Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About

Category: Uncategorized

  • Nouns

    doy-doy

    My first word was doy-doy, which technically isn’t a word at all. My parents discerned that it meant horse. My second word was dada. This makes absolute sense to me because I was pretty much obsessed with horses as a child and my dad was my hero. My early language acquisition was the stuff of family lore. My mother referred to horses as doy-doys for the rest of her life, much to my irritation. One of our last conversations included me saying, “I’m forty-six years old; I can say horse now. “

    As a writer, a teacher, and an avid reader, I am probably more interested in words and the acquisition of words than the average person. When punctuation started becoming emoticons, like– 😉 and :(,–I was fascinated. I also love slang, because to me it’s living proof at how language morphs and changes.

    I remember being introduced to the poetry of e.e. cummings in grade school. Someone asked why he could be a famous writer if he wasn’t following the rules. Our teacher said only someone who really understood the rules could understand how powerful Cummings was in breaking the rules. Poetry, powerful? That didn’t make a lot of sense to me when I was nine years old, but I never forgot it.

    I have been having my students write. You would think with tools like spell check, grammar check, kids would be better writers. Not so much. They know that periods come at the end. Not the end of a sentence, the end. I often get a document with ONE period in it. All other punctuation is apparently obsolete. Capitalization reminds me of seventeenth and eighteenth century letter writing, when people capitalized nouns for emphasis, such as–“Today, I was introduced to the vile devil known as a Porcupine.” Sometimes nothing is capitalized, not I, not the first letter of a sentence. Wait. There are often no sentences, just words run together. I look at their writing and don’t even know where to start.

    I tried having my students do some old school writing, meaning pencil and paper writing. Here’s what I learned–spelling is very weak. I guess spell check isn’t a great tool if the spelling of the word isn’t close. The spell choice suggestions could and do lead down the wrong paths in those situations. And while kids have plenty to say, they format their words in phrases and jumbled stream of consciousness. It’s like kids have been given the toolbox of writing with a three minute tutorial on how to use 300 different tools.

    For the last few weeks, I have been on a perilous journey with my students to name some of the tools in the writing toolbox and give some rudimentary review on how to use these tools. We watched all eight episodes of grammar rock–“Conjunction junction, What’s your function?” and took notes. Then we used magazines to look at text and find examples of parts of speech. Then I had the kids make an updated video of a part of speech. I used a video making app called Wevideo. It was pretty complicated with adding text and images and transitions and I spent about ten hours on my example. The students caught on to the technology faster than I did and were invested in the making the video part. I saw a lot of growth in the understanding of how words work as parts of speech, but more importantly I finally felt like I was connecting writing in a way that made sense in their lives.

    Words will always be my jam, but I sometimes question investing so much of my soul to building competent writers in young people. Won’t AI be writing the future? Maybe, but, it’s impossible to know. Tools are only helpful when wielded correctly.

    I am helping prepare children for a world that hasn’t been invented yet. Language continues to grow and evolve, but the basic building blocks remain unchanged. Hopefully, these lessons will be of value down the road. Meanwhile, I learned a hell of a lot about making videos.

  • Moving Out, or Not?

    My son graduated from high school twelve years ago. I’m not sure when the voices moved into his brain, but when I first discovered them, I did my best to evict them. At some point I realized that they weren’t leaving, and I’ve grown used to them. I am not saying I like them, and my greatest wish is that someday, some cure will come and eradicate them forever, but I know the voices are a reality for my son. I know his brain is a noisy place that makes moment to moment thoughts, actions, feelings, basically everything, challenging. I know medicine doesn’t completely work for him and he is prone to looking for ways to quiet the voices using other means–pot, alcohol, meth, music, sleep, whatever it takes. Staying sober, staying functional, staying alert is more than a full time job for him. But I have to say, he has come to a place where he is managing. He has been doing some part time jobs for about six months now; he has money in his pocket, and he tries to help me. He buys groceries, and takes me to the movies on occasion. I guess our life has settled into a pattern of tentative peace. I say tentative, because for me, the shadow of the voices is always there. I know all the bad things they have brought and I am always on guard. I have no trust that this peace is permanent. So I just plan for today.

    Years ago, when I accepted that schizophrenia was going to impact the quality of my son’s life, I tried to help him navigate being as independent as possible. Even though, I can take care of him, it’s in his best interest to learn how to navigate the world on his own, including living alone. We signed up for Section 8 housing. I never thought the day would come, but after three years of waiting, Shayne was approved for a housing voucher in July. I realized right away that independent living was more my desire than his.

    I am really good at putting on his shoes. I get it. Things between us have really settled into a livable rhythm; why change it? His experiences of living on his own have been abysmal. When he moved out to California at nineteen, the voices took over. He ended up living on the streets of Hollywood, scared he was being followed, wearing tin foil hats, and losing all his possessions, except for two shirts, an Allen wrench, and a copy of the Grapes of Wrath. At twenty-one, when he tried again, he wrecked his car, tied the bumper back on with neon green shoelaces, and thought he was the Son of Man, ready to save the world. Then there were the times that he wandered off to live in the wilderness for forty days, or the weeks huddled in motel staircases or laundry rooms, pilfering free cookies and coffee. The last time he lived alone was the year in his car. That was MY breaking point because I never knew if he was cold, hungry, dirty, alive or dead. I slowly unraveled during that year, feeling like I was fighting my own war of survival every day.

    So getting the voucher seemed like a victory to me. We’ve been to some dark places, but my son is a survivor and he is learning to cope with his voices, and demons, and with help and love, he has a level of functionality that he hasn’t had in more than a decade. But I realized that he is terrified to take the next step. And I can see that the housing voucher may have come at a bad time, but what? I can’t say, “Uh, this is a bad time? Can you ask again in six months?” If he goes back on the waiting list, it could be years before another opportunity comes our way. In fact, the waiting list isn’t even open in our county. Who knows when it will be available again? So, we couldn’t turn the voucher down.

    I thought Shayne was warming up to the idea of moving into his own place. We looked at an apartment downtown, but the rent was too high for the voucher. While we could have gotten a waiver for the size, I was hesitant about the location (over a bar) and Shayne really didn’t seem ready. We looked at a tiny house; it seemed perfect. The size was good; it had a little yard; the price was great, but the owner kept saying the unit wasn’t ready. I realized that he seemed to have cold feet about doing a section 8 rental, but it’s illegal to discriminate on the basis of disability and we were being “ghosted.” I told Shayne to call the owner and find out what was going on. He was told something about deciding not to separate the tiny house from the main property. And maybe that was true, but it seemed off. I was kind of sad, because that tiny house seemed perfect. I wish I could build a tiny house myself, or have a property with a mother in law house. It would give Shayne independence, but, still offer him the security he needs. So we were back at square one, with the voucher ready to expire.

    I did a quick search for apartments in the price range and came up with a short list. We looked at a shared living situation. I knew that was a no. Shayne is clean, but sharing his space with other people would be difficult. He always has music or TV going because it helps with the voices, and he still talks to himself and laughs at only things he can hear. The pressure of trying to live with people who aren’t used to that would be too much. Then he found an apartment in our neighborhood that was the right price. He made an appointment and went to look at it on his own. He paid the deposit and dealt with the paperwork. I thought he was finally ready.

    With all the enthusiasm I possess, I offered to take Shayne on a shopping trip to get things like a new shower curtain, sheets, towels, maybe a new trash can. He seemed less than enthused and said I could get whatever, but then reluctantly agreed to join me because he wanted to look for a movie. He did grab a shower curtain, but said he didn’t need anything else. I took the day off work to help him move, but he didn’t make any effort to pack up anything. We moved the big stuff like his bed, a table that I bought for him at a yard sale, and a couch, but he didn’t want to sleep at his new place. Instead he came home to watch Monday night football and fell asleep on the couch.

    It’s been a week now. More of his things have moved over to the apartment. He hung up his James Bond poster in the living room yesterday and took over some movies. He is still sleeping on the couch. I made an analogy to this being like getting your toddler out of your bed to sleep in his big boy bed. And like that, I just have to be patient and keep encouraging him and reassuring him. It will happen.

    Sometimes I think the lesson I keep getting in life is building my patience. The world isn’t on my timetable. I think he is ready for this. I think he will be fine. I just need to keep believing in him and wait until he believes in himself.

  • Friday Night Writes

    People keep asking me why I’m not blogging. That question makes me feel guilty. Like somehow I’m letting people down. I learned a new term this summer–preproduction. It’s a time to process information and sort out thoughts and simmer ideas. That’s what I’ve been doing.

    In June, my son and I went to Chicago. We went to three Cubs games. I got addicted to the Cubs song–Google it and tell me that it doesn’t get into your head. I went to the Art Institute and saw the most amazing Georgia O’Keefe show. O’Keefe has been my favorite artist for most of my life. When I went to the Georgia O’Keefe musuem in Santa Fe, I actually got teary. It was so emotional for me to see her paintings in person after loving her for so long. The show in Chicago was spectacular. It had many paintings that took place early in O’Keefe’s career, during her time in New York. All the things she learned about painting in the city, she took with her to the desert. I am always amazed that she can use oils so seamlessly–her strokes look like glass. When I got home from Chicago, my friend dropped off a bunch of oil paints for me to have. I still haven’t opened them. I just lined them up in a row and think about what I might paint with them. I guess my painting is in pre-production too.

    I have spent a fair amount of time with my brothers this summer. My oldest brother has fallen on some hard times. He never really recovered from losing his wife. His depression was so deep that he became paralyzed from Trisha and he lost his house. It’s tough to watch someone spiral and not really be able to do anything. I have lost a lot of sleep over it. I keep thinking of my mom. She wouldn’t want her son homeless or living in his car. Yet at the same time, I’ve got my hands full as it is. I’ve thought a lot about hard things that happen in life. I guess hard things can happen to us or for us; it is really up to us to decide which preposition to use. I sat on my couch an entire day and felt pretty shitty for not letting my brother come live with me. I have an extra bedroom, but I knew that it would also be really unhealthy for me and for my son. Shayne is doing very well right now, but he is fragile. He needs a consistent schedule and as little stress as possible. If we keep life on an even keel, he can remain stable. It’s taken years for us to get to this place and I’m not willing to rock the boat. I realized that as hard as it was to not let my brother come live with me, that it was the right thing for us. All the things that I’ve had to do in my life really gave me the strength to say no. I believe that my brother will find his own way and be okay. And in the end maybe even be better for it. He has angels in his life; he just needs to believe that they are there.

    Lastly, I was chosen as a rural Colorado teacher National Board recipent. The National Board is high level education program for teachers. I’ve always wanted to go through the program, but it’s very expensive and I’ve never really been able to afford it. Receiving the grant was a huge surprise and ten years ago, I would have been thrilled. Now I’m at the end of my career and I wonder why the opportunity is coming now. I have spent several weeks thinking about the program and the commitment and if I should accept the honor or not. It would mean a three year commitment to teaching and a year ago, I wasn’t sure I had another day in me. However, it is something that I’ve always wanted to do and maybe this is what the universe is giving me now?

    So that leads me to this moment right now. I’m currently in Denver at The Process participating in something called “Friday Night Writes.” The Process is a space–mostly rooms decorated with tables and chairs and lights and plants. It’s for writers to come and have organized work sessions. Friday Night Writes is an event that supports seven hours of production time with snacks and drinks and prizes on the hour, every hour. I won a sticker. The only thing I know for sure is that writing is still the one thing that I do every day. I wake up thinking about words and I go to bed at night thinking about words. Even if I haven’t been blogging, the stories are brewing and are ready to spew forth once again. I can’t wait to see where they take me.

  • Grief

    Glass Hearts

    On Friday, one of our sixth grade students got called down to the office. Her mother was killed in a car accident. I heard about it while I was signing my name. I forgot how to form the letters. I left out one of my “l’s” and my signature was shaky, like I was learning to write all over again. In that instant I was taken back to the night that I got my own phone call of losing my parents, the moment that changed my life forever.

    The tidal wave of sadness, fear, helplessness came rushing back. For once I didn’t try to escape, instead I let all the feelings wash over me. It seemed like I was awake most of the night listening to the rain fall. In the morning instead of making myself get up and push my feelings away, I listened to music and cried a little and then went to the glass studio.

    I made frit. Frit is basically ground glass. It can be purchased, but the advantage of making it is that different colors can be mixed and the texture can be really fine, really course, or anything in between. Glass in the blender makes an angry crunch., a satisfying sound. But spooning the frit into heart shaped molds has a meditative quality. The hours slipped by.

    While I was making the hearts, I thought of my student. All year, she has been a kid that has had my full attention. Her reading skills are atrocious, but she compensates by asking a million questions and checking in and listening to every word, she misses nothing. She is loud, rude, and obnoxious, but also helpful, attentive., and a pleaser. She’s like the glass hearts, hard and fragile .

    I have grown to care deeply about her and she left on Friday, before I knew what happened. I want to talk to her. I know this girl. She’s going to be tough and brave and not show she is dying inside. I know how that story unfolds. I want to tell her it’s okay to feel whatever she feels. Life will never be the same, but it does not stop. She is a victim, but she gets to decide how to be a survivor. Maybe I just want to give her a hug, because she will have to figure out her own path.

    I used to think of grief of this kind of forest to get through. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to reroute myself. Now I see it is a one way trail. It’s not straight, or easy, but the only way to the other side is to stay the course and trust that light will find the dark places.

  • College

    Since Christmas, I have been co-teaching a program called AVID with my colleagues. AVID stands for achievement via individualized determination. The program focuses on teaching kids that success comes through determination. There are organizational components, team building, and career and college exploration. It’s really made me reflect on how little I knew about ALL those tbings when I was a kid. It’s made me ask the questions: what would have better prepared me and is what I am doing helping these kids get what they need?

    To be honest, I don’t even know if I had much ambition when I was a sixth grader, I think I planned on marrying a cowboy and having some kids and horses. I remember my senior year in high school honestly feeling like I wasn’t ready for college. It wasn’t afraid to leave home, it was more that I didn’t have a clear cut idea of what I wanted to do for a living. I thought maybe I would like to go to a New York and set paint, but I wasn’t sure of the path to that goal.

    I might have been academically ready for college, but in every other way, I was not, especially financially. I got a job my third day on campus. In fact, I often worked two or three jobs during my years in Boulder. My lasting friendships from college were with workmates, not classmates, or roommates.. It seemed like I fit my classes around my work schedule, instead of the other way around. And I had a hard time understanding how my coursework was going to translate into a career. Sure Moby Dick was interesting to read, but was it really going to help me pay my rent? I meandered through college without a real definitive career goal. Even after college, a degree in hand, I felt like I was floating untethered through adulthood, sort of like a balloon, losing helium and buffeting about in the breeze.

    When I was in my early thirties, I visited the University of Wisconsin on a one day trip to Madison. The campus is set on the shores of Lake Michigan and the summer is beautiful. Sailboats dot the horizon and kids skateboard in the perfect temperature and toss frisbees back and forth on the green lawns. I realized that at that moment that I was ready for college., except at that point I had two kids and a mortgage. I was figuring out what to be when I was grown up , but I was already grown up.

    When my daughter was looking at colleges, we visited some that she had interest in. I wanted to make sure she had set foot on a variety of campuses and could imagine herself on one of them. One of the campuses we went to was Sarah Lawerence just north of New York City. I will never forget getting out of the cab and stepping into a small oasis of brick and ivy with Manhattan in the distance. I felt like I was at the campus of my dreams. When I heard about the writing institute , I once again felt the pang for going back to college as an adult because I was ready to appreciate the experience.

    A couple of years ago, I took a novel writing workshop through SL as a treat to myself. My writing was chosen to be featured in a lesson on breaking with traditional forms. It was flattering and scary, but affirming all at the same time. I played around with getting a certificate or degree from the program, but I don’t have room in my life for college debt. I want windows in my house, and a new garage. Plus is writing in a classroom going to make me a better writer?

    Teaching AVID and being back in the language arts classroom really has made me realize how much I have put my passions on simmer, so I could do the things I thought I had to do. I have been fortunate enough to keep my creativity stirred, but never really let it fully take over my world.

    I applied for a scholarship to the Sarah Lawerence Writing Institute for a virtual writing class. I found out yesterday, that I got the scholarship. I am overjoyed for this opportunity. I feel like it’s not a chance for a do over, but a chance to bring everything I have learned and make the most of what is offered to me. This time I am ready.

  • Reading Assessments

    When I was in fourth grade there was an eclipse. We made”glasses” with cardboard and pinholes and I honestly don’t remember the process. What I do remember is gathering outside with all the school and using my milk carton to look at the sun. It was fun for a minute, then I dropped the carton on accident and it got crushed by one of the milling masses, forever marking my memory of my first eclipse. Fortunately, I have had other opportunities to experience the wonders of the sun and moon intersecting.

    On Monday, I wasn’t focused on the eclipse at all. Instead I was trying to figure out a way for kids to practice citing text evidence, because the STATE ASSESSMENT was looming. The kids came rushing back from recess asking me if I had seen the ellipse. I knew right away they meant the eclipse, because I can barely get them to use periods, I haven’t’ dared tackle ellipses. They would not stop gathering at the window. They would not stop talking about going blind. They would not stop shrieking my name because they were so excited to tell me about the sun being eaten by the moon. I was pretty sure I was going to lose my mind. No one gave a damn about citing text evidence.

    Then Tuesday came and we started state testing. I am skipping the test part because part of the directions say that the test is not be spoken of. I started calling it “the test that cannot be named,” but only in my head. The kids were good during the allotted 110 minutes, but really didn’t want to do anything after. I found a super interesting article about the history of solar eclipses with an interactive poll and a way students could post a response and reply to each other. They were so excited about the eclipse on Monday, but learning about it through reading was a BIG ask. But it gave me an epiphany.

    Maybe the epiphany was coming, because this has been something I have been puzzling over for sometime. Kids hate reading. They have been taught to read for answers someone else is asking. They have not been taught that reading can be fun, that reading can take you somewhere else entirely, that reading can spark questions and thinking and dreams and desires. For the most part, reading for many students, is a hoop of flames to avoid.

    Since Christmas I have been team teaching a class called AVID. AVID is a program designed to teach academic success through things such as goal setting, collaboration, inquiry, exploration and team building. I haven’t been formally trained, but I have a handbook, and a website, and I have watched someone model the lessons. I have also been teaching for thirty years and it’s no different than any other program designed to teach kids how to be successful. The great thing about AVID is that I get to team teach with my colleagues. We can plan together, and help each other with management and technology and not feel alone when events go awry. So during this week of crazy solar phenomena and state assessments, we decided to do team building activities during AVID. We started with building a device to drop an egg safely. We gave kids two dollars in play money and they had to purchase things like cotton balls and tape with their money. I also told them could have an extra dollar if they sang a song as a group. Most eggs did not survive the flights, but the kids answered their exit tickets with thoughtful, honest responses and enjoyed the process. Then we provided the students a bunch of cardboard and the left over egg drop materials and split them into teams to make a marble maze. It was a surprise for me to see the creativity come out. The students built obstacles, ramps, and cages to trap the marbles at the end. One team even had the marble fall into a cup of water at the finish line. If the maze didn’t work, there was no rage quitting instead diligent problem solving ensued. At one point a girl said to me “Is this for a grade, or just for funsies?” I said, “Oh, it’s for a grade. It’s worth 156,000 points.” She smiled. Every team made a maze. No one was harmed in the making. Everyone, including the teachers, had fun, and creativity, cooperation, and trial and error lead to success.

    I realized that maybe the joy of reading can be unlocked in this same way–with risk-taking and vulnerability and reflection. State assessment is over for language arts, but I have six weeks left to help kids see that words have the power to transform. Part of me doesn’t know if that’s enough time. But a bigger part of me knows that a single moment of wonder can unlock doors forever. I am willing to take the leap.

  • Bucket List checked.

    I got my horse ride on the beach. Trigger was a fifteen year old quarter horse who has been a trail rider on the beach for a year. He came from somewhere else where he also rode trails. He was impatient to start the ride and when we got on the sand he wanted to jog. I wanted to run. We both had to settle for a quick walking pace. I couldn’t stop staring at the horizon line, taking in all that sky, sand, and water. Add that to the power of the animal underneath me, and the realization that I was doing something I have always wanted to do gave me an extreme boost of happiness.

    After the ride I treated myself to a pre-birthday lunch and bought a piece of jewelry in the market. The market is cool. It’s old, built back when outdoor markets were the Walmart, but it still functions kind of the same. Instead of fresh chickens and vegetables though, the booths are full of art and t-shirts and soaps and candles. I stopped at a glass artist’s booth. He uses a torch to make octopus pendants and other jewelry. I recognized the form and struck up a conversation with him. He told me that when marijuana was legalized in Colorado, he almost moved there, because making glass pipes was something he knew how to do. He told me that he decided to stay in South Carolina because he could make a living on selling jewelry and eventually the legalization would probably spread and people would return home and need to buy pipes again. We both chuckled over the truth of that.

    I also went to the Old Slave Museum. Two hundred years ago the building was used as a display room for selling people. I kept thinking of a car show room, and sleazy salesmen, and gleaming merchandise. Sometimes having a good imagination is over- rated.

    I went to the beach afterward and just walked on the sand trying not to think about anything of consequence. The beauty of the place is undeniable, but so is the ugliness. The truly remarkable fact is that the place seems to have accepted both and is striving for a goal of balance. It was a good lesson for me.

    It’s my birthday today. I’d hoped to get to all of the states by now, but I haven’t quite made it. But it’s okay, I have time because, after all, discovery is a journey, not a race.

  • Charleston

    I don’t even know where to start. So many interesting choices. She-crab soup. Live oak trees. Alligators. Eagles. Gullah theater. Cannons. Salt water creeks. Pecan trees. Jellyfish. And horses.

    My day started with horses. Seabrook Equestrian Center is in a gated community on an island of fancy beach side mansions. I had the day wrong, but I am glad I know where to go for my beach ride and I was up so early that I got to make the most of my day. Forts. Bridges. So much history.

    First off, a nod to the food in Charleston. I haven’t tried shrimp and grits yet, but after eating the must sumptuous she-crab soup, I am willing to try all the local favorites. I wonder about how anyone can tell the difference from she’s and he’s on a crab? I didn’t ask.

    Speaking of he’s and she’s. I listened to a woman explain the Gullah language. E is used for he, she, and it. I saw this presentation at Boone Farm, which is a 350 year old working farm. So, yes, a vast empire begun with slaves. Actually being on the land helped me understand so much. I understand now how tidal creeks work. I understand how fresh water and salt water can be right next to each other. I understand how wild the lowlands must have been at one time. I saw an alligator swimming three feet from the road. I walked under the canopy of live oak trees, planted by a man who wanted to build a grand entrance. But I also saw live oak trees that are hundreds of years old and saw how their limbs reach for ground, so they can anchor themselves and reach for the sky again. That was more impressive than anything I have ever seen before. I see how the thirst for money exploited the land and people. It was impossible to not feel the shame and to see how all of that history affects our nation to this day. Honestly, it made me more sad, than hopeful.

    One of things I have learned about myself is that I often try to find the good in every situation, but I am learning that it is okay to acknowledge the bad.. I feel the loss here, and the uncertainty and fear that change brings. However, I also feel pride and love and hope that change will bring better. More than anything, my trip to South Carolina (so far) has taught me that telling our stories with truth has the greatest power.

  • The Beach?

    Landing in Chicago

    One of my best memories of my childhood was riding horses high in the mountains. I remember the exhilaration of crossing little rocky streams and seeing the scars of bear claws in the quaking aspens. I have always wanted to try the opposite of that, ride a horse on the beach. Something about being on a horse and riding along the shore, gazing out to the place where the sky meets the water captures my imagination. I actually feel like it has to be something that I do before I die–a bucket list thing, some would say.

    When I had breast cancer, after surgery, but before radiation. I went to the beach with my kids. We went to a beach in Maryland where the sea ponies live. They are wild, not to be ridden or touched. It was an amazing day. I was with the two people I love most on the Earth and saw horses and the ocean together, I didn’t get to ride, but I promised myself that one day, when I was healthy again, I would.

    Combining spring break with a writing retreat to a state I haven’t visited, adding in a little sightseeing and a beachy, horse day seemed like all the stars had aligned. However, my trip is not exactly starting out as planned. My plane was delayed. And delayed. And delayed. And then I was given a hotel voucher for a night in Chicago. I love Chicago, but that’s not exactly what I had in mind, but when is life ever what I plan?

    I decided to go ahead and start my writing retreat. I sat at my desk in my hotel room, gazing out at all the lights of the city, and then wrote, and wrote. I remembered going in road trips as a kid. My dad would pencil out the route with an atlas, but there was no booking VRBO’s back then. Mom would start searching for a road side motel with a pool and vacancy sign in the early evening and I’d put my book down to help her look. I never really thought about how traveling like that, trusting that everything would work out, was really kind of brave. So, I am going back to the airport in a bit. I want to go to the beach, but am open to whatever adventure lies ahead.

  • Charlie

    I fought against getting a cat for a long time. My daughter would text me grocery lists–avocados, peanut butter, olive oil, a kitten. I’d roll my eyes. It’s not that I don’t like cats, but I was looking forward to getting to a place in my life where I was pet free. I am not actually sure what broke my resolve, but I did end up at the pet shelter one winter day with my daughter, even though she was a junior in high school and already with a foot out the door. I figured maybe she’d take the cat with her? Emotional support animals are a thing now, right?

    The shelter has a visiting room to get to know perspective pets. We first tested a big beautiful orange tom with luxurious fur. He allowed me to pet his his head, then after a moment he sunk his teeth into my skin, drawing blood. Then we tried a kitten who was much more interested in stalking her shadow than getting to know us. We looked at the rows of cages a third time and in the last cage was a black and white cat with markings on his face like a mustache. The card read that he was 10+ years and his name was Kevin Costner. The attendant was dubious when we requested to take him into the visiting room. She said, “That cat needs medicine for an autoimmune disease.” He was a bag of bones and his silky hair was in disarray, but he buried his head into Darian’s chest and started purring. She was in love and I figured we could afford his medicine.

    Changing his name was the first order of business. I wasn’t having a cat named Kevin. That’s my brother’s name. I love my brother more than anyone, but I wasn’t about to have a pet sharing his name. Darian came up with Charlie Chaplin, inspired by a love of film and the dapper little mustache the cat sported. We then took Charlie to the vet. We didn’t have a cat carrier, but he sat in my lap in the waiting room, completely chill, even though there were yappy puppies and large, growly dogs. The vet despaired over the state of the cat’s teeth and said they needed to come out. My son volunteered to pay for his dental work. I think it’s safe to say, the cat claimed each of our hearts right away.

    If I look back at my memories on social media, I can see how Charlie quickly became a cornerstone in my life. Everyday, he inspired me to smile and find joy even when things really were not going so well. During the pandemic, I often phrased the questions and uncertainties of the time from Charlie’s perspective on social media and he became a favorite, appearing in the local paper. He then ran his campaign for president and entertained with his dry, sarcastic sense of humor. Writing Charlie became a balm to all the turmoil in my life.

    A couple of years ago, Charlie was diagnosed with lymphoma. It honestly was one of the darkest moments of my life. But, he rallied and responded to the steroid treatment very well. He is still holding his own, but he is losing weight now, and is having a very hard time taking care of his fur. He is too tired to share his thoughts on social media, because he is frantically working on his memoir. I am holding close to him and cherishing each day. For a pet I didn’t want, he has brought me immeasurable joy.

    http://americasfavpet.com/2024/charlie-f984