Goldie on our deck
There's a piece of earth-shattering news.
Last week ended up an emotional disaster and I barely managed any writing because of it.
This week will be better.
I have my cat, Goldie, out with me. She's wearing a halter and is hooked to a leash tied to a leg of the patio table. Goldie has wander lust. She used to go out everyday until five years ago, when she took to adventuring too far from home; that being out of our yard. A stray to begin with, money has been invested in shots and spaying so I had no desire to find her dead on the pavement . . . or not find her at all.
Investment aside, I love the little pest.
Goldie and I found each other the last weekend in August, 2000. I was walking home from the art in the park part of my town's hot air balloon fest when I set my bags down to take a breather. From a pile of dead brush behind the redi-mix office I heard a tiny, high-pitched mew.
"That's a kitten's mew," I said to myself, then mewed back.
A small orange streak shot out of the brush pile, stopped at my feet and then tried to climb my left leg; mewing non-stop the whole time. I picked the kitten up, held it to my shoulder and it snuggled up tight. After a little cuddle time, I held it out to check its "equipment". The little orange tabby was a female.
"Ah!" I told her, holding her up to look into her eyes. "You're an unusual orange tabby. Only 20% of orange tabbies are girl kitties. Did you know that? You're not rare. It doesn't make you worth a lot of money. Just unusual. How would you like to come home with me?"
She was purring and struggling to get back to my shoulder. I took that for a yes. I gathered up my bags and off we went. I asked a couple of boys, who were playing on the sidewalk a block down, if they knew who owned the kitten. They said they had taken her around the neighborhood the day before and no one had claimed her. The kitten snuggled deeper and started to knead my neck.
Not sure what my husband would say to keeping her (we already had three cats although, technically, one was our daughter's) I sat with her on our deck while she guzzled the food and water I brought out to her. There was a Christian Contemporary Music group around at the time named PFR (it stood for "Pray For Rain"). On one of their CDs they had a song, "Goldie's Last Day". The song was about a golden Labrador retriever who has passed away, but I found myself singing the chorus with the words adjusted to fit my situation. The changes are in brackets:
"Goldie's last [first] day. Goldie's last [first] day.
If a picture paints a thousand words,
There's nothing left to say.
Wish I could've been there for Goldie's last [first] day."
The kitten jumped up into my lap.
"Are you Goldie?" I asked as she climbed up to my shoulder and started kneading my neck again.
I took that as a yes.
He walks by my house, slow and a bit unsteady, using his cane but out walking nonetheless. I'm only five foot one; Ed is shorter than me and thinner, grey hair sticks out from under his farmer's style hat. He smiles as he tells me that when he joined the army right after high school the sergeant couldn't believe he only weighed one hundred twelve pounds. He is a small man. He is an amazing eighty-five year old man.
I knew he had a couple of heart attacks and a stroke a few years back. Ed didn't let those stop him. Three days after the stroke his wife spotted him shuffling down the hospital corridor. He didn't let it keep him down.
Two weeks ago I learned Ed had had another stroke. This morning I talked to him, stopping him as he drew abreast of my house on his morning walk. We talked about the stroke. We talked about his life. He has lived on the same street in our town almost his entire life. He said he's happy with the life he's lived; proud of things he's accomplished.
He told me something that I think is a big factor in Ed's long life and his recovery from his strokes.
"I see nothing but good coming our way. I try to find the best in everything."
I think I'll chisel that into the walls of my house or paint it as a mural in every room.
Ed was a farm kid during the depression. He was in the army in World War II. He knows hard times. Ed works hard and doesn't quit.
"I see nothing but good coming out way. I try to find the best in everything."
I'm going to start thinking like Ed does.
I've been taking a lot of photographs lately, and all that looking at my camera made me aware of something; it is designed for use by right handed people. The majority of controls are on the right side of the camera body.
I wondered if left handers have trouble working a camera? Are there left handed cameras?
My daughter is left handed so I have some familiarity with the challenges can be a part of the left handed life. But I'm also aware of how often leftys are actually more ambidextrous than purely left handed. Is this because they've had to be or is there more to it?
Some researching showed that most ambidextrous people have either been forced into it, as back when schools forced left handed children to do everything right handed, or have they chosen it on their own to adapt to the right handed world they live in. The truly ambidextrous person is rare. The highest percentage of ambidextrous people are usually left dominant by nature.
My daughter does many things right handed because she just adapted to the right handed implements in the world, but I will say that she did it with an ease that surprised me. I'm an ambidextrous fencer even though I am definitely a righty. I started practicing both ways right from the start so that I wouldn't build up muscles on one side of my body but not on the other. When I received a fencing injury to my right hand, I was able to keep fencing while it healed, discovering that I was as good left handed as right.
Have you ever tried to use your week hand? Did you have much success?
