Eulogy for a Pet

The last thing on this earth that I wanted was a cat, so when my wife told me, that one of the families in her pre school class was giving away kittens, I put my foot down -- firmly.

When she told the kids that we were getting a kitten, I put my foot down again, even more firmly.  And finally, when defeat was all but inevitable, I grudgingly accepted that they could have a kitten if they took care of it.

Thus it was that several weeks later I came home to find a small brown ticked feline, the runt, and at the same time, the pick of the litter had established residence in my domain.  

She had enormous ears, so large she reminded us of a rabbit.  And she swivelled them to follow every sound.  With those ears, the only name that fit was Radar and so she became Radar Snyder, our owner, and the ruler of all she surveyed.

That was eighteen years ago.

Early in those eighteen years, Radar discovered that her favorite lap for sitting after dinner and for napping on Sunday afternoons was mine.  She also made certain that I never overslept in the morning by poking her cold wet nose and whiskers under my ear two minutes before the alarm went off.

She sat on the arm of my chair when I read, on the monitor of my wife's computer when she was on line, and was the warm spot at the foot of the bed on many cold nights.

An indoor cat, she sometime escaped to go on adventures and was always either caught or cornered and herded back inside.  Several times, she escaped into the rain and was caught meowing plaintively at the window, as if to beg "Puh-leeze, open the door! It's wet out here!" and rewarded by being wrapped in a warm towel and dried once readmitted to house.

In short, Radar became a member of the family and a fixture at family events.  Some mornings she was a pounce at my feet, all teeth and toenails. She was also the obstacle underfoot as I made my coffee, and the sometimes disdainful presence in the middle of the room, back turned as she actively ignored me and everyone else.

Radar left us this week. After eighteen years, it was inevitable.  But saying goodbye is not easy and there is a Radar-cat-shaped void at our house.

Farewell, Radar.  There was never one like you before, and after you, none shall follow.

Of Remembrance and Gratitude

When I was a Boy Scout, it fell to my troop during the last week of May each year to visit the local cemeteries and decorate the graves of Veterans with flags, each flag placed a boot length to the right of the headstone. Thus we honored those in our community that had served their country during the Spanish American War, two World Wars, and Korea.  It was a small act, but an important one.

One of the stones where I placed a flag bore the legend F/O in front of the name. The F/O stood for "Far Off".  The body was not there but interred on some Pacific Island or buried at sea; but the memorial was part of the family plot. In my mind, it was especially important to place the flag by that one marker, to say "Even though you are not here, you are not forgotten.  Your memory is honored."


This week, similar similar small acts are being carried out at Arlington and other military and civilian cemeteries across the land as soldiers, boy scouts and other service organizations take the time to mark and thereby honor the memories of those who served.

And to say "Thank you."

"Thank you for your Service.  Thank you for the freedom in which we live. Thank you for this nation that you helped preserve."

"You are not forgotten."

"Thank you."

I am a Pack Rat

I have a confession to make: I am a pack rat.

I was born with a strong desire to acquire and, having acquired, to hold on to forever.

I grew up nurtured in the way of "Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do, or do without." Such a philosophy served my parents and grand parents well during the depths of the Great Depression, when items were used, repaired, and reused until they could be used no longer. 

It was a philosophy well-suited to the farm, where income depended on the sale of the crops, and the price recieved was never certain.  It is also a philosophy well suited to the uncertain economic times of today.

All is well as long as the items retained continue to be used and useful.  However, when things are retained past usefulness and use the result the resulting clutter can become overwhelming.  I am a packrat and I know whereof I speak.

The question is what do I throw away, what do I sell, and what do I keep?

If it's broken, and will never be fixed, it's gone -- trash.

It I haven't used it in one? three? five? ten? years, it probably needs to be gone, either given away (the church rummage sale is coming!), sold, or trashed.

It is consumeable, I need to consume and enjoy it, else, why have it?

And, if I have more than one, I probably should keep the one that works best and let the rest go.

After all, a pack rat like me needs room for all of the good and useful stuff that's just waiting to be dragged home!

A Path to Happiness

Were I to desribe my home to you, I would use the words "comfortably cluttered".

I am a bibliophile. My house is filled with books. I am also enough of a child that my house is filled with toys. And I'm enough of a tinkerer that my house is filled with things to build and things I've laid aside to fix.

I am now at an age when I realize that I will never have time to read all of the books I would like to read, nor play with all of the toys I would like to play with, nor to build all of the projects I'd like to build, nor even to fix all of the things that need fixing.

I also realize that having a book does me no good unless I have the time to read it. I will probably never have the time to read them all, but reading and studying a select few will bring great enjoyment.

Ditto toys. What use is a toy if one has not the time to play with it?

Ditto projects. Had they been that important, they'd have been completed long ago.

I am finding that most of the things that make me truly happy are relatively simple and inexpensive.

I don't need to have a lot to live the good life. I need merely to appreciate and enjoy what I have; appreciating and enjoying what I have is one path to happiness.

The Smells Have Changed!

In the last of the Mowgli stories, author Rudyard Kipling wrote of the coming of spring in the Seoni Hills of India as "the day the smells change". My mother used to refer to it as the day the mockingbird changes his song.

Perhaps you have experienced it yourself. You go to bed in late winter and magically awaken to the smells and sounds new growth and early spring.

This week, the smells changed in northern Virginia. Over the course of 24 hours, the mood and the season has shifted from winter to spring.

Yesterday, few of the trees showed any trace of blossom. Today, the maples all have buds. The spring blooming magnolias have gone from barren to full bloom overnight. And the forsythias, few of which showed trace of life a day ago are now clouds of bright yellow. It shouldn't surprise me -- spring happens every year -- and yet it always does.

Spring has come!

The earth is alive!

The smells have changed!

Enjoy it!

How I Remember Things

I have been blessed, I am told, with a good memory. Friends often ask me how I remember distant events, off-the wall facts, and bad jokes. I generally reply by asking them how they don't. In truth, I don't know exactly how I remember things but I have developed some habits that help me. I learned to memorize stuff. I found out at an early age that when all else fails, rote memorization almost always works. Here's how I do it: I read a sentence or recite a fact. I read it aloud. I close my eyes and speak what I just read. Then, I go to the next sentence and repeat the process. Then I go back to the first sentence and recite them both together and proceed like this until the entire paragraph, poem, chapter, or verse is locked in memory. I may even write it out, in longhand, from memory. That's how I learned the Gettysburg Address many years ago. The next day, I come back, read, recite and maybe write it down again until it is locked in. It may sound boring, but the key is repetition, repetition, and repetition. If the item to be remembered has a rhythm or a tune, so much the better. Poetry sticks much faster than prose. I also write things down. The act of writing makes things stick more quickly and firmly in my mind. I date all of my notes. I may not remember exactly what was said or done, but I will remember when I said or did it. I review my notes regularly and often. The act of reading them further sets them in my mind. If I want to keep something in the front of my mind, I write it on a card or piece of paper and put it in my tickler file to be read once a day for a week, then once a week for a month or so until it becomes part of me. Then, I refer to it once a month for as long as it is important. I read through my notes and suspense items early in the morning when my mind is fresh. Then, I go about the business of the day. And I remember.

Land of Giants

I was raised by giants in a land largely untouched by time.

Except, they weren't giants in the normal sense of the word, but men and women of normal stature. There was little to differentiate them from others of that time and place.

The men were mostly farmers or tradesmen, and often craftsmen of great skill. Most had served their country during the second World War and then come home to marry, to make their living, and to raise their families. Few, if any, had ever seen the inside of a college or university.

The women were almost all wives and the mothers of my friends, yet they were home makers of great skill and prowess.

For someone outside of the community, these giants probably appeared altogether too average. But they were nonetheless giants, at least in terms of their influence on the boy that I was and on those with whom I grew up.

My Dad, who was one of their number, was quick to point to them as examples.

One of the highest compliments Dad could pay was "He'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it." But it went beyond mere generosity to encompass the kind of charity in which neighbour helps neighbour simply because he is a neighbour and help is needed. And neighbour accepts the help of neighbour knowing that they will one day be moved to return the same kind. It was all a normal part of life.

Most deals were sealed with a handshake among friends. Even at the bank, where signatures were required by law, it was the handshake and not the signature that sealed the transaction. Ditto the auto dealer, the implement dealer, and the farmers' co-op.

Signatures were for transactions between strangers. Neighbours trusted neighbours, and woe be unto the neighbour who proved unworthy of that trust.

Almost everybody in the community knew everybody else. And, to a small boy, it seemed that everybody greeted everybody else when they met, even lifting two fingers from the steering wheel to greet one another when they met on the road.

I went back to the community a while back, and there have been changes. Most of the farms have been supplanted by residences. Instead of dairy barns and corn fields, there are houses and not a few McMansions. Yet, even with the changes to the geography the attitudes that permeated my upbringing remain.

Neighbours still look out for neighbours. Neighbours still trust neighbours. And neighbours still greet neighbours when they meet. In these things, it remains a land untouched by time. I pray that it ever remains so.

One of the advantages of having been raised by giants is that one takes on their characteristics. Perhaps, one day I will be a giant too.