Hobby Heaven

According to the Herald Tribune, Venice has been named one of the top ten locales for hobbies. I’m not sure exactly how that distinction came about, but I do see lots of people playing golf, fishing, and bird watching. There is also a large arts presence in the area.
Mike’s hobby is walking the beach each morning searching for sharks’ teeth. There’s a competitive little group out there every day--the serious ones getting out there first with flashlights in hand because it’s still dark. Mike found these two nice teeth this year even with waiting until the sun is up and without consulting a tide chart.
I go for a walk on the beach, but I am avoiding picking up any of the detritus that tempts me there. I have boxes of shells and coral and rocks enough to fuel any craft project I may contemplate (and never actually carry-out anyway). There are only so many bowls of shells and rocks you can pass off as decoration.
I've been doing some knitting. I find that is a good way to keep my hands out of the chocolates in the evening. This hat goes with a little sweater I made. I'm donating to them to a fund raising auction.

I've made a number of kittens and bunnies and kind of burned myself out on that, but they were kind of fun for a while.

I am not all that comfortable using some one else's sewing machine (even with permission) but I saw this pattern for kid's craft aprons and had to whip up a couple. Is it just me, or is it getting harder to find a good fabric store these days...unless you're into quilting. There seems to be an overwhelming supply of quilting shops. I do appreciate the workmanship that goes into quilting, but it seems like way too much math to me--which would not be a fun hobby.

A Week for Poetry

I just read a novel, The Anthologist by Nicholson Baker. It's a stream of consciousness kind of narration by a poet who is supposed to be writing the introduction for an anthology of poems that rhyme. It's very funny. At the same time, it seems very revelatory of the thought processes of a poet and it was chock full of tidbits of literary information. I was fascinated...and it makes me want to read some more poetry.

Then, I went to the UU church service this morning. The man who sat next to me said it was his second time in a UU church--last Sunday (about spirituality, which I missed) and then today which was themed, "Let the Good Times Roll," complete with New Orleans jazz and Mardi Gras

costumes (no nudity or drinking though). He said he was a Lutheran by upbringing so I kept wondering what ever must have been swirling around in his mind as the masked and bejeweled choir danced down the aisles. There was no sermon--just the minister reading poems he had written while he had lived in New Orleans followed by his piano playing (which he does very well, professionally, actually). It was brilliant. I don't think you'd find a church service like that anywhere in New England.

Bike Ride

(photo from PhotoXpress)

My cold seems to be over...not so bad. On Wednesday I pulled a bicycle out of the shed and took it to the bike shop to get air in the tires. Thursday, I took it out for a ride--first time on a bicycle in at least twenty years. You know how they say that you never forget how to ride a bike though.

I had a bike as a kid, of course. As an adult, I got a ten speed bike for one of the 30's birthdays from my first husband. We did some riding with the kids and all, but I never really did get the hang of shifting the gears. The bike pretty much stayed in third gear. When I tried to change a gear, as often as not, the chain would fall off. Being able to change gears is actually a very desirable feature when riding in Vermont--the Green MOUNTAIN State. I spent enough time pushing that bike up big hills that I finally figured I should walk and leave the bike at home.

The bike here has maybe twenty-one speeds and it's actually easy to shift, but now I realize I don't really understand enough physics to appreciate the subtleties of all those gear ratios. It's flat here so it doesn't really matter that much anyway.

And it's true--you don't forget how to ride in terms of the very basics--balance and pedal. What you do forget about is how riding a bike uses completely different areas of muscles than walking and it makes your butt pretty darn numb.

Jaxon

We always told him he was the pick of the litter. He was a singleton. His mother was a purebred, very petite Siamese. His father, obviously, was not. I brought him home telling a skeptical Mike, "He just followed me home. What could I do?" That night, he jumped up on our bed and slept on Mike's feet. He was Mike's cat form that moment on.

Notice in the picture he is rolling around next to Mike's (and trust me on this) very stinky sandal. Obviously some kind of chemical/olfactory bond took place that first night.

Mike could hold that cat in his lap for hours. If I tried to pick him up or pet him for any length of time he would stalk off in a huff. His preference was so distinct and so well communicated that any cat person could immediately "read" his nonverbal communication--"I LOVE him, but her job is to feed us so I tolerate her presence in our house."

Because it was my job to feed him (even though Mike often did), he would only wake me up in the pre-dawn hour should he get hungry before the alarm sounded. He would tap on my side of the bed (tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, TAP, TAP, TAP). If that didn't do the trick, he would bat my arm a couple of times. If I still showed a disinclination towards making my way to the kitchen, he would jump onto the bed by my head and start pulling my hair with his teeth. He pretty much always got his way one way or another.

He may have also thought of me as a sibling that he never had. He played with me--tag. I would be walking through the house and he'd run up to me and take a swing with his paw or nip at my ankle with his teeth, then run like thunder in the opposite direction. I would run after him. He'd turn around and jump at me and I would run back down the hall with him chasing. Then I would turn and chase after him. He's hide under the couch, but his tail would be sticking out so I could give it a gentle tug, and we were off again.

Sometimes we would play our game of tag outside in the back yard. The little boy next door would watch from his yard and I'm not sure if it was curious fascination with a cat playing tag or an old woman playing tag.

Jaxon got slower and crankier in his old age (go figure). He could no longer jump up to the window to watch the birds at the feeder in the crab apple tree in the front yard. He no longer slept on the bed or woke me by pulling my hair. Mike had to lift him onto the couch. He started to "Meow!" to get our attention. (We had thought he was mute for the longest time so that was a surprise).

One morning Mike had let Jaxon out to use the litter box in my flower garden. I was still asleep, but I was startled awake by a god-awful screeching and I had the distinct vision of Jackson swirling in furry commotion. Mike found him right there by the garden shed--killed by a fisher that managed to escape, but without its intended meal.

We buried Jaxon out near the lilac tree. I take some strange comfort in believing it was a natural death--in the way that nature can be overwhelmingly cruel. Neither Mike nor I could have handled the end-of-life decision. We still miss that cat.

Knocked Out

I took my walk downtown Saturday, stopped at a craft fair, scooted through the farmers' market and stopped in a couple of the shops. I was looking at some candles when I all of a sudden started to get a little sneezey. By the time I got home I knew for sure I was coming down with a cold. My head is stuffed up like the vacuum that time I inadvertently sucked up a stray sock from under the bed--no air getting through. I have a three point headache--behind and right between the eyes--my ears itch, my throat is scratchy, and my nose is raw and red enough for me to enter the Rudolph look-alike contest. I miserable!

I went to bed early last night after a healthy shot of quality brandy. I took an hour nap this morning and a two hour nap this afternoon. I made myself a big pot of spicy chicken noodle soup and I've been sipping on that or green tea with honey while I'm awake. At least the high fluid intake conspires with my bladder to get me out of bed and shuffling on into the bathroom once in a while.

It has been a long time since I've had a cold. Now that I have whined sufficiently, it occurs to me that I should be damn grateful for the good health I usually experience. And I am because this has been a particularly rough year health wise for many family members and friends--big stuff, not piddly colds.

Still. another shot of that brandy seems to be calling my name. With luck, six days to go...

Lunch Guest

We went out for lunch the other day at a funky old Florida place on the Intracoastal Waterway called Pop's Sunset Grill. We really like it on a nice day. You can sit outside in the sun, sip a cool drink, munch on a fish sandwich, and watch the boats go by.
This time we were joined by a rather unusually tame yellow crowned night heron. He noticed the french fries in my basket were not getting gobbled up and apparently thought he could help out with that. I pointed out a number of times the sign that was directly behind me: "DO NOT feed the birds! PLEASE!" He was quite pushy in his campaign to get me to believe that the sign referred to the gulls, not to a fine specimen such as himself. He was practically on my shoulder eyeballing those fries (which cannot be good for a heron's general health). Mike, always the soft touch when it comes to animals, did slip him some shrimp tails, and I have to say the bird was very polite about snatching them up.
When our stuff was cleared away, he moved on to the neighboring table where a man and two women were finishing up their lunches. One of the women freaked out, huddling into the wall in apparent terror. The other woman kept flapping at the bird, yelling, "Get away!" Of course, all the arm flapping meant to the bird was that she must be throwing it some food so it kept getting closer (kind of funny to watch). Then the man had to get up and start kicking at the bird (not funny to watch). I hope next time that trio chooses an indoor restaurant.

Pasta Night

I always learn something about cooking when we visit Mike's daughter. This year it was a stock base called "Better Than Bouillon," and it really is. I got a lobster base and used it with milk and flour to make a sauce for spaghetti and sea scallops. Added fresh green beans and crusty rolls--yummy. I try not to use too many processed foods because of the salt. This is so much easier to accomplish now that I am not dragging home form my job feeling tired and hungry. Now that I have the time to put into shopping and preparing food, it's a lot more fun. Still, a spoonful of that stock base really made a nice addition to the meal and I just did not add salt at the table.