THERE IS A BLESSING IN EVERY TRAGEDY

Nuh huh, you are saying, but just think about it. I know you've all had them...tragedies. Probably lots of them. Illness, death, disease, loss, the list could go on for pages and there would always be some tragedy missing. Probably yours, as all of our tragedies are varied and sometimes totally unbelievable--fiction wouldn't be so bold.

I lost eyesight in one eye and was devastated but you know what? It was the eye that had a detached retina and now has a cataract and I had limited vision out of it anyway. What a blessing to have sight in the better eye.

Sunday, at church, I said to one of my friends, "You look like you are in pain."

"My grandson threw his coat on my floor," she said, (her floors are hardwood and tile), "and I didn't see it, stepped on it, and I fell. Can't you see around my eye? I doctored it as good as I could with make-up."

She thinks she may have cracked some ribs and, indeed, she was in pain. And then she said, "I'm so lucky I didn't break anything, what a blessing."

And so it goes.

This afternoon, we went to the movie with friends. Here in Utah we are in the middle of a GIANT snow storm. The streets are a mess and the parking lot at the theatre had about four inches of slush. As I was getting into the car I bumped my glasses on the door and the lens to my glasses popped out and fell into the slush. I felt like a fool. No grace, no dignity, just whacking my head like an idiot. Phil saw the lens fall and thought it was a piece of ice. He might have stepped on it but...didn't. He reached down and in all that slush, somehow saw the clear piece of glass and retrieved it. What a blessing. I forgot I was a fool and was grateful that my lens wasn't broken, which it would have been if there weren't nice soft slush for it to fall into.

I think we should start recognizing them. Our blessings amidst the tragedies.

Tragedies seen to announce themselves with gusto, like Kramer, when he hearts the doorbell--toenails clicking, rounding the corner on the slick kitchen floor, sliding into the wall, bounding up to clatter some more and start the bark, bark, barking. The blessings come, quietly, like a kitty with velvet paws, sometimes even amid the tragedies. We just need to be still and watch for them.

So, lets' do it, let's watch for the blessings.

I will if you will.

WHY I AM GLAD HALLOWEEN IS OVER

If it's late at night. There is a creepy, rhythmic noise. I am afraid to move.

Phil is safe, asleep in bed. Elizabeth is safe downstairs, and is no help at all, and so I sit there for a long time, motionless, not wanting the whatever-it-is to know I exist.

And then Pika wakes up. The creepy noise stops. Do you know what happens when I cat snores in a pumpkin? IT ECHOES! It echoes in a very creepy way. The pumpkin is now in the basement, in a box, where I can't see it--or hear it, either.

MOMACAT LETS ME GET FRIENDLY

Here are photos to go with yesterday's post.

MomaCat, under the loveseat.

MomaCat letting me get close.

She lets me scratch her under the chin.

Purr, purr, purr. A little to the left, that's it, right there! Purr, purr, purr.

Buttermilk Rhubarb Pie. Recipe on The Snyder Family Cookbook in a day or two.

TALKING TO MOMACAT

One of my friends is out of town and I am tending her kitties for a week. Two are outside cats and one is a three legged tortoise shell cat--she lost her leg after being hit by a car--and is now an inside cat. I have only seen her a few times as she is very shy and afraid of strangers. (Not that I'm strange, mind you.)

Today I found her under the love seat in the family room. I lay on the floor and reached as far as I could. I could just barely touch her. I scratched her under her chin and behind her ears. Pretty soon she began to purr and we were there for a long time--me scratching, her purring. I tried to coax her out. "Come out, MomaCat," I said and every time she said, "purr-meow--purr." We had a fifteen minute conversation but she wouldn't budge.

Tonight I can't get her out of my mind. She had fifteen minutes of human contact today. What would I be like if I only had fifteen minutes of human contact?

I recently read a Young Adult book called Skin Hunger by Kathleen Duey. It made me realize that touch is so important. That having someone to talk to is important, having someone listen to you is improtant.

Tonight we sat on the lawn swings with neighbors. I had made an impossible rhubarb pie--it's a very old Bisquick recipe--no crust--and I served it with ice cream. When the neighbors went home one of them shook my hand, and told me thank you. I thought that was sweet.

Some of my friends are huggers. Some are not. Some are good with words of love. Some love me just as much but don't express it. I have one friend who says it all, "Lynne Snyder, I love you." It makes me feel good. If I were feeling like the worst crumb-bum in the world I could find Faye and she'd soon have me feeling pretty good--maybe even terrific.

How often do we hesitate before saying loving words? How often do we give a hug and how often do we hold back? I think we need a certain amount of strokes. I'm not sure I would want to scratch you behind the ears but I can say something nice and tell you how wonderful you are. Maybe I could hold your hand for five seconds and you'd know I loved you.

I am on the last few cards of a one hundred card box. It's taken me quite a while to get through it. There are a bunch of cards that never got written. It would have taken me fifteen minutes to tell someone they were appreciated, to tell them I loved them or that I think they are terrific.

Skin hunger and compliment hunger and tell-me-I-make-a-difference-in-your-life hunger are real.

Let's put an end to all these hungers. You could even bake an impossible rhubarb pie and share it with the neighbors. One of them might even shake your hand.

UNNECESSARY HUMANITARIAN SERVICE

I have a friend who is out of town and has left her outside cats to fend for themselves. I started to worry about them so I filled a bag with our cat's favorite cat food and went down to see how the furry beasts were doing.

I shouldn't have worried. My friend is nothing if not kind to her kitties and every other kitty that might happen along--she adopts stray cats like other people adopt attitudes. Their food bowl was only slightly dipped into. When I emptied my offering into the dent it overflowed.

They had water too, but, being the person I am, I thought I'd give them fresh water. On the way to the outside tap I dumped their water out. Big mistake. Sampson, or perhaps it was Hercules, had turned the tap off. I struggled, I even made appropriate grunting noises. Neighbors a block away looked up to see if a Saint Bernard was constipated.

I gave up and went around front to turn that tap on. Horrors! It had no turner-on-er. Sampson, or perhaps Hercules, had removed it. I know not why. At this point I was muttering, "And I had to dump the water out!"

I pulled my sweater down over my hand to get a better grip on the back yard faucet turner-on-er and Tyrannosaurus Rex made bathroom noises. I couldn't help it, it was either that or go home for water.

Finally the water came on. Now I know why Sampson, or perhaps Hercules, turned the water off so tightly. It sprays all over the place, right out of the turner-on-er. Which means I was wet from the knees down. But the cats had to have water so I persevered. By the time my pants were dripping I had their water bowl filled.

I turned the water off. It dripped. I made more obscene noises and gripped tighter. It dripped. I pulled my sweater sleeve over my hand and called on the gods of strength, vim and vitality and ex-lax, just in case. By the time my sleeve was dripping, the water was off.

I hope the cats appreciate me. I gave them food they didn't need. I gave them water they didn't need and I disgraced myself in several noisy and wet ways.

But that's what I do. Humanitarian service that doesn't need to be done. Someone should send me chocolate.

CATS FOR HALLOWEEN

Halloween must be almost here.

There's a cat asleep in the pumpkin patch.

And this one is dressed up as "Road Kill."

ExCUSe me? You are interrupting my beauty sleep.

Howrude!

SIX WORDS FOR THE PRAYER CAT

Fluffy and reverent, attending family prayer.

THE PRAYER CAT

Pika has an uncanny ability to know exactly when I will open the bedroom door in the morning. I have never opened it yet and not found here sitting there, waiting for me.

She also knows when I am coming home. I open the door and there she is. Curling around my feet, waiting to be told she is pretty and hoping for a scratch on the back.

She also knows when the garage--or any--door is open. She has an open-door-policy and it demands that she check out every open door and try to escape.

And, oddest of all, she shows up for family prayer. Phil usually goes to bed first--I am almost always working on a post for this blog. He comes to me and says, "It's your turn," or "It's time for prayer," or simply, "I'm going to bed." Then I look at the calender to see whose turn it really is and somehow, no matter where Pika is, she comes.

Sometimes she meows while we are praying as if to say, "And I have something to say to Heavenly Father, too." This is from a cat who almost NEVER meows.

She even bows her head!

There aren't a whole lot of things that are a sure thing in life. Pika makes it her business to be a "for sure" girl. I'm sure she'll show up to greet me every day, to try to escape and to be present for family prayer.

Amen.

THE FIRST SNOW or WHAT SHALL I DO ABOUT MY FLOWERS?

This morning I woke up to snow. Not a lot, but enough.

At church today one of our most faithful lawn swing visiting neighbors said, "What will we do now?" I don't know. I enjoy the friendships the lawn swings facilitate and the winter months find me lonely.
This hanging basket is just coming into its glory. In the last two weeks it was breathtaking and today it is wilting. In the morning it will be a limp bunch of faded blooms. I hate to see this one go as I planted it from scratch and I have loved watching it grow.
The basil and geraniums are frosty.

And my inpatients...they will be gone by morning.
But, I brought the hanging geranium baskets in. Pika, who follows me like a guard dog, came to admire herself in the mirror.
I hoping to take the geranium baskets to the dark basement and leave them, without light or water until February. That is if I can persuade Phil that they are worth saving. And if I can persuade him that we have room in the basement--the basement that I have STUFFED with "things." I only paid 79 cents for each geranium and there are about eight plants in each basket.

Then I went downstairs to the family room, Pika, my faithful guard dog, came down, too. And Minkey, the lazy, heat-loving Burmese cat had never moved and still hasn't moved. As long as the fire is on he will stay right there. Which, as I think about it, isn't a bad idea.

SIX WORDS FOR ESCAPING CATS

"Sleeping on your pillow comes next."

ESCAPING CATS

I have one room in the house that is cat free. The bedroom. In order to get proper air flow through the house Phil installed a latch. It worked for years until Pika realized that she only looks big, she's actually tiny under all that fur and she could slip through a door that is open less than three inches. We have found her in the bedroom several times and as soon as she sees us she zips under the bed. So we leave the door open, hoping she will come out. This invites Minkey in. He knows he's not supposed to be in there either and as soon as he sees us he zips under the bed too. Now there are two zippy cats in my cat-free room.

The other day we couldn't get them out and we had to leave. When we came home we could see they had had a nice cat-nap in my cat-free room on my cat-free bed.

I have been drying tomatoes. Every time I take a tray to the garage to put in the dehydrator Pika escapes to the garage, even though she knows she's not supposed to be there.

Here she is saying, "Ha ha. I'm out here,

looking at all the stuff you worry about me getting into." I don't actually think she'll eat plant food but how would it look if you had to take a cat to the vet with an overdose of Miracle Gro?She won't come when called. If I walk toward her, her usual pokey attitude changes into a Zippidy-do-da one and she zips away. The next time I go to take a tray to the garage she's waiting by the door. "I'll come in now but you can't walk toward me or I'll do my zippy thing again." I have to wait in the kitchen,while she sniffs the door jam and takes her time. Then when she gets inside she stops to grooms herself, as if she were bored with all the zippy behavior.But, she knows I've been going to the garden for more tomatoes so she...plants herself by the slider, waiting for her chance to escape to another forbidden place. The door is open but she's ignoring it, hoping I will leave it open and walk away but I want to see what she'll do."Oh, is that an open door? I had no idea.""I'm sure she meant for me to come outside. I'll just sniff the door jam first."And then she gets serious.In her "serious getting," she sends some kind of inaudible signal to Minkey, who was sound asleep, downstairs. He wakes up with a jerk and races upstairs to find Pika's open door.The both sniff things to make sure they are not going to be stepping on a camouflaged dog.Pilka looks all around for dogs. There hasn't been a dog in the back yard for years and she got along great with Sebastian when he was alive anyway. But she checks, just to make sure.Minkey watches her make her leap to freedom. I caught her and scooted both of them back inside. They don't have claws and I can't take chances that they will get hurt.But, they were not happy. This is what I found later.How does a cat with no claws do this? They must have been really angry at me. Tomorrow they are plotting how to open the bedroom door by themselves and sleep on my pillow. I just know it.

SIX WORDS FOR INVESTMENT OPPORTUNITY

The new fashion craze, cat coats.

AN OFFER YOU CAN'T AFFORD TO PASS UP.

I had a friend in high school who was absolutely hysterical. He was also brilliant. One day, he was turned around in his seat, talking to me, reading my book--upside down--and talking to me about the book and extracurricular activities he was planning for the week-end. Just then, the teacher, being peeved as teachers so often are, said, "Brent, what did I just say?" I had no idea what the teacher just said. I hardly knew we were in a class at all. I knew Brent was going to get in trouble and I would go down with him. But Brent did know what the teacher was talking about. He repeated the teacher's words back to him, verbatim.

Brent grew up, served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints in France--so he could now also talk in French while doing three other things--finished college and got a job in Washington D.C. It figures.

One day I will publish all his mortuary letters I got in the mail--one with a live spider inside--advertising his morbid services. He was a good friend, sending interesting things in the mail to shock and delight me.

Anyway, after high school I lost track of Brent. I have grieved over this countless times. And then one day I got a phone call from another high school friend telling me Brent had died! I am still brokenhearted. Until yesterday when I received an email that I'm sure Brent is behind--he just has to be. Maybe, like Elvis, he is living somewhere, incognito. Maybe in Hermosillo, Mexico. Or maybe he was looking over the shoulder of the author of the email, saying, "Oh, that's a good one." Whether he was or not, this email delighted me and gave me a good laugh. I hope it gives you the same.

Before you read, please do so with lightheartedness. There is no prejudice here, this is meant to be entertaining. No cats, rats or Mexican gentlemen were hurt in the writing of this email. Here it is:


I know you are always interested in looking for opportunities for investment.

I don’t know if you would be interested in this, but I thought I would mention it to you because it could be a real “sleeper” in making a lot of money with very little investment.

A group of us are considering investing in a large cat ranch near Hermosillo, Mexico. It is our purpose to start rather small, with about one million cats. Each cat averages about twelve kittens each year; skins can be sold for about 20 cents for the white ones and up to 40 cents for the black. This will give us 12 million cat skins per year to sell at an average price of around 32 cents, making our revenues about $3,000,000 a year. This really averages out to $10 thousand a day – excluding Sundays and holidays.

A good Mexican cat man can skin about 50 cats per day at a wage of $3.15 a day. It will only take 663 men to operate the ranch so the net profit would be over $8,200 per day.

Now, the cats would be fed on rats exclusively. Rats multiply four times as fast as cats. We would start a rat ranch adjacent to our cat farm. If we start with a million rats, we will have four rats per cat. The rats will be fed on the carcasses of the cats that we skin. This will give each rat a quarter of a cat. You can see by this that this business is a clean operation, self-supporting and really automatic throughout. The cats will eat the rats and the rats will eat the cats and we will get the skins.

Let me know if you are interested; as you can imagine, I am rather particular who I want to get into this, and want the fewest investors possible.

Eventually, it is my hope to cross the cats with snakes, for they will skin themselves twice a year! This will save the labor costs of skinning as well as give us two skins for one cat.

May I hear from you at your earliest opportunity with a certified check to my order.

Very truly yours,

SIX WORDS FOR WHY MY CAT IS A BIRD

Fur-feathers, hawked up like owl pellets

SIX WORDS FOR NOISY 7-13-08

Rusty nail, cactus spiked, cat voice.

THE 110% ANNOYING, NOISY SUNDAY CAT

Minkey is driving me crazy. I'm a pretty tolerant person and can put up with rudeness--to a point and then I either tune the rude person out or walk away--but this cat, this ever talking cat, this rude cat, who talks, but never listens is DRIVING ME CRAZY! I cannot tune him out. I can not walk away--I live here.

I told him today, "Minkey, you don't need to express your every thought!"

His response, "Meaaaow."

He does not have a sweet voice. His voice went through a meat grinder, was drug across a Nevada cactus field, got dumped in a vat of rusty nails, was basted with vinegar and then was installed into his voice box. To say it is irritating is like calling the Grand Canyon and interesting place with a river at the bottom. There is no adjective to describe his voice.

If I hang my left hand down and scratch his back, fondle his ears, pat his head he shuts up but the minute I remove my hand to type, he complains. He needs to belong to a little old lady, who watches TV a lot and wants a cat on her lap.

He won't be able to live here much longer because I won't be here. I'll be in a rubber room, all dressed up in a straight jacket and Phil will be in the room next to mine.

Send help. Send A little old lady with an empty lap. Come and get Minkey. You'll have to get the key from the neighbors and let yourself in. I won't be here. Just take the cat and go. Call the mental home and tell them it's okay to let me out. In the meantime, I'll be there, all wrapped up, twitching.

TWO DOGS, SEVEN CATS, OH MY!

Lord Bumhamptom and his lovely wife, Nurse Giggleswich came yesterday with their two dogs, Gordon and Arnold.

Add Minkey--the cat who is terrified by Gordon and Arnold--who is also terrified by Dyna, the growling, hissing mother cat, add Pika, who refuses to be intimidated by Gordon and Arnold, who just sits there and looks pretty, Toves, Gregory, William and Japhy and this has been an interesting week-end.

We locked Dyna and the kittens in Her Excellency of Mousehole's room and the dogs got a chance to relax and be Lord's of the house.

THE ELECTRIC CAT

Hi, once again I find myself with not enough time to do Justice to a decent blog so I will leave you with this disturbing picture and hope you don't see it until the light of day.

This is Pika, who waits until the car drives in the driveway and then she hightails it to the door to be petted.

Here she is, in hightail mode. Although I think her tail is not actually high. She knocked a candle over in her haste to get to the door.

And there she is, gone. In half a second she will be waiting patiently to trip whoever comes in the door because they forget that she is underfoot. It's her job and she takes it seriously. She's a good kitty, that way.

Oomph. trip. Job well done, Pika.

Then she looks at you with those scary electric eyes and says, "Meow," which translates to, "It's not my fault you fell. I just wanted to welcome you home. Can you pet me now? And give me fresh food, huh, huh, huh? I know there's food in the cat dish but it's 20 minutes old and it's nasty and stale so can I have fresh food now? Pleease."

Certainly. And I will give you fresh food and fresh water and clean the litter box and scratch you behind the ears and scratch your back and you still won't sit on my lap and purr.