needed to have a comfortable life, verses what I thought I wanted or had been socialized to desire as constituting “the good life.”

I have had opportunities to travel all over the world in my professional career as well as for fun. I am one of the few and highly privileged members of the Seven Continents Club. I did not know there was such a thing until I traveled to Antarctica with some individuals who were seeking that “membership.” Although being a member had not been my goal, I humbly accept that distinction.

Covid-19 has hampered my travel style. I look forward to future domestic and international journeys. Although the hiatus in traveling has resulted in yearning to see new places and meet new people, I have also been re-assessing the carbon footprint I leave in traveling. I miss the choices I have for wandering. At the same time, I recognize that one of the best things about traveling is simply coming and being home.

I am hard-pressed to name a mountain mammal that is my favorite, but I do love pikas and marmots. When hiking and wandering in the high subalpine or alpine areas and I hear a shrill whistle or shriek, I know I am in the territory of either or both marmots and pikas. I love seeing animals in their natural habitats and both species are super cute. Equally interesting to me, however, is how they provide a metaphor for ways to think about living one’s life. They provide contrasts that are different but correspondingly compelling to ponder.

American pikas are members of the rabbit family. They are sometimes referred to as Arctic Rabbits. The pika is small, 6-8 inches long, with tiny ears and a little tail. They do not hibernate but spend their entire lives high in the alpine among the tundra meadows, rocks, and snow. They can be seen in alpine areas scurrying around in both the summer and the winter. In the summer they are busy harvesting “hay” that they store in huge piles to help them through the winter. They are sometimes called “nature’s farmers.”

Marmots are ground-living rodents within the same family as beavers, groundhogs, and chipmunks. They also live in the subalpine and alpine areas. Marmots inhabit open rocky country in mountainous regions. They live in burrows usually in colonies. Marmots hibernate during the winter and mate immediately thereafter. They feed chiefly on grasses and other green plants and spend their summer days feeding frenetically or sunning themselves lazily. They can vary in length from 15 – 25 inches excluding their 5 – 12- inch bushy tails that swish up and down and back and forth as they move.

Marmots and pikas often live side by side and benefit from their similar systems of high squeals to warn each other of possible predators. Other than their mutual protection of one another, however, they could not be more different. Pikas are vigorous spending their summers storing food since they will have to have enough provisions to live under the snow in the rocks all winter. They will be quieter in winter, but visible and audible all year around.

Marmots, on the other hand, spend their summers storing up food by eating as much as they can and getting as fat as they can so they can survive in their 8-month winter hibernation. They are a true hibernator. They will go into deep sleep in late September and not wake up until early May when they have their young and start the eating and sunbathing cycle over again.

I relate most to the pikas. I like to be active. I like to have things to do. I like to be out and about in the winter. I relish eating but I really do not enjoy sleeping and would likely make a terrible marmot, even though I think they are really cute. I admire the pikas and their farming habits. I love to hear them in the winter as they evoke their warning calls while the marmots are well underground sound asleep, oblivious to everything.

I worry about the pikas since they must store enough food to last the winter and hope that they get enough snow to insulate themselves to a steady 32-degree temperature underground. They are an indicator species of climate change. They show evidence of being a harbinger of dramatic things to come if climate change continues to create warmer winters with less snowfall. I fear for the fate of both the marmots and the pikas as well as our species if we do not do something immediately about the changing environment. It may affect these critters first, but can we be far behind?

Sunrise over Sprague Lake in the Winter

Simon and Garfunkel sang about the “Sounds of Silence” in their 1964 hit. It was a thought-provoking protest song about the perils of remaining silent. Years later I realized that in contrast to the song’s original intent, sounds of silence is a quiet alternative to the cacophony and commotion in my world. The older I get, the more I appreciate silence in my life. As with all things, it is a balance. I seek silence in the outdoors.

Two events in my life shaped my affinity for tranquility and the sounds of silence. The first was in the mid 1970’s when I moved to Minneapolis for graduate school having lived on a farm, in a relatively small college town, and on the outskirts of a small Iowa farming community my whole life. I realized my first day that the city was NEVER quiet and adjusting to its constant buzz was a challenge. I thought the city noises would drive me crazy because of the incessant hum. After a couple weeks, however, I got used to them most of the time and chided myself for adapting so quickly to something I really did not like. My only solution was to get away from the city and into the country as often as possible, even in subzero weather.

My second profound encounter with silence in the early 1990’s was on a trip to New Zealand. My friend Deb and I were doing some professional work in Christchurch and had a day off. A poster downtown advertised a day long ski trip in the mountains including transportation into the backcountry, lunch, and equipment and a guided tour to cross-country ski.

We stood on a street corner downtown at 6:30 am waiting for our ride, expecting a freshly washed van with company advertising on the side. Instead, a dirty old VW bus stopped, and a youngish, bearded man asked if we were the Henderson party. We weren’t sure where we were going but enjoyed the chat for over an hour as we drove higher into the mountains. We stopped at his home where his wife offered us coffee and packed our lunches. The couple chatted enthusiastically about skiing, their farmstead, and growing up in sheep country.

With our skis fitted we transferred into an old jeep and took off across a field on a rutted road headed uphill. It was a clear blue-sky day with the sun coming over the horizon and high wispy ice clouds visible to the south. After several minutes, the jeep trail became completely covered with snow, so we stopped. We put on our skis and attached the skins that we would use for traction going uphill. I had never heard of skins before as my cross-country experience was on skinny skis on the rolling hills of Minnesota and Wisconsin.

As we moved along, I became aware of how quiet it was. We stopped for a bit and sat on some rocks. It was the first time I had ever noticed almost total silence. No hums, no wind, only occasional rustling of our clothing. I heard way off in the distance the sound of “baaing” at a distant sheep station, but otherwise it was sheer silence. I think of that day often and how it changed my aural life.

I am aware of my inclination for silence and continue to seek natural sounds as well as the hush of the outdoors. This calmness happens most often for me in the winter in the mountains. Some people are concerned about sound pollution and how remote outdoor areas can provide respite from a noisy world.  I enjoy the sounds of people’s laughter and chatter, genres of music, and animal voices. As time goes on, however, I appreciate stillness. I need natural harmonies as well as the sounds of silence to feed my soul.

I am roasting brussels sprouts for Christmas dinner. Moreover, I am making enough to share with 14 people. As I create my dish, and it is one of the simplest things I could offer, I will be thinking about each one of those 14 friends who are going to partake. Additionally, I am remembering Christmases past and future. I will prepare the brussels sprouts with mindfulness, intention, and love. These brussels sprouts are especially significant this year because I won’t be sharing a meal in person with my friends or family.

The last topic you probably want to see anyone write about is how difficult 2020 has been. Like so many others, I wish I could spend Christmas day with my family and/or friends. I am, however, not going anywhere for Christmas except across town to deliver my contribution to dinner. I do not feel safe being indoors with others and I do not want to endanger anyone among my friends or family. Every person has to make her own decisions about what is responsible behavior, and I have made mine. Thankfully, my friends feel the same way.

The changes in how we are doing Christmas leads me to think about what food and togetherness mean. My 2020 Christmas feast is similar to my 2020 Thanksgiving Day. Several households in my mountain town will be preparing food to share. The hosts are roasting the turkey. Everyone else will bring complementary dishes to the hosts’ house. We will gather outside for a few minutes to impart holiday greetings (socially distanced and masked up, of course) and acknowledge the blessings of our food. Each household will go inside to prepare plates to take home to enjoy. Later that day we will have a zoom call to chat further, rave about the food, and perhaps play a game or two.

I have chosen roasted brussels sprouts as my contribution. I once grew them in my garden when I was a 4-Her. They were my choice of something “new” to try growing and I loved them, even though 60 years ago they were not the trendy vegetable they are today!

As I prepare the dish, I acknowledge how interdependent the world is. I have the California brussels sprouts because someone grew, harvested, shipped, and enabled me to purchase them. The extra virgin olive oil (EVOO) from Spain makes them especially tasty. I wish I had grown them but am indebted for all that contributed to the brussels sprouts I am roasting with love.

I am thinking of the decades of making and eating Christmas dinners with my parents and sisters in Iowa. I lovingly acknowledge my family of choice in Estes Park and the care and concern we have for each other as we celebrate 2020 holidays in a safe way. I am comforted in the good food prepared by their benevolent hands. I look forward to next Christmas when we can dine together again. I may or may not prepare roasted brussels sprouts. Time will tell.

I don’t think I have looked forward to a holiday more in my life than the upcoming one. No, it is not Christmas, Hanukah, or Kwanzaa, but the celebration that I am fixated on this year is the Winter Solstice on December 21.

For us in the Northern Hemisphere, the Winter Solstice denotes the beginning of longer days and the progression to more light. This solstice celebrates the symbolic death and rebirth of the Sun. The seasonal significance of the Winter Solstice is the reversal of the gradual lengthening of nights and shortening of days. In cultures throughout history, Winter Solstice traditions have given people hope that sunny days lie ahead.

I’ve always been fascinated by the solstices and equinoxes. However, my most meaningful encounter with a solstice was the Winter Solstice Festival of the Sun observance I attended in Cusco, Peru, in 2014. I had the privilege of experiencing the Festival of the Sun held every year around June 24. Inti Raymi is the Peruvian name for the festival that has been observed for centuries by the Incas. It is a celebration and a sacrifice to the sun of God.

This Festival of the Sun is not just one day but several days of festivities. I spent two days in Cusco during the Festival. One day included endless parades of people walking around the city square wearing their native costumes and playing various musical instruments. The second day was a pageant in the hills near Cusco where the history of the Incas and their gratitude to the Sun for the harvest was portrayed.

Even though the festival occurred on the shortest day of the year, the ceremony celebrated the coming of new light and the new year that would bring more sun to the people. The pageant lasted for several hours with parades of people in bright costumes, plays performed to show history, and the continual aspects of appreciation displayed for what the earth had offered during the past year.

The spiritual meanings of the Winter Solstice for me is a time to reflect on the goodness and kindnesses of the past year. This year in particular, the Winter Solstice seems a powerful parallel reminder that in this darkness, I can connect with hope for the future and resonate with the promising light within me.

I am looking forward to the longer days and what they portend. The challenge to be grateful and hopeful is not always easy, but I welcome the opportunity to see more light coming into the world. This Winter Solstice will provide a time to pause and think about how the celestial cycles are symbolic of ever-present change.

Holidays of this season all have a relationship to darkness becoming light. On December 21, however, I will honor the sun and what it means to me. I will enjoy the sunrise and sunset and light a candle in the evening to reflect on the Winter Solstice as it represents the beginning of my new year.

PS Coincidentally December 21 is also the conjunction of Saturn with Jupiter in the SW skies–a once in every 800 years phenomenon. It escalates my appreciation for the 2020 Winter Solstice.

Sunrise in Estes Park on December 10, 2020

 

“Early to bed, early to rise, makes a [person] healthy, wealthy, and wise.” I remember my mom using that adage when I was growing up.  I am going with those possibilities as a partial explanation for why I am a morning person.

I cannot wait to get up to start a new day. I am one of those perky people that sometimes drive other non-morning people crazy, but I love seeing the first daylight. Everyone has a time of the day that they function best, and mine is early in the morning. In full disclosure, I also admit that I am a coffee addict and LOVE my first cup of coffee within minutes of getting out of bed so that’s a further morning motivation.

Everyone has different biorhythms and I know people who function best late at night. By early evening, however, I am usually exhausted and just want to sit down and do nothing. The longer the day gets, the more I slow down. When I used to teach, I found I was more productive with research and writing in the morning and did better at teaching in the afternoon when I had decelerated a bit (my students appreciated that!) and got my energy from interactions with learners in the classroom.

I always thought my mom and dad were morning people, but I think that was not necessarily by choice living on a farm. There was always far more to do each day than could get done and an early start was important. Plus, the animals were waiting to be fed shortly after sunrise. It was not until my mom and dad moved off the farm that I realized that my mom did not really like mornings. My dad, on the other hand, still got up early even when he no longer had animals to feed. For him, somewhat like me today, it was an enjoyable pattern.

I have pleasant and vivid memories of early mornings on the farm. Our farmhouse faced the east and seeing the sunrise from the breakfast table was often stunning looking across the rolling Eastern Iowa landscape. I liked the quiet of the morning. I liked seeing the new light.

My mom said that a person learned best in the morning. She told me that I would do better on tests if I studied one last time in the morning. I remember as a second grader crawling into bed with my mom to practice my spelling words on many mornings.

Through most of my life, when I needed to get something important done, I could always accomplish more in the morning than any other time of day. Now that I am retired, I do not have to get up early each day. But I do.

I love the morning mountain light and the quiet of my little town. I still relish writing early when I feel my brain is freshest. I enjoy journaling at the beginning of the day and reflecting on the gratitude I hold and my affirmations for remaining positive in the new day.  I don’t think I am healthier, wealthier, or wiser than other people, but I do know I will likely always be a morning person.

My Dad was a farmer all his life. He connected with the land and with the animals that he raised as his business. My love for animals came from my Dad. I look back at his life and realize that he was raising animals for food, but he also cared about them.

All animals on the farm, however, had to have a purpose. Dogs were meant to be protectors of the homestead and were expected to be helpful (and not a hindrance) with livestock. Cats were necessary for keeping the rodent populations down around farm buildings. Population control of cats was not needed as it seemed to occur naturally. Neither cats nor dogs were allowed in the farmhouse, but their lives were made as comfortable as possible on porches or in barns.

Thomas was the first cat, however, that owned my Dad. Thomas was a big striped yellow tabby. He wasn’t as big when my Dad first discovered him hiding in a rusted-out wagon that was partially covered by some metal siding unevenly slung over the top. Hay scraps provided some cushioning on the wooden floor. Dad tried to coax out the spitting young feline, but Thomas wanted nothing to do with my Dad. He ran off when Dad got too close.

Two days later, Dad surprised the feral cat who was back in the wagon snoozing. On Dad’s next trip to town, he bought a small bag of cheap cat food and put a plastic dish at the end of the wagon where the cat came to hide and rest. A day later, the dish was empty. The regular feeding began as did the time spent trying to cajole the cat to come closer.

The wild cat was a tomcat, so Dad uncreatively named him Thomas. After a couple weeks, Thomas wandered closer when Dad left the food. My Dad’s quiet gentle voice eventually encouraged Thomas to relax enough for a quick stroke on the head. A few days later, Thomas was waiting in the wagon every evening for Dad to come by and give him a few pats before leaving the food. Within another month, Thomas started following Dad around the farmstead. Whenever my Mom appeared or anyone else came too close, Thomas ran to hide. It was not uncommon to see my Dad walking through the alfalfa field on his way up the hill to feed his stock cows and see a striped, yellow tail following behind him.

Thomas seemed to adore Dad but would also take off on his own for periods of 2-3 days. After all, he was a tomcat. Dad would worry but Thomas always returned from his outings and seemed eagerly grateful to have affection and street food. My sister suggested that if Thomas were neutered, perhaps he would not stray as often. My Dad thought that was a ridiculous thing to spend money on. Besides, Thomas was a tomcat, and his gender identity should not be deterred. One day my sister caught Thomas and took him to the vet. My Dad was not happy, but it was done. Unfortunately, the procedure did not seem to change Thomas’s wandering ways.

Dad secured Thomas a permanent refuge in his shop. He had an old wooden peach crate with a cushy blue blanket snuggled into it. The haven faced the south window where the sun streamed in and Thomas could survey the fields without moving. He was king of the shop and the adjoining shed where nary a mouse nor rat dared set up habitation.

For the next two years, Thomas was Dad’s constant companion, at least when in residence. He would sit outside the house most mornings awaiting his breakfast and the help he would give Dad in feeding the cows. Thomas wandered sometimes but always returned after a day of absence.

A time came, however, when Thomas did not return after two days. The winter was coming on and it was getting cold. Dad walked all over his acreage and his neighbors’ fence rows looking and calling for Thomas. He talked to everyone he could in the neighborhood about whether they had seen a big yellow tabby tomcat. With each first morning light, Dad looked outside to see if Thomas was at the door. Two weeks went by, and then three weeks, and the first snowstorm happened. As Christmas approached, it seemed evident that Thomas was not coming home.

Thomas was Dad’s last cat. He and Mom moved to an independent living residence several months later. No pets were allowed.

Volunteering is what I do. I proudly and unabashedly enjoy being a volunteer. I have been a volunteer all my life, but now I claim it as central to my life.

I have long been fascinated by volunteerism and often wonder why people choose to do what they do. Although I did not realize it at the time, I grew up in a small rural community that would never have functioned without volunteers in churches, the school, the library, farm organizations, and youth groups. My parents volunteered in many ways, as did most adults that I knew.

One of my fondest memories of volunteering as a kid was planting white pine tree seedlings at a newly designated county park near our farm. Over the years, I never drove by the park without marveling at what my volunteer efforts on one Saturday morning as a 4-H member had yielded as the trees flourished in the park.

 In my first job as a County 4-H Youth Development Agent, I had volunteers who had been 4-H leaders continuously starting long before I was born. Year after year after year. Those men and women inspired me eventually to write my PhD dissertation about volunteerism and what motivates people. I found to no great surprise that most volunteering was a combination of wanting to make a difference in a community, to associate with like-minded others, and to have some “say” in how organizations operated.

Volunteering comes in many forms. It can be doing something structured on a regular basis such as being a 4-H leader or having a regular weekly shift as a “weed warrior” in the park. It can be making donations. It can be informal such as helping a sick friend by bringing food. It can be serving as an officer or committee member for an organization. It can be helping once a year with a community event.

To me, volunteering means giving of my time and resources to causes that I believe in. The rewards of volunteering are intrinsic but not totally altruistic. Volunteering is not selfless for me. It brings happiness and satisfaction and has had collateral benefits like making new friends and learning fresh ways of thinking.

Volunteering also resonates with the Buddhist and Hinduism ideas of karma. In the Christian tradition, I also believe that volunteers “reap what they sow.” I don’t give so I can get, but I think that investing as much good into the world as possible is significant.

Volunteerism is not uniquely American, but it sets us apart from some other places in the world. In 1831, French political scientist, Alexis de Tocqueville, visited the United States and wrote about the broader workings of American society, including the American tendency toward volunteerism. He noted that volunteering links people together in common causes and enables us to see and appreciate each other’s humanity. Volunteering for me is what makes America great. It embodies kindness and common bonds.

When people ask me why I moved to Estes Park, I have many reasons. At the top of the list, however, is that I wanted a second career as a volunteer, a Volunteer in the Park (VIP) in Rocky Mountain National Park. I love volunteering at the park, and I want to help others enjoy the park passionately, safely, and with an environmental mindfulness. I don’t always know if I make a difference, but I have to trust that I do and that I am being of service to something bigger than myself.

The compensation for volunteering became evident to me two years ago. I was volunteering on a late spring morning with three other volunteers at Rainbow Curve in Rocky Mountain National Park. Trail Ridge Road was temporarily closed because of an overnight snowstorm. Our job was to talk to people who were parked and waiting for the road to open, and to answer questions about the park. Some people were disappointed and frustrated, and our task was to clarify and update folks on the situation. As the road was about to be opened, a visitor walked up to me and said, “Thank you. This place is beautiful, but the smiles of the volunteers are equally as beautiful.” That was my reward for being an unabashed volunteer!

Remember when you were a kid looking forward to Christmas? You probably couldn’t wait for that magic day. You also likely have fond memories of Christmases past with family and friends. Anticipation and memories are clearly part of most people’s Christmas experiences.

One of my favorite concepts to teach regarding recreation programs was the notion of the “recreation experience.” It can have many dimensions but the simplest way to describe an experience is that it includes a) the anticipation, b) the activity itself, and c) the recollection of the event. Looking forward to something is an important part of any experience, as is looking back with warm memories and stories to tell. The activity itself is essential but without the first and third aspects, the experience can be diminished.

A hard part about this Covid-19 era is how it has changed my recreation experiences because of the uncertainty and lack of anticipation regarding if and when something might happen as well as fewer activities and therefore, fewer memories. I am still doing some of the things I did pre-pandemic like hiking and volunteering. For me, however, I am thinking about new ways to understand and appreciate everyday experiences.

In daily experiences, I have become more aware of mindfulness and staying in the moment. Appreciating recreation experiences mindfully is more evident to me as I have more time to reflect on what I have lost AND what I have gained.

Last week I invited several friends to share a “full moon rising stroll.” I planned what we might do, where we might go, and how I could make the experience fun. We did the stroll and had a magical hour in the twilight as it turned to darkness. I was mindful of the sights and sounds of our stroll. I have been thinking about the evening and reliving the wonders of the moon shadows and moonlight reflections on Sprague Lake ever since (see photos above). For me, it was a mindfully complete recreation experience.

To live mindfully is to live in the moment and acknowledge the value of the present. It is not about dwelling on the past or fearfully anticipating the future. To be mindful is to observe and label thoughts and feelings in an intentional manner, and that can relate to looking forward to and remembering good times.  Being aware that I am awaiting something in the future that will bring me joy is positive. Staying in the moment and trying not to worry about the past or future is helping me enjoy the simpler pleasures I now have. This time of being alone more than in the past has given me the freedom and opportunity to focus on future, current, and past blessings in my life.

As I at times lament my present lack of extensive recreation activities (e.g., travelling and trips), I have also come to enjoy simple experiences more fully. For example, I am anticipating the yummy tika masala that I am going to get for take-out this evening. And I am still reflecting on the moonlight across the frozen lake from earlier this week. As I move toward a Christmas that will be different than in the past, I am targeting how to mindfully prepare for and enjoy the Holiday in real and virtual spaces and time. I also look forward to new stories to tell based on mindful recollections.

I admit it—I am a crazy cat person. Well, maybe not totally crazy as I don’t have a dozen cats. I just have two, but I am crazy about them—especially the two that own me now.

Some people are dog people, and some are horse people. I even know some rabbit (bunny) people and chicken people. Other people connect to various combinations.  However, cats seem to fit my life and personality better with their independence and general low-maintenance nature. Becoming crazy about (my) cats is a discovery of my adult life.

I grew up with barn cats. I did not know anyone who had a cat in the house, but we relied on our barn kitties to keep down the rodent population on the farm. These cats came and went. Taking any of them to the veterinarian for shots or spaying/neutering was not something any farmer did. There were always new cats coming in to replace the cats that met a fateful demise.

About 40 years ago, however, my whole attitude changed about cats when I came to know the house cats of some friends. One of the cats eventually came to live with me and I have not been without a cat ever since.

DJ, that first cat that lived with me was a gray tabby. She and I seemed to get along fine, although she really hated other people and other cats. I think she liked me at first because I was so indifferent to her. She and I came to a truce and pretty much agreed that we could live together as long as neither of us expected much from the other one. When she begrudgingly passed away at the old age of 18, I cried for days.

Shortly after DJ passed, I got a white kitten. Raising a kitten was so much fun and Dover and I bonded immediately. I called her my puppy kitty because she followed me around the house just like dogs tend to do. She lived a long life, too, but not nearly long enough as everyone knows who has ever loved a pet.

I now have 2 kitties. Mog is another gray/brown tabby with an attitude. She has international roots as I understand that in England and Australia, cats are sometimes called moggies. The M represents the ears, the O is the head, and the G is the body and tail. I call her MOG with a long O since Americans have such a harder language than does anyone with a slightly British accent.

M

O

g

Mog’s sibling brother is completely gray and not at all like his sister. I think he is partly wild cat but perhaps his name, Gitch, which has no particular meaning, describes his gitchy manor. Mog’s demure meow and Gitch’s relentless yowls highlight the difference between the two, and what makes me crazy about both of them.

The cats and I have rituals each day. In the morning Mog jumps on the bed first thing so I can give her pats and chat about our night’s sleep. Before I go to bed, she uses the litter box when I brush my teeth, and then crawls into my lap while I read. When I turn over to go to sleep, she finds her spot at the edge of the bed. Gitch usually sleeps elsewhere but wakes me up in the morning by sitting in the recycling box shredding paper until I yell at him to “STOP!”

I love my cats. I know they understand my moods and react to my feelings. I cannot deny, like most know who have ever loved a pet, they make me smile and feed my soul each day. I like being a CRAZY. CAT. PERSON.