Month: June 2018

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Betrayed(by this innocent looking feline)!

Posted on by Susannah Warner

E02532A0-2EA7-48AF-BDD8-734E10DFD935.jpegSo, this guy made an appearance today. No, he’s not a stray. He actually lived here for several years before he moved out of our respectable household last summer and in with who I can only assume is a no account tart. The kind of woman who does not buy Friskies, but “Fancy Feast” and probably puts it in a little glass bowl for him, the showoff. I wrongly assumed that this was a summer affair, and that when cool winds blew in the fall, “King Ralph” as we affectionately called him for his regal, and deliberate walk and obvious disdain for the frequent bickering and dramatics that come with having two female cats in the house, would return with his tail between his legs, the blinders having come off by then, and the Fancy Feast money having long since dried up. Alas, I was wrong, apparently she knows how to treat her king, and keep him healthy and well fed, because he seemed to be both when he stopped by for a visit this morning.

He sat hautily on the deck, looking into the livingroom and demanded to be let in, as one does, when one is king. Stopping momentarily for an obligatory pat from his loyal subject, while she exclaimed and fawned over him, he continued on to the food bowl, while his fan traipsed after him, snapping pictures like paparazzi. Finding only Meow Mix, and concluding that nothing had changed, he sauntered back out, completely ignoring the cry of disapointment from the human, and with an annoyed twitch of his tail, he was gone.

He has returned in a similar fashion about six times in the last year and is gone within minutes. There appears to be no love loss; just a quick “booty call”  for old times sake, and then, satisfied that he still has made the right choice, he returns to his new home and his new love, not a trace of wistfulness in his proud departure. If only he was the only feline to leave me, I might be able to bear it. However, some of my readers may remember that this has happened before, and the wound it left was far deeper. This is her story…

Her name was Mary, and she was as gentle as the name implied. She was pretty enough, but her confidence had eroded at an early age, when her four brothers and sisters, including an almost identical calico, had one by one, been plucked from their box, and taken away to new homes by smiling new parents. She thought her day would come, at least that’s what her mother told her, but it never did. The happy faces peering over the box, the sticky hands, smelling of chocolate, attached to little voices exclaiming, “I want that one, Mom” stopped when her last sibling, a precocious gray tiger was chosen. She had not been picked, and so, she stayed in the house where she was born. “At least my mother won’t leave me,” she thought. But, one morning her mother did not return from her hunting trip and she overheard the humans say, “It must have been that fox again.” Alone, in the world, except for the giant, furless humans, she became very fearful and sad, and spent many lonely hours in the picture window, looking at the huge world and feeling very sorry for herself.

The humans, especially the largest female one, spent a lot of time petting her and encouraging to sleep by her feet while she lay prostrate on the couch, reading a book. this was acceptable to Mary, and she grew to like and trust all the humans. The teenage female who always smelled like a horse was kind, and dragged a string for her to play with. The blonde male human, who was actually quite gentle even when his friends were around, would lift her up so that she could reach a fly. Even the largest male, who wore large clompy boots, did not mean any harm, and would often throw her pieces of ham while he was making a sandwich.

So, Mary grew to love her family, even though they had strange fur, and seemed to enjoy getting wet, and ate weird foods. She found she liked being the only feline, and spent hours hunting for them, which she deposited by the door every morning, even though they rarely appreciated her efforts and the large male human, often unceremoniously threw her hard-fought breakfast across the road by its tail. The years passed and so did the other felines that the humans insisted on bringing home. Mary did not care for kittens and refused to let other cats share her domain. Oh, she was smart enough to bide her time, and pretend to like and teach the kittens all that she knew, but really she was plotting their untimely demise. Three cats disappeared during Queen Mary’s reign. Dumb Mikey, the orange ball of fluff, Zipper, the hyper gray tiger and even Noah, as strong and tough as the neighborhood he came from, all disappeared. Mary, the sole survivor, a product of her traumatic childhood, had become “Bloody Mary,” and there seemed to be no end to her reign. Until Sam.

Sam was a scrappy black and white street tough, found by the now teenage blonde male, in the middle of the winter, down by the train tracks. The boy and his friends, wrapped the freezing kitten in his coat and carried her home. They pet her and fed her milk, and then they introduced her to Mary. Imagine Queen Mary’s surprise when this little ragged kitten hissed at her! Taken aback, and as any bully does when stood up to, she retreated. A new queen had arrived.

From that day on Mary was a different cat. She returned to her anxious and low self-esteem roots and was either outside, or when it was cold, sitting in the picture window, no doubt dreaming of her glory days. Sam grew bigger, stronger and tougher had earned herself the nickname, Sammy the Bull, due to her ruthless pursuit of rodents, birds and Mary. She hissed at her when she walked by, and chased her away from the food. Mary grew wan and sad, a shadow of her former self.

One day, the only female human in the house; the teenage one, having long since moved out after having her own litter of one, noticed that Mary did not return home for her treat, as she had every morning for eight years. She was worried, and she and “Boots” and the “blonde boy” looked and looked for her. They went up and down the street, fearing, but not really believing that she had been hit. They wondered if that old fox had gotten her, but no one believed that either, as Mary had outsmarted him twice before, even though it cost her a trip to Dr Wings and very nearly her tail. Her family knew she was smart and savvy even though lately she had not been herself. One day, the female human and Boots went for a walk, and suddenly, with a gasp, she saw her. There was Mary, looking at her from the neighbor’s picture window. Filled with jealousy (she), yet happy that she was alive (both), the humans went to talk to the neighbors. “Yes,” they said, “Xena” had come to their door a few weeks ago, and was a God-send, as their precious calico had recently died, and she was just what the old couple needed for company. Mary (Xena) was nowhere to be found during this exchange but no doubt breathed a sigh of relief when it was decided that she would be happiest there. And she was, although, sitting in the window, watching the female walk by, with a sad face every day was hard, her new life was everything she wanted. She was cherished, and coddled and the queen of her castle.

Two years passed; Sam grew, and when a tiger with double paws and a royal bearing came to live with them, she learned to accept “King Ralph.” They had a tacit understanding. She, that she was the boss. He, that he let her think that she was the boss.  The couple lived in peace and harmony until one day, the blonde boy’s birthday, a little white ball of ego and fur showed up as a present for him. The little kitten hissed at Sam and immediately an agreement was reached, They would share the house, and Ralph, for his part, decided to talk to Mary about how to find another family. Using his royal charms, he sweettalked himself into the arms of another, and the female was devastated to realize that she had been cheated on, again. Of even sadder note, not having seen Xena in the window for a while, she asked Boots to inquire after her at the neighbor’s house, whereupon he brought back the sad news that Xena had died in her sleep the month before, curled up on a bed. The old couple was devasted and so was I.

That is my story of betrayal and loss, and one that I have been reluctant to share, particularly since Sam and Ralph have been spotted together of late, and I fear that she may leave now too. Will I be left again and be forced to see scrappy Sam in another ladies picture window? I hope not, but I will not be bullied into buying Fancy Feast. If Purina isn’t good enough for her, well too bad. At least the King still visits.

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The author, in happier times, reading with Mary
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Sister

Posted on by Susannah Warner

 

When I was 14, I had my first real boyfriend. I was a freshman in High School and he was a sophomore. We talked on the phone every night, a toll call (gasp!), and I wore his class ring, wrapped in string so that it wouldn’t fall off, on my right index finger. We only “went out” for a few months, but he was my first love, and when he broke up with me, and asked for his ring back, I was devastated. I never showed it at school, of course, but I cried at home every night for weeks. I didn’t want to eat, and although my mother knew why, and she said she was sorry about it, she also said that it was “puppy love,” and that I would get it over it. She didn’t mean to be unkind, she just didn’t know how much I was hurting, and as my parents long marriage met its demise a short time later, she really had “bigger fish to fry.” I remember feeling that no one understood, that no one had ever felt this way. But my oldest sister did, and she told me so when she came for a visit a short time later. She was 24 at the time, and well beyond the “puppy love” stage, but she didn’t dismiss my pain, and she didn’t ignore it,  She told me that she knew exactly how I felt, that no matter what anyone said, your first love is one of the strongest you will ever feel, and that although it would be difficult to believe, it would get better eventually. She had such compassion and kindness, that I believed her, as I always had, and she was right, as she always is.

I am the youngest of four girls, my oldest sister is ten years older than me. She was the first sister to hold me when I was a newborn right out of the hospital, and the last sister I texted while writing this, to clarify some facts. I’ve sought her counsel for many, many things over the years, and not just because she works at Princeton, graduated summa cum laude from Wellesley, and is just one of those people who you can never, ever stump no matter the question. She was my “google” way before the real google, and she’s the one we all vie for when we play a rousing family game of trivial pursuit. She’s also the one who promptly answers, when I text doozies like, “should I put quotations around a thought?” (however, please, please do not attribute any editing flaws to her, they are mine alone as I hate to keep asking her silly comma questions!!!), “who won Survivor Africa?”, and “why do the Brits not use ‘the’ before words like, hospital, university, and holiday?”  She knows everything I want to know and so much more, and yet she asks me things too.

After her first child was born, she called me and asked me for some advice. I no longer remember what she asked, but how clearly I remember how that felt. I was a teen mom, and at that time, my daughter was two, and I was struggling with vivid dreams of my High School classmates all jumping into a pool, while I looked on, unprepared and too afraid to take the leap. Even then, I knew that those anxiety dreams were not about swimming; they were about feeling left behind as a young mom making minimum wage while my friends went to college, which felt about as far away as the moon. The fact that my brilliant sister needed parenting advice from me bolstered my then sagging spirit.

Siblings give gifts to each other, without realizing it. These gifts are unbidden and develop over time. They are unwrapped slowly through the years, and last a lifetime. Some give patience, some tolerance, or acceptance and some give jealousy and pain. As the youngest, I received many gifts from my sisters; the one I received from my oldest sister was confidence. My thoughts, opinions and beliefs have always mattered to her, even though I am a generation younger. The age difference doesn’t matter so much now, but when you are 12, and your 22 year-old sibling has conversations with you like you are her intellectual equal, you grow up feeling like your thoughts matter, which is how the seeds of self-assurance are sown. She told me told me I could be the first woman President, or write a book, and because she was so smart I believed her; although I no longer want the former, the latter? Yeah, I kinda do.

A nature and nurture counterpart of sorts, siblings are the closest DNA match possible and have lived through most of the same home experiences. They “get” you in a way no one else can, even your spouse. A lifetime of inside jokes, movie quotes, fond and some not so fond memories are what we as sisters share. My sister and I lived in the same household together for only about eight years, but the gifts she gave me have lasted a lifetime. I’m so grateful for the big sister she is.

 

 

 

 

 

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Look up

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’d planned on having a cook-out, since it was such a beautiful day, and also hang out another load of laundry. I loaded the washer and turned the stove on to heat water to make pasta salad, then sat down to write. I had barely started, a nagging headache making it all but impossible to think, let alone write, when my husband breezed in, full of sunshine and good cheer. “I think I’ll take the wheeler out, but I’ll be back in time, to kayak with you at sunset,” he said, kissing my forehead.  I barely listened at first, but then looked up, and saw his excited face, along with the blue sky and cotton ball clouds over his shoulder, out the window. “I’ll go,” I said, shutting my laptop and turning off the now almost boiling water. He looked up in surprise, and said, “You want to? Great! I’d love to have you come!” We went into a familiar mode. I got changed into old jeans, anticipating a muddy ride and packed a backpack, which included more ibuprofen for my head. He loaded the truck and secured everything down.

And so, away we went, bumping along in the truck, causing my head to pound now, instead of just ache. Arriving at our drop off, he unloaded while I put the back pack on and started to regret the unfamiliar burst of spontaneity that made me blurt out that I’d come. “Really,” I thought, “I should have just stayed inside and wrote, that way I could lie down if my headache got worse.” Too late now, I gamely hopped on the back of the four-wheeler and we sped off, the wind in my face, my hat almost blowing off my head and tiny bug bullets pelting my cheeks. I smiled, I couldn’t help it. Being outside always makes me happy, but wind in my hair, sun on my back and a little jolt of dopamine always makes me laugh. And then there’s the smell.

Oh, how I love the smell of the Maine woods in June. It smells like hope and it is my very favorite smell. It cannot be bottled and it cannot be synthetically recreated. You have to get out there and experience it to know what I mean. It comes in wafts; sometimes you run into an invisible cloud of it, and then it is gone, only to return minutes later. Inhaling deeply, I realized the pain was gone; nature had cured my achy head, but it did something else too. Somewhere between leaping from rock to rock, listening to the water fall, and throwing my head back to admire the canopy made by the towering trees, I became thankful for looking up from my “work” to see what was waiting for me.

The first half of my life has been governed by rules, should’s and shouldn’ts and things that I have to do. While some of these things, like my job, will be necessary for a long time, that does not mean that I can’t just stop once and awhile and appreciate all that this world has to offer. God wants us to be happy, he loves to see us having fun and enjoying  the earth that he created just for us. I’m sure it makes him sad to see us inside on a beautiful day, following self-imposed rules about cleaning or other chores. These things have to be done, sure. but I think we need to cut ourselves a little slack once in a while and go out and have some fun. I’m planning on doing more and more of that with whatever time on this earth that I have been given. I know that I will never wish I’d spent more time at work, or cleaned my house more when I’m on my deathbed. I plan to make good use of my time here,by enjoying it with those I love. Sometimes you just have to look up, get up and enjoy life. For me, fun is exploring the woods of Maine and it’s also being on the water, which we did right after we were finished exploring.

The river was calm; not a ripple except for the occasional fish jumping, when we put our kayaks in, and paddled upriver. The calmness of the water, reflected how I felt; content, happy and serene, my headache just a memory. We stopped paddling after a while and tied our kayaks together. Leaning back, our oars at our sides, we allowed the current to let us drift back to the boat landing. We didn’t fight the direction, we just enjoyed the ride, the view and each other; and literally sailed off into the sunset.

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To Everything There is a Season

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Mowing the lawn yesterday, I was sad to see that my lilacs have almost gone by. The once vibrant purple now looks ragged and anemic; a forlorn copy of its former splendor like Cinderella, after the clock strikes midnight. The season for them is so short, it hardly seems worth mowing around them, at least that’s what I tell myself the rest of the summer. How quickly I forget how much I look forward to them every Spring; one of the first bouquets of wildflowers to grace my table, perfuming the stale, winter air with wafts of hope and rebirth. But, as quickly as I am reminded that their presence means that Spring has arrived in Maine, with its mud, its blackflys, it’s 40 degree nights and 80 degree days, the lilacs are gone.

My thoughts meandering as I mowed, the by-gone lilacs reminded me of the seasons of my own life. Although I don’t feel old, so many have already come and gone; childhood, teen years, young wife and mother, my own teenagers, and now an (almost) empty nest. Within each season, there were lessons to be learned before moving on. Looking back on each one now, I would never want to return. Each new season heralded a change and growth, but also a nostalgia for the past. Change is hard, but without change, we cannot grow, and without growth, we die. How simple life would be if we had no growing pains but how dull too. I dearly love lilacs, but I would grow tired of seeing them after a while. The smell too, would either cease to be noticed, or the house would be so drenched in it, it would be almost nauseating. As sad as I am to see them go, I’m glad that they were here, even if it now means I’ll have to mow around a giant green bush all summer, the blooms only a pleasant memory.

Sweaty, yet feeling pleasantly accomplished, I pushed the mower back into the garage and went out on the deck to gulp water and admire the fruits of my labor. As I stood in the shade, looking out on our unmowed fields. a splash of purple caught my eye. Lupine! The lilacs are gone, but it’s June in Maine, which means that lupine has arrived. Tall and proud, with pale pinks, vibrant amethyst, and creamy white against a back drop of green waving grasses, lupine is a harbinger of Summer, the premier season to live in Vacationland, at least in my opinion. Lilacs completely forgotten now, my thoughts turned to the joys of summer, then circled back again to the realization that the end of one season means the start of another, different yes, but with its own pleasures and lessons to learn. The Bible says that there is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the sun. I’m thankful for the seasons in my life that have led me to this one. The lupine reminded me that there is beauty in each one if we will only stop and appreciate it.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 (KJV)

 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sow; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

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Fragile

Posted on by Susannah Warner

This morning, while sitting on the deck with my husband contemplating the day, the weekend ahead, the clouds, and the virtues of coffee, I had the urge to tell him something I’ve never said before. Actually, it’s something I’ve never even thought before. “The other night, when I was taking my pills before bed,” I told him out of the blue, “I thought to myself how easy it would be to take all of them at once. I would just never wake up.” He looked at me sharply, because that is not like me at all. I’m not the type of person to have deep existential thoughts about creation, and the universe, and life, and certainly not one to consider ending it. I’m not sure why I had such a strange and unsettling thought, maybe because I was exhausted, and in a moment of weakness, felt sorry for myself. Whatever the reason, the thought was gone as quickly as it came, and I was left wondering why I thought that in the first place.

“We are so fragile,” he said. “we could die so easily, in so many ways.” I thought about that for a minute, then replied, “yeah, people are fragile, but they can also be tough and resilient too, kind of like an egg.” We both sat in silence for a few seconds until he said, “yeah, you can squeeze an egg with all your might, and it won’t break, that’s pretty strong.”  “But,” I said, “one little bump will crack one, it’s really amazing how they are made.”

It’s amazing how we are made too. We were both quiet for a few minutes, and I thought how God created us to be strong and fragile too, like an egg. Neither will ever get broken or cracked if it just sits there, undisturbed, but then neither one is of any use. It is only when an egg is cracked and broken and it’s fragileness is exposed, that it’s goodness can pour out, allowing it to do what it was created for; to feed and to nourish. That smooth, beautiful, now useless shell is discarded and the egg becomes something else entirely, its broken state makes it beneficial to someone else. The smack that cracked the egg no longer seems violent, it is evident that this was necessary to expose its usefulness to others.

A person can take a lot of stress before cracking, some more than others. I used to believe that true strength was the ability to withstand an enormous amount of pressure without cracking, but now I see that real strength means to allow yourself to be molded into something else. Each trauma, drama and stress in life can feel like it is meant to break you, but what if what is revealed through the crack is more beautiful and useful to someone else than a cold, hard shell could ever be? Would it be worth it? Would you willingly allow yourself pain and brokenness if it meant you could feed someone else? I’d like to think I would, but cracking hurts, and I’m not sure that I would ever choose for myself some of the things that God has allowed me to go through. But, just as a cook with a sure and steady hand, cracks an egg to get to the center, so too does God change us into something we would not be if we just sat cold and undisturbed in a carton. The cook does not even consider putting an untouched egg on a plate before it has been cracked, beaten, seasoned and prepared, because that it is useless. My cracks, as painful as they are at the time, are worth it to me, if it means that I will be transformed. I could choose to sit there, whole and tough but what good is that to anyone? I’ve heard God called a Potter before, but I think he is probably a really good Cook too, the kind of cook that doesn’t need a recipe and never burns his cookies.

We sat in a silence for another minute or two, just enjoying each other, and the beauty of the morning, a moment to gather our strength before we got caught up in the whirlwind that is Saturday. The clouds scuttled by, while the breeze blew my hair, the wash on the line, and cooled the last few sips of my coffee. “Well,” I thought to myself, as I broke my reverie, reluctantly uncrossing my legs and getting up from the glider, “time to get crackin’.”