Lessons Grady Taught Me

Grady, Kitley, Smokey, Taffy, Bailey, Cleo, Smudge, Jazzy, Sadie, Babette, Daphne, Mama, Button, Monty, Skeeter, Beaudie, Shadow, Rollie, Velvet, Lady, Oreo, Ebony, Peppy, and Libby. There's Laddie too. (Okay, he's a dog, but the cats who've known him don't seem to mind; they just think he's a big, funny-looking cat.) They all adopted me, sometimes one at a time and sometimes in a group, over a period of three decades, and each one has a story to tell. At one time we were one big happy family – only a dozen at most at one time but everybody got along. Well, mostly – you know how cats can be. By the way, my name is Deb. I'm the human they've allowed to live in their house. Grady is a classic example – our feline family's grande dame – which, out of respect, is why she's listed first. This story begins with her.

One brisk autumn day I was on my front porch taking in the newspaper when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. I saw her then – a rather straggly-looking long-haired gray cat moving almost purposefully down the road toward my house. I called her by her species' generic name (“Kitty”) and she stopped, sat down, and stared at me. I told her what a pretty cat she was (cats don't care when you're not quite telling the truth; it's the tone of voice that matters). She sat there just looking at me for quite a while, until she finally decided I looked harmless enough, whereupon she came closer, but not too close. It was then that I noticed the bulging tummy.

“Where do you come from, girl?” I asked. She blinked then, maybe a little embarrassed. “Come on, gray lady,” I coaxed her. And eventually she did at least come to the porch. But if I took a step toward her, she got that fight-or-flight look in her eyes and the muscles tensed for action. Not wanting to force the issue, I just put some food and water under the porch steps and left her to it. Within a few days she would actually let me touch her head, but if I reached closer, she'd back away.

“Somebody hasn't treated you very well,” I told her. She just gave me a wide-eyed green stare, blinked, and went back to eating.

A couple of weeks later she disappeared, and I knew that somewhere she was bringing kittens into the world. I'd made a place for her in the shed next to the house, but something evidently startled her and she never came back to it. Then one bright sunny day, I noticed that one of my other cats on his back porch perch was intently staring at something outside. When I looked toward a neighbor's wood pile, I saw first one tiny head, then another, pop up and disappear like fuzzy little jack-in-the-boxes. I counted five, and my heart sank, because my neighbor isn't the cat lover I am.

After a restless night, the very next morning, perhaps a little earlier than my usual routine began, I followed my dog, Laddie, to the back porch to let him out and, as was also my custom, I glanced out at the back steps before opening the door. By then, “gray lady” had become “Grady” and there she sat, not alone but  surrounded by five tiny, furry, mewing bundles, all hopping and cavorting around her while she just stared up at me as if to say, “Okay, I've done my part, now it's your turn.” For a few seconds I couldn't believe my eyes. This skinny little momma had managed to jump over a 4-foot chain link fence and carry each baby, one at a time, to what she must have thought was safety.

Well, she was right. Instead of letting Laddie into the back yard, I walked him out front to do his morning business; then I turned my attention to our six new house guests. The 'kids' were still playing close to mom on the back steps. The first problem was how to get them into the house. It proved to be a snap.

I simply opened the door, said, “Okay, amazing little Grady, come on in,” and in she trotted, with the kittens scampering after her. Within a few seconds all were safely ensconced on my back porch, and for the next few weeks that's where they lived, ate, played, and learned to use the litter box. By six weeks, they were ready to leave the nest. Despite their less-than-ideal beginning, they grew into very pretty young cats. Eventually, we found homes for all five, but Grady stayed with us for a good, long, pampered life.

I've learned something from each of the animals I've adopted, but none more so than Grady. She was patient, resourceful, and trusting (after she'd been given good reason to be). She took responsibilities seriously, never abdicating the privilege of motherhood until it was time for her children to be on their own, at which time she let go with confidence, grace, and just the right measure of motherly insistence. And finally, Grady taught me that no matter what has happened in the past, the future can still hold wonderfully pleasant surprises...if you choose carefully where to put your trust.

 

 

 

A Road Well Traveled

At one time, when Oregon was just a square on a map to me, I thought of the state as a vast green forest dotted with small towns inhabited by hardy men in hunting plaids and plump women wearing aprons. That was when I lived in southern California, a mythical place that might make one think after a while that the rest of the world is hopelessly outdated and overweight. But that’s another story.

In 1983 I prepared to have my preconceptions verified when we visited Oregon for the first time. It was December, and so at Shasta City we encountered snow. Isn’t this exciting? I thought as I concentrated on keeping the car solidly in the slow lane. When we came to the town mysteriously named Weed, it was with a mixture of trepidation and relief that we left the relative comfort and reliability of the Interstate for the unknown domain of a state highway that promised to deliver us to our southern Oregon destination. Coming from Los Angeles, I’d almost forgotten such two-lane highways existed. In southern California even city streets are often four-lane thoroughfares, or at least the constant hum of traffic gives that impression. Visiting Oregon for the first time, I learned all over again why songwriters have so often extolled the virtues of country roads. You really do feel as if you’re being taken home.

A pristine example of this is the slice of Highway 97 between Weed and Klamath Falls. It rolls through open country comprised of hills, dales, farmland, and forests, with the occasional village dotting the landscape. I propose that those 70 miles make for one of the prettiest and most varied stretches of roadway anywhere in the entire country. The first time I drove it, I was struck by how many different vistas greeted our eyes as we rounded the next curve or topped the next hill. Even on the many straightaways we were impressed by the lavish display of Nature on either side of the highway. No garish billboards or rest stop areas comprised of gas stations and fast-food eateries every few miles; just unadorned, quiet land stretching to the sometimes seemingly endless horizon. My sentiment then was, “I hope the car doesn’t break down. But if it does, this wouldn’t be a bad place to live.”  Not just to breathe, eat, sleep, work, and play – but actually to live.

This impression was verified and is now permanently etched on my mind by one inconspicuous turnout on a flat stretch of road between a forest and a mountain, where the quiet as well as the view is spectacular. We sat on a bench that had been built by some sage years ago, and we each had our picture taken with a huge, glowing white Mt. Shasta as a backdrop, literally filling the center of the frame. Whoever planned that highway has at least one family’s abiding gratitude for preserving for our benefit a truly perfect spot. I’d venture to guess that almost everyone who travels through that wide sweep of land feels impelled to pause there to savor the peaceful vista and to record the occasion. Should some enthusiastic builder ever decide to impose a housing development on the valley, I hope he’ll just pull over, sit on that bench, and revel for a while in the quiet and in the panorama…then picture his grandchildren doing the same thing.

 So, I have an Oregon highway and its astute planners to thank for reminding me that in our sometimes chaotic world there remain refuges from the hustle and bustle, and that, although I still appreciate museums and concert halls, I’m a country girl at heart. Since 1983, I’ve experienced the impressive variety of not only Oregon’s topography but her population as well, and so I’ve come to appreciate that the state is an amazingly diverse square, with towns small and large and, yes, even a cosmopolitan city here and there. But I will never tire of that vision of Mt. Shasta that greets travelers who emerge from the Siskiyous, as if a benevolent giant were saying, “Welcome!” on behalf of the entire Pacific Northwest.

 

 

 

Polly Want a Cracker?

I am not getting any younger. That fact has been made very clear to me by the mirrors I reluctantly encounter every day. However, I am convinced that mirrors, like scales, lie. It’s in their nature. They are, by design, instruments of equivocation. It isn’t true that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, because if it were, I’d see the epitome of female pulchritude every time I caught sight of myself in a mirror. It’s not because I’m vain. It’s because every woman is 20 years old in her own mind, vibrant, hopeful, bright-eyed, wrinkleless, and able to dazzle the world with her charm, grace, and comeliness. It’s only when we catch a glimpse of the old hag in the mirror that we realize that, sadly, this is no longer the case.  That's when we start thinking a lot about inner beauty being by far the most important kind.  Unfortunately (for this discussion), the skin is not transparent. 

Of course, it’s my own fault for having a mirror on the wall.  But lately I’ve noticed a further rather unsettling phenomenon that has turned equivocation into outright distortion.  I discovered this one morning after an especially restless night, so I was in no mood for shocking revelations.  I was dutifully applying makeup to what I choose to call my maturing face, a ritual I persist in even though I’m not fooling anybody into thinking I’m younger than the calendar says or that I have glowing, smooth skin. No matter what cosmetics pushers say, we can’t rewind or otherwise reset the clock.

However, I digress. This particular morning I realized, as I gazed glumly at my reflection, that I am apparently turning into another species altogether.  Now, it’s important to note that I don’t believe in Darwin’s theory of evolution. It’s like a ship Darwin built over a century ago; ever since, proponents have been shooting it full of holes and yet they still expect the thing to float. Still, the older I get, the more convinced I become that I am indeed evolving―not into a higher form of Homo sapiens, but into a new kind of Aves vertebrata chordata animalia. I’m slowly but undeniably turning into a bird. Only not pretty.

One disturbing morning as my face scowled back at me, I reluctantly had to admit that I seem to be manifesting more and more the traits of our avian friends. I have crow’s feet, a turkey wattle, and nascent jowls and looming brows like Sam the Eagle. Then as I was drying my hair, I became aware of an excessive amount of skin dangling from my upper arms, what some would call ‘wing flaps.’ Glancing downward in direct relationship to my ever-sagging mood, I realized that I also have a dove’s belly, round and prominent, so I was compelled to carry the analogy further to note that I’ve developed what could be called the appetite of a bird--a vulture.  And now my stride resembles that of a duck, more waddle than walk. I also know that no matter how many more traits I manifest, I will never really be able to fly, which I suppose adds ‘penguin’ to my repertoire. Throw in my somewhat chunky but nevertheless disproportionate bird legs, and you get a complete picture of an example of feminine feathered flying fauna of which Dr. Moreau would be proud.


While all of the foregoing might be an exaggeration, it remains close enough to the mirror's reflection to make the future look somewhat grim.  Still, I console myself with the knowledge that, from my chicken fuzz on top to my pigeon toes, I’m at least a healthy old bird, and for that I am grateful.  And no matter what, I can take comfort in the fact that aging little old ladies―unlike the dodo―will never be extinct. 

Running with Plastic Scissors

I had an energetic, but relatively safe childhood.  That is, we learned early-on what not to touch and who not to be touched by.  We learned that you didn’t accept a ride from someone you didn’t know, but nobody I knew was ever offered a ride by a stranger.  Parents let their kids play in the yard past dusk with no adult supervision, and they didn’t seem to mind the constant screeches coming from a yardful of deliriously giddy kids.  Like some animals, maybe their ears were attuned to their own kids’ particular decibel, so that’s how they knew we were okay.  I miss those times.  Now, when a child is out of sight for two minutes, the panic is palpable, and that’s sad.  I miss the days when the only picture on a milk carton was that of Elsie the Cow.

Another security blanket for us when I was a child was that anyone older than—say—20, was my elder and should therefore be addressed respectfully as “Ma’am” or “Sir.”  But that might have been a strictly Southern custom.  I learned when we moved to California that some adults don’t appreciate being reminded that they are of a different generation; I can still remember the look on his face when I addressed a teacher as “Sir.”  It was that and-what-planet-did-you-arrive-from glassy stare.  Sure, he was wizened and grandfatherly in my youthful eyes, but he didn’t want to be reminded of it.  I can’t really blame him, but to this day, even as I approach the age he was then, I tend to think of anyone significantly older as my elder. Of course, now that I’ve been a “ma’am” myself for awhile, I can better understand why that teacher didn’t feel particularly respected by the title.  Still, I sometimes have to gulp down the “Yes, sir” that leaps to my tongue.  We were taught as we were because back then respect for elders was the standard, and most of our elders did deserve it.  That’s another standard from my youth I’m sorry to see go; it was another tradition that made us feel safe. 

In fact, although we lived in a far from perfect world, it was at least on the surface a safe place.  Sure, we knew that bad things happened.  We learned all about war in history class, but most of us weren't made constantly aware that there were wars going on even then.  Our dads had fought in France or Korea, but Viet Nam wasn’t a topic of conversation in those days.  We were either innocent or ignorant, depending on your perspective.  From our perspective in the fifties, we were neither; we were just living, and the world we were living in wasn’t a particularly scary place.  After all, Lucy and Ricky’s quarrels led to laughter.  We could be confident that Father knew best, because Jim and Margaret Anderson never quarreled at all.  And the sweetness exuded by Ward and June Cleaver’s relationship almost dripped from the screen.  Maybe our own parents weren’t quite like that, but TV Land was definitely a safe place where problems, such as they were, always had a 30-minute resolution.  So anything was possible.

Our toys were Hula Hoops, Slinkies, and Tiny Tears dolls, none of which were ever recalled because of being a threat to our safety.  We tended not to stick things in our mouths that weren’t designed for that purpose, and if we did and choked, we got a couple of sharp slaps on the back and a stern lecture from Mom once we stopped gagging and she was sure we were okay.  Nobody I knew ever sued anybody or got sued.  Was there more common sense back then?  Was there an innate sense that we were responsible for our actions and if you did something stupid, thoughtless, or illegal you would PAY?  Okay, nobody I knew ever did anything illegal, but if they had I don’t think we’d have made excuses; we’d have been appalled and embarrassed, and then, depending on the offense, we would probably have helped them pay the fine or bail.

I’m not saying that the 1950’s were really much better than the first decade of the new millennium.  But illusion or not, I do believe we generally felt safer back then.  Late in the sixties, things changed.  An unpopular war became daily front-page news, my generation discovered LSD and marijuana and worse, and it didn’t take long for rioting to replace peaceful protest.  The Beatles went from being the “lads from Liverpool” to “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.”  After that, popular music turned harsh, and the niceties of genteel society, superficial though they might have been, faded very fast into oblivion.  The decade that had started with a Presidential assassination that distressed a nation ended with the first acts of terrorism, a plague that continues to distress the world.  Every decade has brought more dramatic changes, and with those changes, respect for authority has gone the way of the dinosaur.  Is the world a safer place now?  The answer to that is obvious to anyone who isn’t in a coma.

The ‘good old days’ weren’t really all that good, but a lot of us think they were better.  Maybe that’s why Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel still make a good portion of humanity laugh.  It’s hard to feel threatened when you let yourself be silly. After all, there’s safety in laughter, even if only for a few minutes at a time. 

                                                                                                                                  © 2010