Photo: Julien Delaunay

WHEN YOU GOTTA GO 

I'm not a fan of porta potties.

But when nature calls and you're away from the conveniences of a restroom, sometimes you have no choice.  As my mother-in-law used to say "What are you going to do?"  And in this case, it would be: use the damn outside toilet.

Porta potties go way back.  They were invented during World War II for ship crews that spent a long time on board without coming back to shore.  The first portable restrooms were constructed of metal and wood.  Later, they were made of fiberglass and polyurethane so they could be more easily moved.  To mask odors, a blue liquid was developed and added to the toilet.  This deodorizer contains a biocide to inhibit the growth of odor-producing bacteria.  

Though I'm happy to know the manufacturers put this blue stuff in porta potties, they might think long and hard about upping the fragrance.  I should know.   I've used plenty a porta potties during the years my daughter ran cross county.  Before a race when she and her teammates warmed up, I'd scout out the blue toilets.  Thank goodness they were not hard to find and were situated in an area that could be called Potty Parkway, Toilet Throughway, or Got to Go Row.  

My bladder had a mine of her own.  During those open-air races, she was quick to let me know that she demanded attention and would not take no for an answer.  One time when I was on my way to the potties, the men's race had just begun.  To get to the toilets one had to cross the runner's path.  I streaked across as fast as possible so that I wouldn't interfere with the race, but an enraged fan fussed at me.  Didn't he know I could run pretty darn fast when I had to go?

Just so you know, toilets on trains are no better than porta potties.  In fact, they're smaller (lots smaller) and not necessarily cleaner.  More, they can be nerve-wracking.  Several years ago, I got trapped in a bathroom on a train heading to Madrid.  It took me three to four minutes to get out.  When I returned to my seat my husband asked, "Any problems?"   

He could barely control his laughter.  He said that the indicator light at the entrance to bathroom had been flashing on and off.  I had no idea I was broadcasting my predicament.  In my defense, it was a Spanish lock so I'm pretty sure it worked differently than American locks.

Airplanes can be even worse.  There's always the possibility of turbulence. 

I would rather have a clean, nice-smelling, big bathroom when I'm away from home, but you take what you can get.  And those cross-country meets have groomed me well.  So, allow me to offer some tips, that is if you have the misfortune opportunity of using a porta potty.    

• Bring a tissue because you never know if the roll will be empty.  (Chances are good the roll will be empty).
• Roll up pants hems.  The floor may be damp due to rain, a spilled drink, or body fluid.   
• Do not look down.  Trust me, there's really nothing you'd want to see.
• Follow potty etiquette.  No line skipping.  Those standing at the front of the line have to wait till the door they're facing opens.  
• Hold your nose.  That deodorized blue liquid ain't fooling no one. 

À la prochaine! 

 

I'M AN INDOOR CAT AND I DON'T BELONG OUTSIDE

I never knew cats could bring me to tears. 

My sweet boy, Ozzie

Had I been blessed with foresight, I may have never have adopted one.  But since my daughter begged for a pet, we found a cat at the Lexington Humane Society, unaware of what the future would bring.   

Ollie was a smart cat.  He could obey commands like sit, stay, and come here.  He did however, have a peculiar habit.  Ollie insisted on scooping kibbles from his dish to the tray before eating them, which was quirky as well as noisy.  Sadly, Ollie only lived to be eight-years old.  He hid his illness well as most cats do.  When his symptoms began to show, it was too late to do much for him.  We tried to enrich his diet and to give him sub-cutaneous fluids, but nothing seemed to work.  Ollie was wasting away—not eating, not able to clean himself, not being able to make it to the litter box.  It was agonizing to see him struggle so much.  

Then after bringing him to veterinarian to administer fluids (we were not that successful at home), I learned that his condition would only worsen.  He could develop seizures.  So, it was time to make the painful decision to put Ollie to sleep.  I sat sat in the waiting room sobbing, my tears flowing like a fountain.  When the vet returned, I received Ollie's body wrapped in a clean white cloth.  I swore I'd never go through this heartbreak again.  

After three months, I missed having a cat in the house and consequently, I went back at the animal shelter.  Companionship outweighed the risk of heartache.  And the minute I saw Ozzie's eyes (one is amber and the other is green), I knew this was the cat for me.  

Ozzie is a good ol' boy.  The sweetest, loving cat.  A talker.  Ask him anything and he'll speak right up.  You want food?  He answers with a meh, meaning yes.  You want to go upstairs?  Meh.  You want to watch bird Youtube videos?  Meh.  Granted, his vocabulary is limited, but he'll speak up when spoken to.

As you can expect, he's as curious as any other cat.  If a cabinet is open, he'll climb inside.  If dinner is on the table, he'll hop up for a sniff.  If stray cat comes to our deck, he'll go to the door to have a look.  

Ozzie is not only curious, he's daring.  He'll slip outside if we have not completed closed a door.  He has darted out a few times, but we were able to catch him quickly.  But one time, he snuck out and the timing couldn't have been worse.  He took off to the great outdoors on the day we needed to pick friends up at the airport and go out for dinner.  

I was a nervous wreck. I envisioned him being run over by a car or getting into a fight with a stray cat.  I imagined him never finding his way back home.  My husband Jim and I had a few minutes to search for him in the neighborhood, but we didn't have any luck.  Our friend's flight would be arriving and we had to get going.  For my peace of mind, we kept the garage door up and the basement door open just in case he'd return.

During dinner, I had a hard time concentrating.  I fought back tears worrying about my sweet boy.  Daylight was fading.  Ozzie is an indoor cat.  He didn't have the skills to take care of himself in the wild.  Ever since we adopted him, we had always provided food and shelter.  

From the time we went to the airport, had dinner, and drove back home, Ozzie had been missing for four hours.  But when we pulled back into the garage, I caught a glimpse of something furry scurrying from the left side to the right side of the garage.  Ozzie!  Either he had been hiding in the garage the entire time, or he was close by and slipped inside the minute we pulled into the garage.  

Jim and I try to keep close tabs on Ozzie.  But no matter how careful we are, Ozzie could escape again, so there had to be a plan in place.  But we didn't know what we could do.  Then one evening, Jim and I took a walk in the neighborhood and discovered a lost puppy.  The dog wore tags that had his name, an address and contact number.  After making a phone call, we were able to unite him with his owner in less than ten minutes.

And that sparked the idea.  Though Ozzie is chipped and wears vaccination tags, he needed another tag with his name, an address, and a phone number.  It was easy enough to find tags online that could be personalized.  I found a cute one that had room for a name and a phone number (which we put on the front) and space for four lines of text on the back.  Neighbors would be able to learn his home address and give us a call.  They would see he's an indoor cat—and that he doesn't belong outside. 

We'd like to think that Ozzie is happy.  He could however, be bored being in inside.  To that I would say, "Sorry, my sweet boy.  Being inside keeps you safe."  But he wasn't born with good sense and one certainly can't reason with him.  When a door is ajar, it's an open invitation.  He just can't help himself.  Off he goes.  There are so many sights and smells to experience.  He'll take off regardless how it makes me feel.  I know, I know, he's a cat.  He's certainly not considering my feelings.  Still, I wish he had an inkling that his curiosity has the power to bring me to tears.     

Bonne année à tous! 

     

NOTHING STAYS THE SAME 

I'm stressing out about a tree that we will lose this year.  

See the elegant dogwood at the corner of the house?  That thirty-year old tree must be moved and it's likely it won't survive.

This came about because there was a crack in the foundation of our house which caused water to seep into the ceiling of the basement.  To fix the problem, the house will need to have piers placed under the foundation at the corner to lift and straighten it.  Right by the dogwood.

It breaks my heart that this magnificent tree will be dug up.  The dogwood and its twin have graced the corners of our house for decades, creating symmetry in the front landscaping.  Throughout most of the year, there is no shortage of color:  creamy-white blossoms in spring, emerald-green foliage in summer, and crimson berries and rust-red leaves during the fall.   

It's odd how we take things for granted, how we may fail to fully appreciate what we have.   When I glance through the sheers of the dining room window, I expect to see the leafy dogwood.  It's always been there.   And now, its days are numbered.       

I can't bear to lose this beautiful tree.  So, I did a little research and found that the best months to transplant a tree would be November through March.  It would be important to bring along as much of the root as possible without roughing up the root ball.  Ehh...this looks iffy.  Though we plan to have the work done late fall, expecting contractors to carefully uproot a tree with a bulldozer is unlikely.  My gut feeling is they won't give a sh*t.  

Even still, I needed to know if we could save the tree.  I asked my arborist friend B.G. to stop by and give us his opinion.  After taking a look at the dogwood and noticing how close it was to the house and how far its roots had spread, he said that it would not survive.  "The tree is too big," says B.G. 

We had another expert come by to have a look.  He said that if the tree is removed and then replanted it may have enough energy to flower in the spring, but it may not live much longer. 

Two grim opinions.  

And then, my husband interviewed three contractors.  Two of the three said the tree is in the way.  But one told us that they could work around the tree!  You know which one I'm rooting for (pun intended.) 

But who am I'm kidding?  The dogwood hugs the corner of the house.  It would be a miracle to work around a tree that's smack dab in the middle of an area that has to be dug up. 

I'm crushed about losing a tree that my husband planted thirty years ago.  This healthy dogwood is like an old friend.  Soon, it will be gone forever.  And I'll have to get used to the fact.  This will not be easy for me.  But like Carly Simon sings, "I know nothing stays the same."  

There is a slight chance that once the tree is dug up, it won't be damaged too much and it can be replanted.  If enough root ball is saved, it might survive.  For a moment, I have a flicker of hope.  Who knows what will happen?  All I know is to appreciate the now because tomorrow things may change.  Elegance may disappear.  So, I take a deep breath, step toward the window, and part the dining room sheers.    

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Photo: Anton Titov 

DANCING DURING THE PANDEMIC 

I miss taking ballet in the dance studio. 

Since April, I've been taking class on Zoom.  Laurie, our ballet teacher teaches from her carpeted loft.  I dance on the wood floor of the dining room after scooting the chairs and the table to the side.  Most of us use a chair for a barre, though one of the younger students has a barre at home.

This setup works fairly well for me unless my cat Ozzie decides to stretch out on the keyboard.  It may be comfy for him, but he blocks my screen view or sometimes presses a key to shut off Zoom.  So, after I move Oz (who then sits on my makeshift barre) I follow along by listening and watching my teacher.  When we've completed thirty minutes of barre exercises, we push our chairs out of the way to do center work.  Here's where it gets tricky.  Most of us have limited space, so our adagio (slow) and allegro (fast) movements are more confined.  We don't have the luxury to spread out for waltzing, pirouetting, and leaping across the room. 

Then in July, ballet studios in Kentucky opened their doors with safety measures in place. I joined Laurie's in-person class which had been limited to ten dancers. All students wore masks when entering the studio, used hand sanitizer, and did temperature checks.  The waiting area was divided into spaces six feet apart so that dancers could spread out to pull on leg warmers and step into ballet slippers.  Each student had their own barre to promote social distancing. 

I loved being back in class where I could receive personal instruction, chat with friends, and have the space to dance.  But I was concerned about doing ballet in the studio.  Even though we are required to enter with masks, not all of the students continued to wear one at the barre and during center work.  I get it.  Wearing a mask is no fun.  It makes me overheat and it catches my eye and distracts me, especially when spotting for pirouetting.  I can understand why some dancers don't want to wear one.  But I didn't feel safe when we moved from the barres to the center of the studio.  Trying to social distance was difficult.  Center work requires learning a combination of steps that move dancers in many directions across the floor.  For some, it was hard to remember to stay six feet apart.   

With every class, I was feeling more conflicted.  I wanted to be face to face with my classmates.  I wanted to receive correction and encouragement.  I wanted to have space to dance.  But I didn't feel comfortable even though the studio arrangement had been well-thought out.

So, after struggling about what to do, I decided to give up the in-person classes and to return to ballet lessons on Zoom.  For me, it's a good alternative.  It's an opportunity to be expressive and stay in shape.  At home, I am able to do barre and center work and receive instructions on improving technique.  Hopefully next year, I will be able to return to the studio and do ballet without any restrictions.  But for now, it will have to wait.  And that's okay.  Even with limited space and a keyboard loving cat, I can put on ballet shoes and dance.

À la prochaine! 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                Photo: Courier Journal 

A NON-TRADITIONAL RUN FOR THE ROSES  

I love to watch the Kentucky Derby.  It's not just a competition of three-year old thoroughbreds galloping around a dirt track.  It's a horse race steeped in tradition.

And yet the 146th running of the Derby was just plain sad.   

The Derby has always taken place during dogwood-blooming time on the first Saturday in May.  This year, it was in September.  

The Derby always drew fans dressed in classy suits and showy hats.  This year, no fans were allowed to sit in the grandstands.   

The Derby is always raced by jockeys wearing brightly-patterned silks.  This year the jockeys added face masks to their attire.    

On this Derby day, I think back to a happier, more carefree time, to the time I joined friends for the 100th running of the Derby.  We arrived at the entrance at 4:00 in the morning with coolers of food and drinks.  Since we had to wait for Churchill Downs to open, we dozed on blankets laid out on the pavement.  Four hours later, we made a beeline for the infield to grab a spot by the rail—a race in itself with other early-risers.  What I remember most is a warm sunny day, a crowd of hippies and partiers, a streaker who climbed a flag pole, and the Derby winner, Cannonade.    

Winning Impression, photo: Churchill Downs 

Experiencing one Derby in person was enough for me.  Ever since then, I watch the race at home with my husband, away from the sun and drunk fans and close to a bathroom where I don't have to wait in line. 

As always on Derby day, we sip on mint juleps.  It's a Mrvos tradition.  This year we concocted a batch using Woodford Reserve and topped it with blackberries and fresh mint from our garden.  I'm not much of a bourbon fan, but when the ratio of alcohol to simple syrup leans more to the sugary side, it's delicious.  And this sweet drink helped wash away some of the sadness that had settled upon Churchill Downs.

Another one of our Derby traditions is to root for a horse that we think will win the race.  This too, chased away some of the Derby blues.  We had something to look forward to.  My husband typically goes with the favorite.  I like to cheer on the grey horses.  I believe they try harder because their coats are not as flashy as the chestnut-colored thoroughbreds.  My money was on Winning Impression.  (He finished in 12th place in a field of fifteen.)

We added a new tradition this year.  My husband decided to make burgoo, a traditional dish served at Kentucky racetracks, made with beef, tomatoes, potatoes, mixed vegetables, thyme, sage, sherry and red wine.  Imagine a thick hearty stew.   Having good ol' comfort food also helped to lift our spirits.       

Our traditions make the Derby special, in spite of the changes brought on by COVID, changes that ultimately give all sports a melancholia, a palpable sadness whether it's football, baseball and basketball games or tennis matches or horse racing. 

I'm hoping by next spring, the regulations will have been eased and that the 147th Kentucky Derby will be run in the month of May.  That there will be grandstands filled with fans decked-out in fancy suits and elaborate hats.  That there will be jockeys wearing silks without face masks.  Churchill Downs is an elegant southern racetrack and the Run for the Roses should be held as it was conceived, ever so colorful, full of pageantry, and forever steeped in tradition. 

À la prochaine! 

Please follow me on Twitter and RT my pitches on October 29th for #PBPitch (and I'll reciprocate)  https://twitter.com/RandiLynnMrvos  

LOVING NOT ONE, BUT TWO STRAYS  

I'm not embarrassed to say that I love a scruffy cat called Putty.  

Putty is the cat that I took care of for over seven years.  Ever since a tom cat attacked him on our deck, I've seen very little of my sweet stray.      

Putty chilling after a dish of tuna

When Putty first came to our door begging for food, he was shy and he didn't hang around for long.  Over time, he became accustomed to me.  He'd follow me on the deck when I fed the birds or in the garden when I weeded.  He'd come to patio after I'd drive into the garage and greet me with a gravelly meow.  Putty would even let me pat his head.  He learned his name and would trot up to me when I called him.

Putty had it made.  This cat ate canned cat food and tuna. He was spoiled rotten and I loved spoiling him.

But after the cat fight, he's only returned one or two times.  I've seen him in the neighborhood when I take a walk, and I'll call him, but he doesn't come to me.  He only stops and stares.  I wonder where he hangs out.  I wonder if someone else feeds him.  I wonder if he has forgotten me.  

Kitty says, "Feed me." And I do.

Then this spring, another stray cat came to our deck.  She's beautiful and tiny and I call her Kitty.  You can see from this photo that her left ear has been clipped.  This is called ear-tipping and it is the universal sign that a feral cat has been sterilized.

Kitty is like a miniature version of Putty, though instead of having black spots on a white coat like Putty, she has striped spots.  Like Putty, she has green eyes and a pink nose.  She has the identical facial pattern as Putty, which looks like she's wearing a cap that comes to a point on her forehead, curves around her eyes, and extends down to the upper cheeks.  She looks like she could be his daughter.

 One night, I heard an angry growling sound coming from   outside.  It could only mean trouble.  Another stray, a huge   Russian Blue cat, was fighting with Kitty.  It was like a rerun of   Putty's skirmish on our deck.  I banged on the kitchen window but that did not stop him.  I opened the door and yelled at him, and then both cats ran away.  Luckily, the attack didn't harm Kitty or scare her from coming back. 

Kitty makes herself at home on our deck much like Putty had done, stretching out on her back with paws facing the sky, curling on a chair, or resting under the picnic table.  But no matter how comfortable she is lounging on the deck, I have not gained her confidence.  She stares at me through the kitchen door wanting to be fed.  Then when I fill her bowl, she skitters to the opposite side of the deck.  She comes to eat only after I close the door.  In time, this may change.  

Part of me feels that Putty's departure has made room for a cat that needs more attention than he does.  I try to wrap my head around the fact that Kitty is the cat that I'm supposed to be caring for, not Putty.  In a way that makes me feel better.  That somehow this is how things are meant to be.  But it doesn't mean I like it.  It's just how things are for now.

Though I enjoy having Kitty around, I am ever hopeful that Putty will return*.  Maybe during the winter months I'll be putting out tuna for him.  And when the weather gets colder, I'll be taking care of not one, but two strays, little Kitty and a cat that I call Putty. 

À la prochaine! 

*Putty stopped by on Sept.19th!!! Guess what he had for dinner?

A WRITER'S LIFE DURING A PANDEMIC 

It's no surprise that our lives have changed because of COVID-19.  While we strive to keep our routines like they were prior to the pandemic, I think it's safe to say we've all had to adjust.

Previously, I attended one ballet studio class and three French classes once a week and went to the gym every day.  Now, I take my ballet and French classes on Zoom in the evenings.  And though the gym opened a few weeks ago, I feel safer avoiding it for the time being.  To get exercise, I walk for at least an hour or more each day.  

Overall, my life hasn't changed drastically.  And I'm thankful that my routine is fairly normal.  So, this is pretty much the general structure of my day.   

          Feed Ozzie (there's food in his bowls,                                             Feed our beloved stray Putty 
         and yes, he has two food bowls)                                     

                                                   Have breakfast (notice who eats before me)                                                            

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

                                         

                Work on clients' manuscripts                                                     Work on my manuscripts

    Move the cat 

                             Tweet                                                                                      Work on my blog

                        Keep up with LinkedIn                                                    Create a pin for Pinterest

Study French

Have lunch

Move the cat

I used to workout at the gym after lunch. Now I walk in the neighborhood.

                                                                          

              Study French, encore                                                                              Move the cat                                                      

                                                                                              

Have dinner

Attend a Zoom class (French or Ballet depending on the night)

Work on my manuscripts

   And finally...relax with my hubby and Ozzie   

That's my typical day, packed with activities that keep me busy and productive. 

I have no major complaints...yet sometimes my life feels surreal, like I'm having a bad dream.  And when I wake up, everything will be back to the way it once was.  I'll be back dancing in the ballet studio, back learning French in a classroom and back working out in the gym.

But this is the reality, the new normal.

It's sad and frustrating that life has changed, that life is so different.  I could bitch and moan, but what good would that do?  So, I will strive to be thankful, aim to be positive, do my best to be patient, and be willing to find ways to adjust.

À la prochaine! 

THE LAST TWO DAYS OF MAY 

Two days before demonstrations broke out in response to George Floyd's death, my husband and I helped our daughter Abby relocate to Washington, DC.  During the 540-mile drive, we weren't thinking about anything political and we certainly didn't think there'd be civil unrest.  Our biggest concern was moving Abby safely.  Though this should be a happy occasion, we were sad that we would not be able to get physically close or hug one another because of COVID-19.

Feelings aside, these are...

the things I observed: 

• traffic was not heavy on the interstate or in Washington, DC.  There was little road construction.

• everyone social distanced in rest stop restrooms and washed their hands.

• only 40 - 50% of the travelers wore masks at rest stops.

• about 90% of the residents in the neighborhood of Mount Pleasant, Washington, DC wore masks.

• in the Chevy Chase neighborhood of Washington, DC, only 50% of adults picking up carry-out food wore masks.

• all employees in fast-food restaurants wore gloves and masks.

• dining rooms in fast-food restaurants were cordoned off and strips of tape were placed at six-feet intervals to ensure social-distancing when placing an order. 

• the hotel receptionist sat behind a large plastic shield. 

• the Embassy Suites looked like a ghost town.   

• Rock Creek Park was crowded, but people practiced social distancing. 

the things I didn't foresee: 

• the truck rental company not having the vehicle we had reserved.

• we'd have to park a block away from my daughter's apartment to move her in.

• I'd have to stand guard after the furniture was unloaded onto the sidewalk.

• some of the furniture being too heavy to be lifted up steps. 

• we'd have to rent a storage unit for the furniture that couldn't be carried into the apartment. 

• the move being so emotional for our family. 

the things I didn't expect:

• not having dinner because COVID-19 forced restaurants to close early. 

• the streets surrounding our hotel to be blocked by police cars.

• an angry, loud crowd outside our hotel shouting and throwing parking cones into the street. 

• riot police assembling on the street and lining up shoulder to shoulder behind bulletproof shields.

• my anxiety level to be sky-high, not knowing how the police or crowd of people would react.  

• Washington, DC locked down for a curfew. 

The last two days in May were stressful for our nation.  On a personal level, the weekend was equally as stressful.  But we got through it.  Despite a few glitches, the move went fairly well.  It actually turned out better than I had thought it would.  For months, the three of us had been social distancing and limiting contacts, so we felt safe to be close.  And therefore...

the thing I am most grateful for: 

• heart-felt hugs from a happy, loving daughter. 

À la prochaine!  

                                                                                                                                                                                                             Photo: Tastyoasis.net

A TASTE OF COMFORT 

The coronavirus pandemic has touched nearly everyone in the entire world.  Though we're inching toward reopening the nation, the daily reports of new cases and deaths are grim.  Still, my husband and I feel compelled to listen to the news each night at dinnertime.

This ritual reminds me of my youth when my family and I sat at the dinner table and watched journalists report from the jungles of Vietnam.  I was sixteen-years old.  Every evening we listened to the number of body counts and saw the horrors of the war.  In many ways, the harsh reality of COVID-19 seems no different.  And yet, this pandemic is so incredibly different because we are fighting a war in our own country and it affects each and every one of us so personally.

During these hard times, it can be challenging to keep spirits lifted.  It can be tough because the news of the illness is ever-present on television and in the newspaper.  It totally sucks.  So we must find ways to deal this unprecedented situation.

We all have different ways to cope.  I've found that watching funny movies, talking walks, engaging in Zoom classes and doing Face Time with family make me feel better.  And I should mention there's one other thing:  good ol' comfort foods.  You know the foods that provide consolation or a feeling of contentment.  The foods that are sugary or full of carbohydrates.  The foods we may associate with home cooking.

One recipe that comes to mind is my mother-in-law's famous noodle kugel.

Millie loved to cook and bake for her friends and family.  I honestly couldn't tell you what I liked the best from her vast repertoire:  banana split cake, chocolate Texas sheet cake, cream puffs, and the list goes on.  Then there's her fried chicken—move over Claudia Sanders.*  You've got nothing on Millie's crispy, moist, tender, tasty chicken. 

But for comfort food, I think of her noodle kugel.

This recipe is so damn easy to make.  My husband and I can't get enough of it.  I promise, you will LOVE it.

So, here you go:

Noodle Kugel

2/3 package of wide or extra wide noodles
5 eggs
3 Tablespoons butter, melted
1/2 Cup (heaping) sugar
dash of nutmeg

Cook noodles about 7 minutes to al dente.  Drain noodles when done.  Coat the baking dish with a cooking spray to prevent sticking.  Place cooked noodles in baking dish.  Stir in butter.  In a mixing bowl, beat eggs well and then mix in sugar.  Pour over noodles.  Sprinkle with nutmeg.  Bake at 350° until the top gets brown, about 45 minutes. And enjoy.

It may be months before the gloominess of the pandemic goes away.  But we can put down the newspaper and can turn off the television for awhile.  We can engage in activities that bring smiles to our faces.  And we can savor our favorite foods.  Because now more than ever, we all need a little more comfort.
Bon appétit!


*Colonial Sander's wife's restaurant is in Shelbyville, Kentucky.

ONE COMPUTER-LOVING CAT 


Ozzie is one unhappy kitty when he can't get online.  But this has not always been the case. 

Ozzie giving me that look

Years ago, I tried to entertain him by finding YouTube videos of singing birds, but he could have cared less.  He preferred to sit at the kitchen door and watch the birds feeding on our deck.  But lately, he's had a change of heart.  I found a video of birds eating seeds in a forest and now he can't get enough of it.  Which is a little problem because I need to be online to do writing, marketing and consulting.  And with COVID-19, I am on the computer even more taking French classes and a ballet barre.

Since I can't be in a classroom, I now use Zoom, a video-conferencing service where I can meet my teacher and classmates online.  Classes feel different, but hey, we are still learning and interacting.  My Zoom French class is structured just as we would as if we were at the Carnegie Center.  We chat about what we did over the weekend and then they we dive into a grammar lesson.

For my French reading class, six of us meet with our teacher on Zoom and cover two chapters of Petit Nicolas*.  We talk about the grammar and vocabulary and discuss the plot of the story.  In the semi-private class, we work on speaking and comprehension.

So, I do three French classes a week on Zoom, plus a ballet class.  Luckily, I have a place in the house where I can move furniture aside and follow along with the teacher to do a 50-minute barre and a 10-minute center adagio.

Plié, plié, rélevé

But my class time and work schedule eat into Ozzie's entertainment.  How do I know?

He cries when he sees me sitting at the computer.  He puts his paw on my lap, meows, and looks at me imploringly.  He wants me get off the computer.  It's like he's saying, "Scooch over.  Can't you see it's my turn?"

These days Ozzie likes the YouTube videos more than watching the birds that feed in our backyard.  Maybe he thinks the birds on the website are really real.  One time when a bird flew away from the seeds, Ozzie leaped to the back of the screen, thinking it had landed there.

Ozzie even likes to watch my ballet class.

I have created a monster.  When he watches, it's like he's in a trance.  Totally engaged and mesmerized.  Which on a positive note keeps him out of trouble, like trying to tear the screen door to get outside.

BIRDS!

I'm trying to figure out how to share the computer with Ozzie.  I'm basically a computer hog.  I've got to be online for my classes and allow more time for writing.

So, we have to find a way to compromise.  Ozzie could watch when I go out for a walk, but that happens to be his nap time.  So, the best time for him to have the computer to himself is when I have dinner and when I watch the nightly news.  He gets at least two hours of uninterrupted bird time.

This time slot seems to be working and Ozzie is entertained.  It's like I get the day shift and he has the evening shift.  We found a way to share.  And as long as he doesn't get frustrated trying to catch the seed-pecking birds, my YouTube watching cat is purrty darn happy.

À la prochaine! 

*Petit Nicolas, a hilarious book series written by René Goscinny and illustrated by Jean-Jaques Sempé, is about a young French boy and his friends and family.

THE GIFT

It's easy to take reading for granted.  I don't think twice about reading a novel, the newspaper, text messages and emails.  But every so often...I am reminded of the gift of being able to read.

Just recently, I discovered a short story about an illiterate elderly woman who longed to have someone teach her how to read before she died.  This story reminded me of a person I once knew.

When I was in my late twenties I dated Jay, a young man from southern Kentucky.  Jay and I used to go out for dinner and to the movies.  During the times we went out, I never noticed that he always ordered the same thing I ordered.  He used to ask, "What sounds good to you?" or "What are going to have?  

These clues never registered with me.  

And this behavior went on for several months until we went to see a movie.  I thought he'd like a war film, so I suggested the movie Das Boot, a gripping movie which follows the lives of a fearless U-Boat captain and his inexperienced crew as they patrol the Atlantic and Mediterranean in search of Allied vessels.  

Since the actors spoke in German, the movie had subtitles.

Afterward, I asked Jay if he liked the film.  That's when he fessed up.  He told me he could not read. 
I was shocked and then felt terrible that he sat through a movie unable to grasp what was happening.  

Jay hid his illiteracy well.  He certainly fooled me.  When we talked about it, he told me his teachers just passed him on to the next grade.  He also told me about the serious setbacks and financial problems he faced because he was illiterate.  In fact, he told me that he could not read the important documents needed to run his auto repair shop and consequently, an employee swindled money from his business.


Jay is not alone.

As reported by Literacy Works (www.litworks.org), more than 30 million adults in the United States are at or below the third-grade level in reading, writing, and math.  

An article published by the Huffington Post on November 27, 2017 states "according to a study by the U.S. Department of Education, 32 million adults in the U.S. can’t read. The current literacy rate isn't any better than it was 10 years ago."

The consequences of illiteracy are far-reaching.  According to the Literacy Foundation, the illiterate face unemployment and lower income.  They have lower-quality jobs and a reduced access to lifelong learning and professional development.  They have more workplace accidents.  And, they face health risks because they are likely to misuse medication due to having trouble understanding the dosage and the warnings.  

From time to time I wonder about Jay and about the challenges he may face. Then surprisingly, we ran into each other many years later.  He happened to be at a small social gathering sponsored by my daughter's school.  Jay was dating a nice woman and he seemed happy and healthy.  Of course, I didn't ask, but I'd like to believe he learned to read.

World Book Day will be celebrated on April 23.  And I will think of Jay.  He affected me in a profound way.  Having known someone who could not read was something I never thought I'd encounter.  Having known Jay reminds me of the importance of reading.

Being able to read is powerful.  Reading affects your daily life and future.  It entertains and informs, increases vocabulary, and improves memory.  It enhances your imagination.  It can lift your spirits, relieve stress, and brighten your day.  

To paraphrase author Kate DiCamillo, reading should not be presented as a chore or duty, but offered as a precious treasure.  

I couldn't have said it better.  Reading is a gift that should never be taken for granted. 
À la prochaine! 

Here's where you can borrow books from the National Emergency Library:   https://archive.org/details/nationalemergencylibrary

                                                                                                                                                                                                          Photo: Geran de Klerk 

BY CHANCE

Sometimes when we least expect it, the events of the day put us on a path of destiny.

A while back, I made plans to stop at the library just long enough to pick up a book when I spotted a friend whom I hadn't seen in years.

Most of us have probably run into friends and acquaintances by chance, but this meeting was different.

That day, I didn't expect to see someone who had worked in the same department at the hospital as I had some thirty years ago.  But there she was, on her way out of the library.  I called out her name.  She looked up and smiled.  After a hug, I asked her how she was doing.  Without a trace of emotion, she told me she was dying.

I was shocked, not only to learn of her predicament but that she seemed indifferent.  Or, was it she had come to accept her fate?  After she explained the details of her prognosis, I wondered:  why did we meet on this day, at this place, at this exact time?  Was there a purpose to this reunion?

At the time, I didn't realize that this may be synchronicity at work, the meaningful coincidences that play a role in our lives.

Author and public speaker Deepak Chopra defines synchronicity as an unexpected coincidence that happens to break statistical probabilities.  It is a conspiracy of improbabilities.  He believes that synchronicity happens when improbable events come together and move you into an extended state of awareness and enhance your intuitive abilities. 

As Jan revealed more details of her condition, I didn't know what to say, but I felt an overwhelming sadness.  This emotional impact is part of synchronicity. 

Mark Holland, co-author of Synchronicity says, "The primary reality of synchronicities is emotional, not intellectual."  He believes that the reason they’re there is to make us feel something and to show that our lives are rich and worth reflecting upon.   

I think back to the time when Jan and I were young medical technologists.  Jan liked to talk about the three rabbits she owned as pets.  She loved those rabbits and they were like family to her.

One time, Jan came by the house with a rabbit so that our young daughter could play with it.  Not long after that 'play date,' I retired from the working at the hospital.  That was the last time I saw her.  Happy bunny memories.  And now this.

Photo: James Wheeler 

You might believe the reunion with Jan was merely a coincidence, unless you look deeper and see the event as valuable and potentially instructive.

In Psychology Today, former Cincinnati reporter Gregg Levoy says Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung, "believed that synchronicities mirror deep psychological processes, carry messages the way dreams do, and take on meaning and provide guidance to the degree they correspond to emotional states and inner experiences." 

One only had to look at a recent event in my past to understand a possible meaning as to why I ran into Jan.

I understood the illness.

About two years earlier, my sister-in-law Barb died of a brain tumor, a glioblastoma—the same diagnosis as Jan's.  My husband and I became Barb's caregivers from diagnosis to death.  Little by little, the cancer robbed her of doing daily tasks like getting dressed and using silverware.  It robbed her of vocabulary—her words came out as gibberish.  Perhaps the reason for running into Jan was that I had been called upon to be available if she needed help.

Jan's closest family lives 500 miles away.  So, I volunteered to give her with rides.  On one occasion, I drove her to a doctor's appointment.  When we arrived, Jan needed to fill out papers for insurance records. The complications of her illness affected her memory.  She had forgotten her house number, but I was able to remind her.  Then as she continued to fill out the form, she came across a place for her birth date.  She grinned at me and said she remembered.  April 16th.

Jan was born on the same day as my father.

While there is no evidence that synchronicity exists, there are amazing coincidences that happen all the time.  Are they the result of random chance?  Or, do they convey some hidden meaning?  Only you can decide.

More questions ran through my mind.  Why did I run into Jan now instead of years earlier?  Why was it me instead of another co-worker?  If I had run an errand before going to the library, we would have never met.  How could it be that the timing was so perfect?

Of course, I will never know the answers.  But I believe there has to be a reason and it makes me wonder and reflect.  How can this not be a meaningful coincidence?  How can this not be destiny?  How can this not be meant to be?

À la prochaine! 

Dedicated to my friend, Jeanne Gardner, April 16, 1951 - June 9, 2020.