Our Cat Is Cuter Than Yours, Probably

 

I think I am becoming one of those old ladies who talks about her cat.  Actually, he’s (Sixto) John’s cat, but I’m around more than John is.

Sixto is quite irresistible about being cute. He knows what to do to hear people saying, “Oh, my God, you are aDORable!”

Truly, this is what people say when they visit because he puts on a cuteness show. The above is one of his poses that cause observers to melt.

When my younger brothers were kids, they used to collect comic books. One of their favorite characters was Plasman. A superhero who could stretch his body, legs, arms, neck to extreme lengths.

Sixto is Plascat

And aDORable.

My Life in the Theater

For a couple of years before I went away to college, I volunteered at the local community theater in Springfield, Ohio.We had a director who had been with the Clare Tree Major Children's Theater, a traveling company which put on plays for children. His background was in set design as well as in directing. He was no Corky St, Clair of "Waiting for Guffman." I had no interest on appearing on the stage, but worked behind the scenes, happily paintings flats, occasionally doing some special scenic design projects. The rehearsal and set construction venue was in a warehouse sort of space downtown over a local bank. Shelly, the director. did all the set designing and we backstage workers followed his instructions and produced some quite decent effects while eavesdropping on the play rehearsals in the front of the large space. I loved everything about it, the smells, the magic of turning flat canvas into brick walls, old wall paper, wooden paneled rooms.

The people I worked with were an interesting cross-section of our mid-size city in southern Ohio: a couple of judges, school teachers, college students, secretaries, store managers, housewives, a radio personality, all in love with theater, especailly the hometown variety.

Mrs. Grace Johnson Johnson,, above, was the prop mistress. She always wore a black beret, masses of silver necklaces, silver bangle bracelets up to her elbows, heavily rouged cheeks, brilliant red lipstick, and long skirts. Her gray hair was very short and she wore large silver hoop earrings. I never knew her story, but assumed she was wealthy. Shae looked like an aging flapper, perhaps, but she would have been in her 40s or 50s in that era. She had a rather severe look, and I don't remember ever engaging in conversation with her. She was a constant presence at the theater before and during productions.

I had no intention of ever appearing on stage, but the last year before I went away Io college, I told the director that if he had any really, really small parts, I would like to have a shot at it before I left. The next play was one of those so popular in the 40s about a city couple who buy an old house in the country and have to cope with the local yokels (or what the playwrights in New York assumed people were like outside the city limits of NYC.) It was called "January Thaw" and had probably been a one night wonder on Broadway at one time. There was a small part for a maid, described in the script as a buxom country lass. Since I weighed about 95 pounds with stones in my pockets, I didn't think I was quite suited for the part, but the director said there was a lot of latitude in casting and that it was a very small part, and mine if I wanted it. I figured I could play buxom, so I accepted the part.

Another newbie was George, a young lawyer recently out of the service. I used to babysit for him and his wife. He was going to play a lawyer, of all things. He drove me to and from the rehearsals and as the time neared for the performance he confessed that he wished he hadn't volunteered as an actor. I had been feeling the same way. He said it must be what it was like to be having a baby, too late to back out but not wanting to go through with it.

We moved from the practice space to the school auditorium where the performances were done. One of my big scenes was to scream at the sight of the yokel stud with whom I apparently had some history, and rush off stage. The character's name was Matt Rockwood. At the final dress rehearsal I screamed "Rat Mockwood" as I dashed off. The dire cor assured me later that I would be fine at the performance because I had learned from my mistake. Right.

A key prop was an antique china Victorian chamber pot, which had an important role in the last act. It stood by the door on a slender stand. Not hard to know what would befall that delicate Victorian receptacle. On about the third night of the run, as I ran off-stage, having gotten the stud's name right, I crashed into it and it shattered with a loud noise, drowning out the next few lines, I'm sure. I skidded into the hallway, where the director, a professional about thses things, handed me a broom and another Victorian antique chamber pot. "Just go out there and sweep up the pieces and put this one on the stand as if It is a normal duty. People will just think it's part of the plot. " I  knew the antique had belonged to Grace, as did the replacement. I felt terrible. "Don't worry." the director said. "She has a house full of these things."I went back onstage, swept up the pieces and replaced the new chamber pot on the rickety stand. The play was saved. I managed to avoid the pot for the next performance . Grace Johnson Johnson never mentioned it to me.
And I never went on stage again, ever.
 

A Tale of Two Tails

 

 

Sixto looks so much like the late Dupree that I have a hard time not calling him by that name. He is quite different in personality from Dupree, being much more outgoing, and not at all afraid of loud noises, like vacuum cleaners and thunder. Since his fur has grown so long, he resembles him even more. It’s like having the ghosted of Dupree around, friendly-like.

A significant difference in appearance is their tails. Sixto has the longest tail I have ever seen on a domestic cat. He looks like a lemur, holding it straight up. As you can see, Dupree curled his up like a plume. In both cases, there is feline pride displayed, swanning around in front of us poor humans with our puny two legs and nothing to wave behind us, having lost our tails thousands of years ago, victims of evolution.

Life at a Snail's Pace

 

 

It gradually has dawned on me that I am getting slow and snail-like in my movements. I used to be able to run up and down the stairs. I used to be able to hop into and out of a car or a bath tub. I used to be able to run, period Not only could I run up and down the stairs, but I could do it without holding on to a banister rail, and with a bag or two of groceries in my arms.

It is strange how this seeming decrepitude has come about. My sister and I were comparing notes on this phenomenon the other day. It is her belief that this happens automatically when you reach the age of 85, which I am and which she was a year and a half ago. Eighty-four and you’re still hopping in and out of the car. Eighty-five and – BAM!- you’re struggling like a turtle on its back, dropping your packages, purse, scarf, or gloves, just trying to get out of the damn car.

We also talked about getting around the house without crashing to the floor. She said that she has perfected the shuffle. I, on the other hand pick my feet up, looking like someone trying to avoid treading on doggy doo. Either way, one’s progress from room to room is appreciatively slower than in pre-85 days.

Then there’s getting out of a chair. If you remember the Carol Burnell show and the skit in which she and Harvey Korman played a coupe of geezers trying to rise from their respective rocking chairs, you’ll get some idea of what I look like when the phone rings. My sister has the same problem. Even though we both exercise, the problem seems to be the quad muscles. For some reason they seem to have given up their reason for being and do not provide the wherewithal for unassisted rising. This failing is the why chairs with arms were invented.

We also found out that we are both reluctant to attempt ascending, but especially descending steps without railings. I was watching some TV show involving some immense concrete steps, like a courthouse, or some such building. People were merrily going up and down with NO RAILINGS! How could they do that??? She said that if she were at the top of such steps, she would just have to stay there until she died. Exactly! I would never be able to go to the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the place where Rocky ran up and down – probably to strengthen his quads and all. I get the fantods just thinking about it.

So my sister and I will stay on level ground and shuffle and high step very slowly along, only sitting in chairs with arms and trying not to fall out of car doors in slow motion, enjoying life in the snail lane.

Would a Groundhog Lie?

 

 

The other day there were articles in both of the local papers, headlined “Disappointed in Punxsutawney Phil’s Predictions,” and claiming that people were actually angry that spring hadn’t started when he had “sad” it would. Now everyone knows that the whole groundhog thing is just a whimsical custom, an interlude of fun in the gloomiest month of the year for those of us in the sections of the country where the North wind doth bow, and blow and blow. I just find it ludicrous that newspapers would fill space with such a nutty non-news item. I’ m also willing to bet that there are those who think the whole thing is real, the kind of folks who think that “cave” men rode around on dinosaurs.

John actually went to Gobbler’s Knob where Phil hangs out to watch the annual event. His friend Dave is a freelance photographer and had been assigned to cover it this year by the New York Times. As he described the ceremony, conducted by officials in top hats, holding fancy scrolls from which they read historical accounts of Phil’s life, I couldn’t help but think of my favorite Christopher Guest film –“Waiting for Guffman,” in which a small town puts on a historical pageant. The Punxsutawney citizens have the routine down, bringing in over ten thousand eager spectators with money to spend. John enjoyed it immensely. We don’t know how Dave’s photos turned out, but those of you who get the Times may have seen the results of his work back in February.

Since spring always begins 6 weeks after Feb. 2, no ,matter whether Phil sees his shadow, the whole thing is pretty ridiculous, unless you live in Punxsutawney’s Gobbler’s Knob and own a top hat you can only wear once a year.

Bye, Bye, Birdie

 

 

Bird lovers may want to avoid this post. It’s that Law of the Jungle, Nature’s Way, the Nature of the Beast and all. I have written of Sixto, the extraordinary cat and his ability to catch and retrieve objects tossed his way. He can jump easily three feet into the air form the ground. He catches wadded up newspaper in his front paws, leaping up like Michael Jordan. When he gets bored with the action, he wanders away as if he had never been at all interested in this sort of thing, leaving his humans exhausted and amused.

Some time last week it was obvious that a bird had somehow become lodged in the air vent above the fan over the stove you could hear a faint chirping now and then, but there was not much one could do about it. I was in the living room reading when I heard this terrible crashing banging noise, and Sixto cam running from the kitchen, and then back into the kitchen, leaping about in there. Then he rushed back into the living room again with something in his mouth. When I bent down to see what it was, it got away from him and fluttered back into the kitchen. It was a small sparrow. It kept flying to the closed windows, where Sixto could easily trap it. As it flew around Sixto made these tremendous leaps, almost 5 feet off the floor, trying to capture it. Which he did finally, against a window. I picked him up and shoved him out the door. I did not care to watch aviacide. I felt so sorry for the bird. I had tried to catch it when it landed on a window ledge, hopping around and chirping (the bird, not me), but it was too fast for me, and ended up in the feline jaws of death.

I scolded Sixto when I let him in and he knew I was not happy with him, rubbing around my ankles and doing his adorable rolling around thing.. Or he could have been celebrating his first kill. Who knows the mind of a cat, if they indeed have one? It was very sad to me, but it’s what they do. I remember reading “Watership Down” years ago and looking at the resident cat of the day and wondering how something so furry and sweet could be so vicious. It’s the downside of owning the beasts, much as \we love them. Now that coyotes have invaded the cities, cats have become prey, too, but I hope that never happens to any that I know or love.

Birds Gotta Fly, Fish Gotta Fry

 

It’s the Lenten fish fry time down in St. Joseph, the little village founded by German Catholics about 150 years ago. It is at that fish fry where I broke my hip three years ago. I didn’t go the year after the accident even though, as I lay writhing in pain at the time, I was f promised a free dinner whenever I came back. I went once last year and managed to get out of there intact, but with no free dinner. I didn’t really want to remind them. I think they were afraid that I would sue, which, of course, I wouldn’t have. It is a most enjoyable event, even though we don’t attend any church functions there, being pagans, and all. There is a wonderful community spirit abut the thing. The parish is in a rural community. They have managed to hang onto their school, which I think brings people together. There are on ly two Catholic elementary schools left in Portage County, the other being St. Patrick in Kent. But I digress.

YOU can get the full deal, or the half deal. There is baked or fried cod, a combo of baked cod and shrimp and a choice of two sides - mac and cheese, baked potato, green beans or French fries. Homemade desserts are included, along with beverages. Ten bucks for the full deal, 5 bucks for a half deal meal.

It’s easy to get into conversations with table mates. We had in interesting geezer next to us, a retired rubber worker. First he talked about how inefficient the major Akron rubber company he worked fro had been. He told us how difficult and exacting the work of the tire builders was. He himself never got the hang of it, and worked at another job in the factory for over 40 years. Then he segued into his favorite retirement hobby: reading. He goes to flea markets and buys a bag of books every week. He reads a book a day. He has eclectic tastes. He’s read “Lord of the Rings,” the Harry Potter books, some early James Patterson, and mysteries. He’s been coming to the St. Joseph fish fries ever since they started. He said that in those days there was also gambling and he lost $100 bucks the first time he gambled there and never did it again. He said he’s not even a Catholic either. This reminded me of the time my in-laws were vesting, and I took my no card playing, no dancing on Sunday mother-in-law to the neighboring St. Michael’s Catholic Church summer carnival. The priest greeted me, holding a bottle of beer and running a wheel of chance. Ernestine practically froze in her tracks. We didn’t stay long. I Hope we’ll go back to another St. Joseph Lenten Fish Fry this year.

 

Oscar notes: I don’t know how they managed to find 10 movies this year to nominate for best picture. I saw only one movie all year that I’d want to see again, and that was “Moonrise Kingdom, which only had one nomination. Think about 2011: Hugo, The Artist, Descendents, The Ides of March, The Help, and Midnight in Paris – all of them first rate. The much hyped movies I saw this year were just lackluster, formulaic bores. I didn’t see Argo or the Zero Dark Thirty, mainly because I don’t want to even think about the Middle East in the last 60 years or so.. Friends who have seen Argo reacted with “eh.”

The Oscar show was a total bore, overloaded with schtick. Either they need to get Billy Crystal back or just hand the damn things out in an unpadded hour broadcast.