Le Monde de Fromage de Kate

I don’t know if you’ll see this or not, but I wanted to tell you how much I love you. You know you are one of my oldest and dearest friends. My thoughts are with you and your family so strongly, deeply at this moment. I respect utterly that you need time before you receive calls and visitors, and I hope that this entry does not violate your need for privacy (if it does, I will remove this IMMEDIATELY).

My intent, born out of a feeling of helplessness at my inability to do ANYTHING to soothe the unimaginable grief you must be suffering, is to somehow honor you as a friend and a mother, and to somehow honor James as your child.

Joanne Cacciatore, MSW, founded the M.I.S.S. Foundation in 1996 after the death of her daughter, Cheyenne. She often tells others that she has “five children: four who walk and ‘one who soars.'” I think that’s a lovely image. She also said:

There is no greater tragedy, no more devastating human experience, than the death of a beloved child.

That’s certainly not something I’m telling you, but quoting as a reminder for others. There’s a ton of information on her website, but one of the things that resonated with me was the following flyer – about changing the way our Culture mourns, which I think everyone should read.

I still cannot find the sense to know whether or not it is crass and presumptuous of me to post such a personal missive, especially since I don’t know how to give you much-needed solace or could ever be so bold as to guess how you are feeling. Just know this: Tomorrow (later today, I should say) I will light a candle, sit down at my beloved piano and sing one of the songs I cherish the most – Angel by Sarah McLachlan – for you, your family, and for James. An unusual lullaby, perhaps, but I hope it means something. (“You’re in the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort there.”)

And I must reiterate a sentiment I know is shared by so many – anything you need, ANY TIME – please ask.

All My Love,

Kate
“Sleep in Heavenly Peace,” James Glenn Kubricky

December 6, 2005

Happy Birthday, Syd.
Sydney Ann Samuelson Riggs

December 7, 1944 – June 18, 2005

You are missed so much.

To Whom It May Concern:

Did the package of combs with the Microban® label (“This product protected by Microban® – antimicrobial product protection – Cleaner. Fresher. All the Time.”) appear in the bathroom because of what was stuck to the furnace filter? Perhaps you do not KNOW what was stuck to the furnace filter, so I will tell you.

But first I should tell you that the only reason I know what was stuck to the furnace filter is because while I was just sitting and minding my own business, my Father rushed up to me, wearing his “Darth Vader” respirator and shoved two items in my face – two objects so lint-encrusted and dusty that they actually were triple their original size and looked FUZZY and vaguely Muppet-like (NOT in a nice way). I recognized one item as one of those “rat-tail” combs. The other – I haven’t the faintest CLUE what it was and I didn’t care to further examine it. It MAY have been a shiv, but do not quote me on that. While he “showed me” these things my Father was saying something very excitedly in his muffled “Darth Vader” voice to the effect of “THESE WERE STUCK TO THE FURNACE FILTER! THESE WERE STUCK TO THE FURNACE FILTER!!!” At least I THINK that’s what he was saying (it was confirmed later that the items were, indeed, stuck to the furnace filter). I was perturbed – first of all because my Father scared the hell out of me – startled me half to death – rushing up to me wearing that frightening mask and thrusting disgusting, grimy objects in my face. I also thought (mistakenly) from his agitated tone that somehow he was accusing me of some sort of impropriety that led to those objects being encased in furnace filter fluff. I suggested that he probably didn’t want to carry those filthy things wantonly about the house (I did not suggest this in a nice way). So he left me and went into another room where I heard him, in his “Darth Vader” voice, eagerly divulging to my Mother, “These were stuck to the furnace filter! THESE WERE STUCK TO THE FURNACE FILTER!!!”

So you can see why I might presume that the purchase of the Microban® combs might have something to do with the comb from the furnace filter which was, indeed, NOT “clean” or “fresh” – rather it was very, very dirty.

Most Sincerely,

Kate of Kate Hall, etc.

Paisley received a Christmas outfit from Grandma. Evidently, when you open the reindeer’s mouth it “says” something. I need to clarify with my Mother if this means there is a phrase PRINTED there or if this ensemble actually has an embedded electronic device. Either way, Paisley does not seem to care for this outfit.

Click on this Picture to see Images of Further Disdain

Aunt Bev ALSO sent Paisley a Christmas outfit. Hmmmmmm. Which does Paisley prefer?

Snowmen are FUN!

One might say she was a critic at only two months, but I would say she was just discerning. (Sorry, Mom.)

Anders is not QUITE one. But he already sings and “talks” and is very dexterous and, rest assured, will reach a point where the rest of his body catches up with the size of his head. Or not.

Anders, Thanksgiving 2005

(You can tell because he’s WEARING Thanksgiving Dinner)

Early Christmas Presents From Grandpa are COOL – As is the Ribbon

A group of women looking at the “junior” seasonal t-shirts were exclaiming with shock and awe (works here too, yes?) at the baby-doll “T” that said “Jingle my Bells.” Wait – perhaps it was “You can Jingle MY Bells!” Oooooh – it could have even been, “Jingle THESE Bells” (if you want to know for certain I can tell you where to purchase said item, but let’s leave that a mystery here). Naturally, the little girl with them asks:

What does, “Jingle My Bells” mean?

There was a long pause (long to accommodate our exit, anyway), but Shirleen and I were stifling our laughter too assiduously and with such great difficulty that we didn’t get to stay and hear the response.

Parents, PLEASE tell me what you would have said to your young child in answer to this festive query. And bear in mind YOU have the luxury to think a bit about your reaction. Maybe I could even consider this a Public Service Announcement like the ones from Phillip Morris that tells you how to talk to your children about cigarettes. Of course, if it’s like those PSA’s, then this one would have to be sponsored by…Hooters (probably worse).

Ah yes, “The More You Know.”

I have done it. I am OFFICIALLY old. It has little to do with chronological age; I have done the three defining things that make your SOUL old. They are as follows:

1. I LAUGHED at The Family Circus: My Mother was reading the “Funny Papers” (that’s what we old people call them – we watch our “stories” and we read “The Funny Papers”) the other day. Somehow she and I got into a discussion in which we marveled that The Family Circus still ran in “The Funny Papers.” She surmised that old folks liked it (and remembered that my Father thinks it’s a funny comic strip – HE’S always talking about “the good ol’ days”). I said something about every single comic consisting of that flat-headed kid with severe A.D.H.D. being told to go somewhere and we are treated to a picture in in which we can follow the arrow to all the OTHER seven hundred places he goes before he gets to the destination in his original instructions. Ha ha. My Mom said that only covered fifty percent of the comic strips (and I’m going to guess only the Sunday ones have the room for all those arrows and HILARITY). Then she described that day’s Family Circus scenario. It had something to do with that flat-headed kid being lost in a department store and the harried-looking “lost child” attendant making an P.A. announcement that “we have a little lost boy who says he is eleventy-seven and his name is ‘Spongebob.'” I hesitated for a moment, and then I said, “That’s actually kinda funny.” My Mom AGREED (she can be forgiven, as she is over fifty). I SAVED “The Funny Papers” so that I could include a scan of the comic strip and perhaps, just PERHAPS, someone might agree with me that in this case, The Family Circle was uncharacteristically amusing (okay, I even PULLED IT OUT OF THE RECYCLING BIN). Someone threw it way, though (and I have too much dignity to search – even if it IS the recycling and not the garbage – once again).
3. I watched Matlock ON PURPOSE: I was working on a project yesterday and flipping through the channels and I CHOSE with all my facilities of will and volition intact, to watch Matlock. And, so help me, last week I CHOSE to watch Murder, She Wrote. TWICE.
5. I was a bit chilly and I elected to wear a SHAWL: Nope, I did not grab one of my “hoodies” or “snugglies,” I chose a freakin’ SHAWL. Please let it count for a little bit that it is made of Pashmina (I say “is” because, so help me, I’m still wearing it). And does that fact that it is periwinkle count for or against me?

Someone pointed out the resemblance between certain pictures of wee Paisley and baby pictures of my Mother. I think I see it:

My Mother, Circa *Ahem*

Paisley, November 2005

Quintessential Mom: When we were talking about the resemblance between these two pictures my Mother said, “You mean the picture of me in the pink dress?” Ah yes – the black and white picture of you in the pink (?) dress. The really frightening thing is that she’s probably right.

If we could only find those pictures of Charles in his pink dress, we’d have all three generations. You think I’m KIDDING??

Once upon a time, many, many years ago (more than twenty-five, I believe), my Father was on one of many business trips. This journey was special, though, because my Father purchased carpet from a woman on an airplane. Yup – only my Father would buy carpet from a STRANGER on an AIRPLANE. The woman showed him sample a few inches in size, probably buttered him up with effusive compliments about his necktie, and he ordered two rooms worth on the spot. I bet that lady STILL laughs about my Father during coffee breaks with her fellow sales people. My Mother thinks that he told her that carpeting was arriving, but she certainly did not see a sample ahead of time. It is, by far, some of the ugliest carpet EVER made. And this repulsive carpet ended up in the master bedroom and the other upstairs bedroom. Soon after the carpet was installed, my uncle was helping install one of those huge wallpaper scenes in the master bedroom – it was a vista of forest and a lake and such (my Mom says that it was the only way that she could convince my Father to give up the pictures of “Pughboy” and “Stinky” that hung above their bed for years (if you look for the originals at The Huntington Library it would be “The Blue Boy” and “Pinkie”), that he’d decoupaged and put in Mexican frames)). My uncle looked at the carpet, and said that perhaps we could pretend it was the forest floor. My Father has clung desperately to this idea ever since.

A few years ago, one room full of Forest Floor was transformed to beautiful blue ceramic tile (for my Mother’s upstairs laundry and sitting room – if you have two “bionic” knees and are facing the reality of every single major joint needing to eventually be replaced, an upstairs laundry/sitting room is great – one of the best ideas my Father ever had). But sadly, the Forest Floor languished in the master bedroom until yesterday. As of that auspicious day, with the expert help of my brother-in-law, Erik, my Father’s secretary, Erica (boy he’s lucky to have such multifaceted administrative help), and various family members (oh – also many thanks to Grettir for helping me put the furniture back into the bedroom with such manly style), a beautiful laminate floor now graces the master bedroom AND the hall. HURRAH!!! Before the carpet journeyed to the dump, I managed to snap a couple of somewhat detailed shots of The Forest Floor:

The Forest Floor

The Forest Floor (More Detailed View)

I showed these images to my Parents. My Mother promptly exclaimed, “It looks like VOMIT!” My Father said, “I was tired of it, but now that I look at it objectively [?], it has all the beautiful colors [no “u” for THAT one] of the FOREST FLOOR.” My Mother responded, “I think this is the first time I’ve really seen how much it looks like VOMIT.” She and I both tried to impress upon my Dad that it was HIDEOUS – that is was ALWAYS hideous. He answered, “It looks like a modern painting with the beautiful colors of nature.” Such commentary went back and forth rather in the same vein. My Father rhapsodized, “What a lovely collage of natural color!” My Mother asked me, “What are you supposed to do with THAT [The Forest Floor]? How can you pick decor when you have THAT?” She would like, in fact, to pick out new paint and/or wallpaper for the room, but she’s having a horrible time making a decision about it. Today she asserted that perhaps it was because of psychological damage sustained from living with The Forest Floor for sooooo long. She’s probably right.

Just wishing a Happy Thanksgiving, One and All!

I am, without a doubt, grateful for so much – things insignificant and things that have literally saved my life: caffeine fixes, modern medicine, gifts of midnight chocolate, tolerance and patience (for me and for the world), Family, jewelry, baths, Friends, laughing, crying, books, music, intelligence, kindness, hugs, Kitten Children, peas, CHEESE, Love, a body whole (despite creaks, wheezes and relative “pear” size), sleep, peace, children, the freedom to be rather a “heathen,” the freedom to criticize as well as laud and honour, sacrifice, forgiveness, toys, natural fibers, Autumn, arias to keep the bears away, abilities, memories, mountains, flowers, water, sky, fragrance, poetry of word and motion, the human voice in word and song, beautiful souls, rescue, opal silver metallic blue, meadows, candles, sustenance, honesty, movies, plays, Apple Computers, reclamation, passion, layers, respite, languages, instruments, ideas, end-of-life care, teeny-tiny-itsy-bitsy little things, generosity, stars, huzzahs, making it to Scipio, Canadian-ness, big chunky shoes, sweet surprises – be it a piano, a chocolate bar, the Perfect Valentine, well-wishes sent to my hidey hole, the dream of Scotland, the dream of a house, diet Coke – all kinds of surprises, and a Home to which I was generously welcomed.

I hope it is apparent that I was desperately avoiding hierarchical classifications. I didn’t want it to be like a harried Oscar speech in which I tried too hard to be thorough and forgot to mention my spouse (no offense, Hilary).

Oh – there is a little rant I mentioned in my gift idea. Unless you find it particularly amusing that there was (and perhaps is) a town named “Scrooby,” you might choose to ignore it. I don’t mind either way.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

WARNING – THIS IS THE RANT OR RAMBLE (depending on your point of view) *Okay, so the Pilgrims were Separatists in England who sought to escape religious persecution. They gathered in the Northern English town of Scrooby (big mistake – NOTHING good can happen in a town with a name like “Scrooby”) in 1606. They fled to Holland after increased discrimination. But, as they were farmers at heart, city life did not appeal to them, and they feared for the moral upbringing of their children faced with “big city temptations.” And perhaps they all were opposed to wooden shoes (we all know Stacy and Clinton would have HATED them). So they sailed on the Mayflower to Plymouth in 1620. Afterwards friendly Native Americans helped them survive their first two harsh winters. Quid Pro Quo, they subsequently invited their new friends to the FIRST THANKSGIVING!!!

These days in America (and in wacky Canada a month earlier, and originally it had to do with the Prince of Wales – later King Edward VII – recovering from a nasty illness and then it got all smushed together with “remembrance” day and “Armistice” day – for a long time now Canadian Thanksgiving is the second Monday in October, and you can even read various proclamations from year to year about the OFFICIAL thing for which Canada was thankful that year), Thanksgiving is considered an opportunity for family and friends to be grateful for each other and for the things with which they are blessed. Of course, Native Americans (especially those with ancestry from New England’s original population) sometimes feel a TAD bit differently and though I don’t suppose they mind the idea of gratefulness in general or a good old-fashioned “Yippee” for a bountiful harvest, the Pilgrims ended up as the dark-clothed harbingers of bigotry, marginalization, generations of forced dispossession of their homeland, and the death of so many.

However, while this Country’s history, by no means wholly honorable and at many times in the past (and the present and in days still to come) full of human shortcomings – some trifling, some wholly unforgivable – we live in a fortunate time. We can be, indeed, thankful that history can be acknowledged and studied and, with any luck, the future can omit repetitions of wretched sins of the past. Or, at least we can be thankful that we can HOPE for such a thing:

In the words of George Santayana (1863 – 1952):

The truth is cruel, but it can be loved, and it makes free those who have loved it.

And, naturally:

Progress, far from consisting in change, depends on retentiveness. When change is absolute there remains no being to improve and no direction is set for possible improvement: and when experience is not retained, as among savages, infancy is perpetual. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.