Aging, with Attitude

I've noticed something lately: I'm becoming my parents, while my offspring are becoming, well, me (though a much younger me).

For starters, there are the aches and pains. When my kids were little, and I wanted to take them to the beach or park so that they could get rid of some excess energy (and I wouldn't have to think about the housework), I'd call my grandmother up.

Now, mind you, I called both of my grandmothers on a regular basis. They were very different from each other, but definitely cool, each in their own way. But while Dad's mom lived in New York (state, not city), Mom's mom and I lived in the same Florida county; therefore, it was Grandma Hallock I'd call for the weather update.

After catching up on the pleasantries, I'd mention that I was planning to take the kids out. "The meteorologist on Channel 8 said that there's a forty percent chance of rain today, something about a cold front coming through, so I'm wondering if it's safe to head for the beach."

"Well, hon, my arthritis is only bothering me a little," she'd tell me. "I think you should be fine today, but maybe not tomorrow."

Funny thing is, her arthritis was almost always right. Go figure...

I'd heard from both grandmothers and their friends that the weather would change soon because "I can feel it in my bones." My younger self used to think that was old people crazy talk, but over the past decade or so, I've been noticing how true it seems.

A couple of mornings ago, I woke up with a painfully stiff, sore neck. I didn't have a headache or a fever, which was good; it's always nice to rule out anything serious. Most writers tend to be a bit neurotic. I'm not as neurotic as, say, Woody Allen, but on some days, many of us could give Woody a run for his neurotic money.

I grabbed a tube of BenGay and slapped some on. I have several tubes of it, as well as Tylenol's version of it (Precise). A certain offspring, who could easily be on Extreme Couponing, had sent them to us several months before moving to Florida when she'd picked them up for mere pennies. So, after putting BenGay on my neck, and popping a couple of Tylenol and four baby aspirin, I eased into the kitchen to start the coffee.

But the neck continued to hurt throughout the day. When it did ease a little, my left knee...well, you get the general idea. The cold front that had come through had decided to settle in. While it wasn't a seventy-five percent chance of rain sort of thing, it did tell me that the weather would be this way for a couple of days.

An aside: I've been known to laugh in late August, early September when the meteorologists on TV say that there's a cold front coming through in the next few days. I live in Florida. While it does occasionally get down-right cold in January or February (temperatures in the teens are cold, as far as I'm concerned), cold fronts in Florida in August or September might just bring the temperature down a degree or two to a nice, brisk 79 or 80. Brrr! Not! But it did get into the high 50s last week...

Another thing I've noticed, heading into the end of my fifties: I tend to have a lower tolerance for some things (like, um, manure) than I used to, while things that used to absolutely drive me nuts hardly phase me.

A while back, I was riding with my friend Kevin, who happens to drive cab. We first met when we both drove for the same cab company. I'd started first, then he showed up maybe a year later, then quit for maybe a few months before climbing back into a taxi. Kevin's a few years younger than I, and he describes himself as a grump or grouch.

One morning, Kevin was driving me some place or other. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, when people sort-of forget how to drive. It's like, they're in the right-hand lane, thinking of turning into this group of stores coming up to buy something, when suddenly and right now, they realize that the bank is on the left and they need to hit it up before shopping. We were behind three-lanes-and-half-a-block-worth of people driving like this.

So, Kevin had been grousing for the last couple of minutes as we ease south along Forty-Ninth Street that the other drivers are idiots, that you should have seen that guy plow into that pick-up truck this morning, the fact that we were only his third call of the day. His second call was a regular customer, but his first call was one that prompted him to tell M. and me, "You won't believe the call I got at 6:30 this morning. I hadn't even gotten my coffee, the address they gave me didn't exist, and after ten minutes of looking for him, he ran out from between a couple of houses and told me to hurry, he was late for work! I think he'd already been drinking..."

Finally, I looked over at him and said, "Kevin, you are such a grump!!!" As I said that, a car from the left lane cut across all three lanes of traffic, nearly hitting both us and the car in fron of us, before ducking into a strip mall, all the time waving Sorry, thanks! at everyone he'd cut off or almost hit. "What's with this (expletive)!" I practically yelled.

As we eased up to the light, Kevin looked at me slightly askew and, smiling, said, "And you call me a grump?"

Another story: My daughter, M.H., and I talk quite frequently. Once, several years ago, when we were on the phone, G. was doing something or other that she'd been told not to do. Let's face it: most kids do that, especially when the parent who said not to do it is on the phone.

At one point, M.H. told G. to "stop that right now." G. didn't, so M.H. said, "Don't make me count to three!"

By now, I was smiling, but trying not to let a snicker come across the phone. This sounded too familiar.

"Okay, that's it!" I heard. "One, two, three!" Then, to me, "I'll be right back." As she put the phone down, I could hear, "You're going to your room!" She was immediately informed that that was fine, G. had a TV, VCR and radio in her room. "Not any more, you don't! I'm taking them out right now and you can stay in your room until you apologize and make it right!" A stream of I'm sorrys followed this, along with much crying and wailing. But M.H. held firm.

When she finally picked up the phone, my daughter had one question for me: "When did I turn into you?", to which I responded, "When you became a parent!"

Life goes on, we age, and, if we're lucky, we manage to mantain our sense of humor.

To Kill A Mockingbird

I'm a writer, and I'm also a reader. I feel that the two are strongly connected; most of the writers I know also read a lot. Some of us touch base periodically to get caught up on books, articles and stories we've read: "Just started reading..." "Oh, I read that last month. Loved it; couldn't put it down," or "I really couldn't get into to at all because...Finally had to put it down."

I've picked up several books - and enjoyed them - on the word of other writer/readers. I've also felt better knowing that someone else whose writing I enjoy and whose opinion on good books is similar to mine says that he or she really couldn't get into whatever book I found lacking.

Most of us have favorite books that we go back to time and again. One of my favorites is Harper Lee's classic, To Kill A Mockingbird. I just finished it again for the umpteenth time this morning. The copy I put back on one of my many bookshelves is easily the tenth (or more) copy I've owned; I tend to reread it until it falls apart. One copy that I'd bought did manage to get gift-wrapped and sent to my mom several Christmases ago; that one doesn't get added to the count.

"Thanks for sending To Kill A Mockingbird this year," Mom said when she called. It had been years since she'd read it, and had been meaning to pick up a copy. Several weeks later, she called to tell me it was better than she remembered. I'm always glad when the two of us agree on a book; reading is one of the loves she passed on to me.

One of the many things I frequently find interesting in Harper Lee's book is how she manages to tie Atticus Finch's thoughts on Mrs. Dubose's bravery at the end of Part I to the fight Atticus faces in Part II. While Mrs. Dubose's thoughts on Atticus's defending Tom Robinson are a reflection of many of the townspeople's sentiment - as well as the nation's sentiments on race during the 1930s, they are drastically different from Atticus Finch's sentiment, as well as that of several of the people who fit prominently in the book. Atticus Finch may have been appointed to defend Tom Robinson by the court; however, he intends to actually defend the innocent man.

But back to what Atticus says about Mrs. Dubose: After he returns from her house and tells Jem and Scout that Mrs. Dubose has died, he says that she was the "bravest person I know." Why? Jem wants to know. How can Atticus say this, when Mrs. Dubose held such different views from his own? It turned out that, while dying, she was addicted to morphine for the pain from her illness and she wanted to come off it before she died. Courage, to Atticus's way of thinking, isn't "'...a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do. Mrs. Dubose won, all ninety-eight pounds of her...She was the bravest person I know.'"

Before and during Tom Robinson's trial, Atticus tries his hardest to win Tom's freedom. Miss Maudie tells Jem and Scout afterwards that while the verdict was a foregone conclusion - the American South, 1930s, a black man's word against a white man's word - that Atticus was the only lawyer in the area who could keep a jury deliberating for as long as it did. Afterwards, Atticus intended to appeal the verdict. True, this may be something lawyers are supposed to do, but considering the time/place/race issue, many lawyers may not have pushed the issue. Atticus knew, going in, that it would be an up-hill battle, but he was even more courageous than he had given Mrs. Dubose credit for.

The ending - when Bob Ewell attempts to kill Jem and Scout, only to die by falling on his own knife as the reclusive Boo Radley rescues the children - is as moving as the rest of the book.

The somewhat battered copy is now back on the bookshelf, and will be retrieved in another year or so to be reread.

Yesterday's Meal - Another memory in the making

My daughter M.H. and her family moved here over the summer, arriving June 30. M. and B. had lived in Rhode Island, which is where B.'s family is from, for the past 15 years; their daughter was born there.

After moving to their own apartment in July, their car proceeded to die; nothing like a blown engine to kill a car. Granted, it wasn't their fault; M.H. had checked fluid levels, etc. But that particular car had been trouble from the start. They picked up a scooter - basic transportation - but not something that can be used to cart the family around. Which brings us to holidays...

B. is one of several siblings, all of whom met up at their mom's house for holiday meals. The plan, once they were in the apartment here, was that they'd come here for holidays, thus starting new memories...but this was before the car died. The buses, which run on an altered holiday schedule, would have to work, since cabs between their place and ours is a little much. But since buses don't accommodate dogs (unless they're service animals), and since their dog would need to go out periodically, the plan was that we (my younger 2 sons and I) would go to their place.

Two of us headed for the bus stop around 10:20; the youngest hadn't felt up to snuff the evening before. The two of us hoofed the almost 3/4 - mile to the stop with several minutes to spare; ten minutes later, we exited the first bus and headed across the parking lot of a strip mall to catch the second.

This particular strip had been here forever, it seemed. There had been an A&P here when I first moved to the area, more decades ago than I care to mention. There had also been a dollar store, a restaurant where my sister had once waitressed while putting herself through nursing school (the restaurant has moved twice, now settled nicely maybe two miles away), a drugstore, and, out front, a bank that had put up a huge Christmas tree made simply out of lights, placed on its roof Thanksgiving weekend, that stayed through New Years'; the thing could be seen for miles. Then the A&P pulled out of the area, another grocery store moved in, but that ended up vacating the mall several years later. Half the strip mall has been bull-dozed, the drugstore is now where...well, you get the picture...

I called M.H. from my cell phone as we walked through the lot. "We decided not to come," I told her when she answered.

"What?!"

Not to worry, I told her. We were on our way to the second bus.

A young man sat at the bus stop. While we waited, he mentioned that the bus should be there in a few minutes; it was, and we all boarded, en route to holiday meals.

"Hey, how are you guys!" the driver exclaimed. Bob used to drive the Shuttle bus, a route that my son M. and I use a lot. Back then, we discovered that Bob's one food weakness was pizza, while his favorite football team were the Steelers. ("Does it get any better'n that?" he asked one Monday when he mentioned he'd watched the Steelers beat a friend's team while watching at his friend's, and eating pizza.)

We got caught up while picking up other passengers, discovering that he'd put in for a transfer back to the Shuttle bus.

"So, what's your daughter putting on that Thanksgiving pizza?" Bob kidded, to which we responded, "Turkey, of course!"

A small group of men boarded the bus; it soon became apparent that they were vets and were heading to the nearest American Legion post for dinner; they exited maybe two stops before us.

"We need the stop right after the Pinellas Trail," I told Bob as the vets piled off to head for the Legion. M.H. had told me that there was a stop directly across the street from their apartment complex. But it turned out that that stop was the second one after the trail; Bob stopped at the first one, which was immediately after it, which was across the street from the east end of the apartments. We thanked Bob and told him it was great seeing him again.

"See you soon," he said as the doors shut.

The bus's back door shut at the same time; the man who'd gotten on when we did was getting off here, too. While we were heading more toward the west end of the apartment complex, he was heading toward the east. He climbed over the wall at that end, then slid down a short hill, before walking off toward the south-east end. M. and I headed west for the complex's main entrance.

As we walked along the sidewalk, I spotted the stop that M.H. had told us about. "Now we'll know where to get off next time," I told M. He nodded.

Soon we were knocking at their door. B. answered the door and let us in with a "Happy Thanksgiving."

The apartment smelled of turkey and food. I handed over a bag that I'd brought from home: two loaves of freshly baked pumpkin bread.

We relaxed over munchies, then feasted on turkey, potatoes, stuffing, casserole, bread, rolls and pie. M.H. had started the turkey at one that morning, before heading to bed. "Then I got up at four, basted it once or twice, then got up at eight and set the oven a little hotter." It was her first official holiday turkey, and it turned out great. The casserole, from a recipe she picked up at the local Publix, was a nice new addition; M. and I both agreed I needed to make it some time in the near future.

We ate, washed down everything with soda, gabbed, listened in when B. talked to his mom on the phone ("Tell Grandma to Skype us when she calls back!" G., my granddaughter, told B.; "Did you hear that?" he asked his mom, then told G., "She said she will," then, just before he hung up, I told him to tell his mom "happy Thanksgiving" for us), gabbed and ate some more.

Too soon, M. and I had to head for the bus stop to head home. "When does the bus come by?" M.H. asked. I thought it was in maybe 10 minutes.

Turned out, we could have waited another 5 or so before heading out. But since the buses on the holiday schedule are sporadic, we needed to be on time.

As we waited on the bench to head back, I thought of all the women and men who'd had to wait for buses over the years, including on holidays. It seemed, well, not quite sad or disheartening, but working class. I also thought of a short story in a book of working class writings, edited by Janet Zandy. The book is titled Calling Home: Working-Class Women's Writings, an Anthology, and the story I thought about, Maggie May by Lucia Berlin, describes a young widow who cleans houses for a living, riding buses between jobs. It is a beautifully crafted story in a wonderful anthology. I think of the story periodically when on the buses.

Soon, the 74 arrived; it was not the same one that we'd arrived here in, so, of course, we didn't see Bob. At this point, M. and I were the only passengers; the man who'd gotten on and off the same times we had, earlier, was nowhere to be seen. But within a few stops, we were joined by the vets who'd ridden with us earlier. They were quietly thankful for the time they'd spent together, talking about ordinary life. Most of them got off where they'd gotten on when en route to the Legion, but one stayed on until after we'd exited the bus on our return trip, reading a magazine about, I think, South Carolina.

Turns out we just missed the second bus we needed to get home (which was the first bus we'd used that morning), so we ended up taking a cab the rest of the way home; it was that or wait a little more than an hour for the next bus.

Was it a good holiday? Yes. Did we enjoy it? Definitely. Will it be part of our family memory?

Thankfully, yes.

Thanksgiving stories and meals

Whether you're a Christian, Jewish, Muslim, B'nai, atheist, chances are you have holiday memories. Most of us have them, and, if we've been exceptionally lucky, most of those holiday memories are good.

A few of mine deal with having my grandparents on either side coming to our house, opening presents (at Christmas), and large meals involving turkeys and/or ham, depending on which set of grandparents were coming over. In one house, when we lived in Connecticut, there was a music room (it was a large Colonial house), where we'd all gather to sing holiday music while Mom played the piano. Very Norman Rockwell-esque.

Now, I'm sure that things weren't always wonderful - someone would have too much to drink, this relative wasn't talking with that one - but we tend to forget those less-than-stellar memories, or, if we remember them, gloss them over into something bordering on amusing.

Once I moved out on my own, the memories changed. Better? Just different. There was the first Thanksgiving that my ex- and I spent together without going to either set of paretns' homes. Although I'd fixed mashed potatoes before, the potatoes that year never quite cooked enough to mash, yet somehow managed to burn. Thank goodness, the cooking skills improved...

There are several Thanksgivings that stand out...

My ex- used to tell me that cooking a large holiday meal was a waste of time and energy; his mom used to settle on meatloaf and a dozen deviled eggs. "How about meatloaf?" he'd ask.

For Thanksgiving? Christmas? I'd think. It was what we might have for Sunday dinner, not holidays.

"I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."

Deviled eggs ended up on the menu, but they accompanied the turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, rutabags, peas-with-pearl-onions, and pies; they weren't the main dish.

Yet every year, we'd hear that "I'd be happy with just a dozen deviled eggs."

After we split up, I invited him for a holiday meal. When he showed up, I handed him - yup, you guessed it - a plate with a dozen deviled eggs.

"But I smell turkey and apple pie!"

Aren't you the one who said...? Finally, I let him off the hook; yes, he'd get the turkey, et al, if he didn't mind sharing the eggs, The eggs may've been hard-boiled, but that didn't mean I had to be.

Later, after my ex- passed away too young, I met my future second husband. Thanksgiving was coming, and I invited him for dinner, as well as one or two other co-workers (we drove for a local cab company at the time), and several relatives.

The deal was that Paul would stop by around 4:00. Around quarter til, I realized I'd forgotten something at the store and told my oldest son that I was running out to pick it up; would he please keep an eye out for an older gentleman who, I hoped, would be stopping by?

"Sure, not a problem."

I left J.A. chopping up the rutabaga in the kitchen.

But Paul drove by while I was out, didn't see my cab, and kept going. I heard dispatch talk to him once while I was heading back to the house, but didn't tell dispatch to tell Paul to stop by; I figured he simply would. And the driver I really didn't care about did show up, after we'd eaten, and I'd dropped J.A. back at home in the Ybor section of Tampa.

The next morning, when I went to cash out, Marsha - one of the cashiers - asked, "What's this I hear about you standing someone up?" That's when I learned that Paul had driven by while I was out; he thought I'd stood him up, while I thought he stood me up.

I offered to bring him some turkey, but by that time, it was too late. He also wouldn't come for Christmas dinner.

By the next year, we were married. We kidded that it was funny that we had to get married to insure that he get a home-cooked Thanksgiving dinner. We also planned how things would go when we cashed out the next day.

Friday morning, as we wandered into the office and saw that Marsha wasn't busy, we started in.

"You promised that if we got married, I could have a turkey dinner," Paul said loudly. "Instead, you handed me a stupid bologna sandwich!"

"It was turkey bologna!" I shot back.

"Can it, you two!" Marsha said. "I'm not buying it!" Busted!

Years later, Paul died in October, three weeks shy of our anniversary.

The first week in November, when I went grocery shopping, I picked up a turkey. I wasn't sure I was up to Thanksgiving, but I figured my sons deserved a dinner (and one with more than a dozen deviled eggs). Besides, Thanksgiving had been Paul's and my holiday.

A few days later, a friend - who happened to be my oldest son's mother-in-law - called from Tennesse. "A friend of mine is going to be calling you in a little while. Her name is C___, and when she calls, just accept what she's doing and thank her."

Sure enough, C___ called maybe fifteen minutes after I got off the phone with Linda. "Just wanted to let you know I found out from J.A. which Publix you shop at, so I ordered a complete Thanksgiving dinner for you and the boys. Comes with corn bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, an apple pie and a pumpkin pie. It's already paid for so you can't say no. Just pick it up after 3:00 p.m. the day before Thanksgiving."

After hanging up, I got to thinking. The turkey I'd already bought would stay frozen until Christmas.

A few days later, I was on the phone when J. informed me that the next door neighbors were walking up the sidewalk pulling their year-old twins in a wagon.

That's nice, I said.

"They're carrying a large box," J. said. I was curious, but stayed on the phone. "They're coming up to the house!"

That got my attention, so I cut the phone call short and went to the door. Turns out, we were being handed a third turkey and all the trimmings! After thanking the neighbors, I set about putting the extra turkey and trimmings away.

Then, about three hours later, another neighbor came by with her mom...who was handing us - you guessed it - turkey number four!

Now the freezer needed to be repacked to accomodate three frozen turkeys (the one to be picked up the day before would be pre-cooked).

The next morning, I called my friend Kevin so I could head to the store. On the way there, I told him about the four turkeys. He kept giving me these weird sideways glances.

Finally, as we waited at a traffic light, he informed me, "I'm glad you told me about this now instead of later." Turned out the $5 I was about to hand him for the ride to the store would have been enough to allow him to buy a complete turkey dinner from Publix, to be picked up the day before Thanksgiving.

"No, please don't," I told him. I also told him that, while I really appreciated the gesture, five turkeys were definitely a little much.

I'm sure Paul was looking down at this, smiling, and thinking that it sure beat a bologna sandwich and deviled eggs...

Psychoanalyzing the Cats...

Q: What does an indoor cat do?
A: Anything it wants, with cattitude.

So, I have two cats. Maybe the correct phrasing is that I live with two cats, and give in to most of their whims, the main exception being that I don't let them hang around outside. That's not to say they don't occasionally make a mad dash for the door...

Karma Kitty is a miniature black panther, who came into our house first (see "I'm going to the cats..."), and who is the king of all he surveys. His sister, Drexie Calabash, is a delicate-looking black and grey tabby with a white belly and white paws. She's half his size, but managed to get him in line the second day we had her. Nothing like getting the aggressive old-timer into a headlock, then proceeding to kick him in the face while biting his ears. After the third time, even the most stubbornly territorial cat will call for a truce.

The two are five-and-a-half years old, with very distinct personalities (or catalities), but they are both adept at bringing just enough chaos and eye-rolling to those around them.

Karma is pretty laid back, for the most part. He's also a closet-escape artist. He'll go for a week or more at a time, letting people go through the front door without moving from the couch; if anything, he'll look up, give whoever's opening the door a look that says, "Do you mind? I'm trying to sleep, here!" Then, once everyone is lulled into a false sense of belief that he thinks of himself as an indoor cat, he makes his move - fast. You've heard the term black lightning? That's him.

A while back, this lovely young woman kept knocking at my front door, wanting to convert me to her church's beliefs. I'd tried delicately, then somewhat bluntly that I had my own beliefs and church, thank you very much. Yet, she persisted...until Karma took matters into his own paws.

One day, while writing away, I had the windows open, screens in place so the cats could catch a breeze without getting out, the TV tuned to the Food Network (Paula Deen's show was on; been hooked on her show for years), so it wasn't like I could pretend no one was home. The UPS truck had gone by twice in less than five minutes, and was slowing down on its third pass. I heard the brakes, then a knock on the door. Oh, boy!, I thought. Presents! (Even though I usually have to pay for stuff delivered by UPS, I still think of 'em as presents; I mean, UPS doesn't deliver bills!) I opened the door.

"Hey, I was just wondering," said the young woman, as the UPS truck pulled away from our neighbor's house, "Can I leave you a few tracts?"

Karma saw his chance and charged out the door, running toward the other neighbor's yard and huge tree.

"Noooo!" I yelled, tearing after Karma. "You get back here, right now!" Yeah, like a cat's going to listen, right? He jumped over the small wall around the neighbor's front porch; I had to take the long route, bypassing the wall to get to the opening.

"Come here!" I called. "You know I love a good Karma! Please, be a good Karma!"

He looked at me as I got closer, then jumped back over the wall. I turned and ran back through the opening, and watched as he dashed to the other side of the large tree. He and I circled the tree, me calling for him to be a good Karma, not a bad Karma, until I finally snagged him. As we headed toward my house, I held him so that I could look him square in the eye. "You know I don't need a bad Karma, I want good Karma!"

I swear, he had a mischievious look on his face; the woman, however, eyes wide, decided that no amount of tracts could help someone who was into cosmic karma...Haven't seen her since.

Usually, Karma's pretty laid back. Oh, he will get a little feisty if someone rubs his velvety fur when he's not in a loving mood; several people find him a little intimidating that way. He does tend to lie on me in the evening when I'm watching TV and purrs in my ear.

Drexie, however, is a jittery little girl. She loves love, but on her terms, sort-of a "Love me, love me from afar" kind of gal. She loves people stroking her fur, but forget about picking her up.

She also tends to be a little ditzy. Once, when I badly hurt my leg after falling off a ladder, she decided to love me up during one of my many naps over the next few weeks. At one point, several days after the fall, she decided to rub up against my face, then proceeded to cat-walk down my hurt leg. Who'da thunk a six-pound cat could hurt a leg that much! I screamed loud enough that my son, who was on the other end of the house with his headphones on, listening loudly to music on the computer heard me and came running. Drexie, in a panic, came running back so that her nose was a mere inches from mine, frantically meowing her concern.

I loved her up, told her I was okay; once she was sure I was okay, she proceeded to cat-walk back down my leg! This happened three times, at which point, she was picked up and placed on a bookcase by the door by my son. Drexie was upset; her mommy was hurt! She jumped back onto the bed, landing right on the same leg. (Like you didn't see that coming, right?) Sweet kitty, but a little ditzy.

She also loves a couple of catnip mice that I bought for her and Karma last Christmas. She chats at them in a loud meowing voice, dragging them all over the house. I would love to know what she's saying to her mousies.

What really puzzles me is this: She's gotten into the habit of occasionally dropping one or the other into her water bowl. I have yet to figure out whether she's: 1) trying to wash the mouse, 2) let the mouse get something to drink, or 3) fix herself some catnip tea. (Left in the bowl long enough, the catnip from the mice tends to turn the water a pale shade of green.)

Darn, I wish the cats could talk!

Walk/Run

I've been goofing off lately from my morning walk/run.

There was a time when I wouldn't think of not going for a morning run. It tends to help me focus, zone-out, get-it-together...you get the idea. Those of you who run or race-walk - or even just plain walk - know exactly what I'm talking about: it's that me time that we frequently forget about in the crazy, fast-paced world we live in. It helps enough that when Paul was still here, if I didn't go out for a run and was just a tad bit, um, cranky, he'd tell me, "Oh, for crying out loud, go, already!" The man was as subtle as "a box of rocks" (his words).

I'd managed to keep up the running for years...then, slowly, missed days at a time. It was one thing when I'd have an early class and have to catch the bus to get there on time.

Injuries also made it difficult. Two years ago, after falling off a ladder at roof level and landing on a cement driveway on Halloween, I was unable to go for a walk - much less a run - for months. I had gone for an hour-long walk every holiday for close to ten years; once the turkey was in the oven, off I'd head to a nearby park. I wasn't even able to do that on Thanksgiving that year. Christmas was a little iffy; the route that normally took an hour took an hour and a half then.

After that, the running slowed to walking with an occasional run...and even that got side-tracked with an occasional sprained ankle, hurt knee, what-have-you.

However, I did manage to slowly start back. Yesterday morning, I found out why I loved running (or walking). Here was the spot where I frequently caught a smell that reminded me of my grandparents' apartment; there was the barn that reminded me of where I grew up in Connecticut, as well as pleasant memories of riding lessons in New York. The wild peacock I saw (there are loads of 'em around here) brought back other memories. Between all those and the endorphins from exercise, I know I'll be getting back into running...or at least walking.

Rev. Robert W. Castle, Jr.

Where does one start when talking about someone who has been part of one's family history? Especially when that person has recently passed away. That is what I'm wondering when writing about Reverend Robert W. Castle, Jr.

Who's that?you might be asking. And how does he fit into your family's history? Well, I guess that's a good place to start. Grab a cup of coffee or tea (or cocoa, if you'd like), sit back, and I'll tell you.

My parents, Jane and John, went to college at St. Lawrence University in Canton, New York; that was where they met. Of course, as anyone who has gone to college - or anywhere for any length of time - they met many people, some of whom were destined to be part of their lives. Robert Castle was one of those people. Bob was a student at St. Lawrence, and graduated the same time as my parents. Within months, my folks married, and Bob went on to Berkeley Divinity School in New Haven, becoming an Episcopal priest; I'm not sure when he married Nancy, his first wife.

Both couples managed to stay in touch throughout the years, getting together for dinner at each others' homes. Somewhere, Mom has photos of me playing with Bob and Nancy's children during one of the evening gatherings.

When did the Bob Castle stories begin? Probably shortly after he began rocking the Church's establishment. I know I heard about what he'd done while I grew up.

One such story was how, given a dying church in one ghetto, he managed to get people coming back to church. The first week, his sermon consisted of marching the dozen or so African-American congregants out in front of the church to a nearby storm drain. There, he held up a key.

"Does anyone know what this is?" he asked. After acknowledging that yes, it was the only key to the church, he opened his hand up, thereby letting the key drop into the storm drain. "Oops, guess I can't lock up the church." After bringing the congregants back inside, Bob announced that, to his way of thinking, those who were poor and struggling to make ends meet - especially if one was black, hispanic, or other disenfranchised group - needed to be able to get into church to pray 24/7 more than someone who was living on Easy Street.

He was also one to rally his slowly growing congregation whenever someone needed help with their rent, when a landlord had turned off a building's heat during a February blizzard, gave New York City grief when unmarked police cars parked on sidewalks, blocking access to church.

During race riots that seemed to spring up during the 1960s, Bob was one of the few whites who was able to walk the predominantly black neighborhoods, telling people to please calm down, let's fix things peaceably without getting attacked.

At one point, he moved his family to Vermont, where he ran a general store and did social work. Why? Because he'd been such a thorn in the diocese's side that the diocese decided it couldn't (wouldn't?) place him in another parish.

Years later, he was able to get another parish job.

During the late 1960s (late '68/early '69), my dad heard that Bob, who'd published a book of prayers titled Prayers from the Burned-Out City, would be giving a reading from his book in Providence, Rhode Island. Dad pulled me out of school for the day and invited several nuns from the Catholic high school where I was a student to come along to hear Bob. I remember Dad and I going up to Bob afterwards and talking with him.

In the early 1990s, director Jonathan Demme caught wind of a radical Episcopal priest with a familiar sounding name. He (Demme) had a cousin named Robert Castle. But the Bobby he remembered from his youth had been a somewhat quiet person; here was someone causing a ruckus, getting arrested, having marched decades earlier with Martin Luther King, Jr., talking with Black Panthers, fighting for the poor...could this be the same Bobby Castle? Turns out, it was. After reconnecting, Demme's documentary titled Cousin Bobby aired on PBS's POV series. Bob, who eventually retired, was thrust into several of Demme's movies. (If you've ever seen the movie Philadelphia with Tom Hanks as a man dying of AIDS, with Joanne Woodward as Hanks's mom, you've seen Bob Castle; he played Hanks's dad in the movie.)

Over the years, especially whenever I'd pick up my copy of Prayers from the Burned-Out City or re-watched Philadelphia, I've thought of Bob, and wondered how to go about contacting him. I'd want to tell him how I'd told both Mom and Dad to watch PBS when Cousin Bobby had aired; how the folks had divorced; how Dad had passed away in 2007, but that we'd talked about Bobby throughout the years.

Last night, as I was checking my email, I saw that there was one from POV. I usually open that one last, as I know there's usually something that will hold my interest. The first story had a photo of Jonathan Demme and Bob Castle, with a headline about Cousin Bobby. Of course, I had to read that. But the news was not up-beat: the article mentioned that Cousin Bobby, Bob Castle, part of our family history, had passed away on October 27 of this year at the age of 83. He was survived by his second wife, his children (except for Robert III, who died at 19 in a swimming accident), his step-children, grandchildren and step-grandchildren and great-grandchildrent.

I called Mom and told her the news, then, after hanging up, got teary-eyed on and off the rest of the evening.

God speed, Bobby. We'll meet again someday. And say hi to Dad and Paul for me, okay? Peace.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/11/07/nyregion/robert-w-castle-jr-outspoken-harlem-priest-dies-at-83.html?_r=0

http://newportvermontdailyexpress.com/content/reverend-robert-w-castle-jr

http://www.pbs.org/pov/cousinbobby/#.UJ1QLY7FX1I

Art Show

So, I mentioned my photography, right? The three large framed photos? (Check out last Sunday's post on selective deafness...the part about the yard sale.) The darn things are 20 X 30 inches, without the frames. Most people who've seen them have been somewhat impressed, judging by comments made.

I'd joined the Pinellas Park Art Society earlier in the year. The group meets every month, holds classes in photography, water colors, drawing, oils, you name it, and has art shows that change on a monthly basis. Their web site is www.pinellasart.com.

This month's show is a combination of two shows in one: Florida: Past, Present and Future, and Mayor's Choice. With the Mayor's Choice, Pinellas Park's mayor shows up, looks at the artwork, and purchases art to display in City buildings. It's a win-win situation; the artists whose artwork is purchased earn something from their art, the artists also get publicity from having their work hanging throughout the city, and city-owned buildings - City Hall, library, police station, etc. - have something interesting to display on what might be otherwise plain walls.

I dropped off the above-mentioned three photos today. The meeting is Monday. Anyone wanting to see what photos were dropped off can find them at robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com.


Here's hoping...