When my car was T-boned by a woman who ran a Stop sign, the repairs were expensive, but, and I stress this, not my fault. Because of the accident, State Farm raised my rates 25%. When I called my agent’s office in righteous indignation, they urged me to protest to the Maryland Insurance Administration. I did that. Turned out mine was not the only protest of that kind, and a few months later the MIA ruled for all of us against State Farm! My premium increases will be returned, with interest. Amazing. Take heart, all–sometimes the little guy wins one.
Zeno adopted us more than a year before we agreed to be adopted. A stray, he came to our backyard and tried to befriend our two cats, who were not amused.
He persevered. Soon he would let me get close, even touch him as I offered an occasional bowl of dry cat food. But no, I said, he was not our cat.
On a cold December day in 2010, a bone-thin Zeno wobbled onto the patio. He was so sick he could hardly see. I surrendered; I took him to the vet and I became his human. He lived with us for five way-too-short years. He died this week because we couldn’t get him to the emergency vet in a blizzard. It’s a painful loss, made worse by frustration.
I miss the sight of him on hind legs by my kitchen chair, one white paw looped over the chair arm, head tilted fetchingly to one side, compelling golden gaze fixed on my face. He was irresistible. “Yes, Zeno, whatever you want, I’ll do it.”
I miss his chirrup of greeting when he emerged from under the azaleas, or wherever he was napping or keeping an eye on things. I miss his complaints as he stalked about the house, looking for me. I miss his soft murmur of pleasure when I scratched exactly the right spot.
At fourteen pounds, he was not as big as our other two cats. His head and chest were broad, his ears slightly chewed, and his tail short and thick. He walked like a street tough, with a tiger’s deliberate pace.
Because he was feral for years, he insisted on being outside at least part of the time, unlike our other two who are usually inside. If I was gardening, Zeno would follow me, choosing comfortable spots from which to supervise. Paws under chin, he seemed to be marveling at my strange choice of occupation. Why pull up plants? He himself claimed a particular patch of catnip in the garden by our patio and often lay beside it, grooving on its fragrance and protecting it from all comers.
The friendliest of our cats, he was usually the first one visible to visitors, and the only one who could be coaxed into letting a small child pet him. He’s the only cat I ever had who always came when I called him. Even when he was heading down our driveway to the street, I could call him home and pat my leg, and he would turn and run to me.
Like all cats, he preferred to find water for himself rather than drink from his bowl. He stood on hind legs to lap from the birdbath or bustled into the bathroom after my shower to lick the remaining drops from the tub.
Most of all I miss him in my study. He’d sit by the books, or lie on my desk basking in the warm air flow from the computer’s fan, or keep the big chair warm for me, or lean forward to butt foreheads or rub cheeks, or step down onto my lap, forcing me to type over him. In the late afternoon, we often retreated to our big chair. I miss the warm purr that started as he stepped onto my belly, the confiding warmth of his weight nestling against me, the sense of utter comfort composed of book, tea, and cat in lap.
Rest in peace, sweet boy.
With a pending birthday raising my age to an impressive number, I’ve been thinking about things to do “while I can,” before the constrictions of real old age. Not just a bucket list of places to go and things to do for myself, but projects that might assist or give pleasure to others later. I’m hoping I still have plenty of time.
Last fall, I read a mystery novel that used sentences from Cicero as chapter headers. One line held a strong appeal for me. It read, “No one is so old that he does not expect to live a year longer.” I copied it into my journal because it expressed so well my usual optimistic feeling that there’s always at least a little more time for being energetic and effective and enjoying life.
I liked the line so much, in fact, that I bought a copy of Cicero’s treatise that was its source: On Old Age. But in my new purchase, the line was translated as “No one is so old as to think that he may not live a year.” Did that say exactly the same thing? I didn’t think so; it didn’t call forth the same cheerful response in me.
Translators have a difficult task. In this case, each translator started with a two-thousand-year-old document in Latin and tried to turn it into good English understandable by present-day readers. After reading each sentence several times, I decided the chief difference depended on two critical words in the first version: “expect” (more forward-looking than “think”) and “longer” (instead of just “a year”).
Though Marcus Tullius Cicero was born in 106 B.C., he was speaking to me, I thought. But what was he actually saying? I asked my friend Mike, a classical scholar, if he had a favorite translation of the treatise. He brought me two.
In Mike’s university press edition of On Old Age, the line read, “No man ever gets so old that he thinks he won’t live out the year.” This was yet another construction, one that prompted a question. Does “live out the year” mean “till next New Year’s Day” or “till the next birthday”? Those two dates could differ by months, depending on where one is in the calendar. I read all three versions again and saw that “to live a year longer” is the most elastic phrase, because it allows time to keep stretching out, the end point retreating day by lived-in day.
Last, I read the Penguin Classics edition’s version: “No one is too old to think he has another year to live.” This seemed close to the first rendition, though faintly confusing. It tempted me to delete the negative and clarify it (prosaically) as “People always think they have another year to live.”
So. Four versions, all different. Because my Latin education stopped after tenth grade, there’s no point in my trying to wrestle my own translation from the original. Since the chief desire of Cicero throughout the whole treatise was to champion his claim that old age is a pleasurable time of life, I think I’ll make my motto be the line with the most optimistic prospect of time remaining: “No one is so old that he does not expect to live a year longer.”
Of course I will!
Yesterday, I retrieved a book from our shelves and found the corners of some pages lightly stained with red. Oops. I know what happened. It’s beef. When I make a batch of meatballs, I prop a book on a stand in front of me so I can read while my hands perform the tedious task of shaping the meat. I turn the pages with careful but meaty fingers. Red stains can result.
I do try. To delay the page‑turnings, I read slowly while my fingers squeeze and roll.
Digression: This enforced contemplative reading suggests a whole new literary category: Books to Shape Meatballs By. Essays and poetry would be the best. Slow reading gives their compressed thoughts time to expand in the mind.
I hope the author wouldn’t be insulted by my activities while reading. I wouldn’t. If a book I’d written so engrossed a reader that she had to keep on reading while she cooked dinner, I’d be flattered.
Digression: Reading while eating is another way to get food spots on books, and worth the risk. It’s a delightful way to spend a solitary mealtime. What’s better on a day alone than the newspaper with breakfast, a mystery with lunch, and Dickens with dinner?
But as I cleaned those guilty pages, I thought, Okay, here’s a New Year’s Resolution: always and only to listen to recorded books while fixing dinner. IPods forever! No more meat-stained books!
Yesterday I walked under the trees in what I call “my beechen wood” for the first time in about two years. My new, reliable, and mostly pain-free knee performed perfectly. How truly good it felt to be once more amid the beech trees that cluster on the hill above Bel Pre Creek. These giant benign beings, so tall, so silver, always make me happy.
Beechnuts and empty shells littered the old bridge and the ground under the beeches. I picked one up and opened its spiky outer case to reveal the two nuts inside, triangular in their smooth crisp covers. I bit one, mentally apologizing to the squirrels and chipmunks who probably eat most of them. Or maybe it’s the grackles; a huge flock of grackles, more than a hundred birds, congregated under the beeches near the path, snacking and enlivening the woods with their gossip.
The apron of the big woodchuck den, still broad and sandy-pale, was plugged as if no longer in use. Above it on the hill, five more exits attested to a regular “woodchuck warren.” One of the smaller openings came out under a wide stone lintel; another one emerged between roots of a huge old black oak. How lucky I once was to see a young woodchuck peering out at me.
The beauty of the beeches at the crown of the hill refreshed my spirit. My energy revived, dull dailiness turning as bright as the water glinting in the creek below. From the schoolyard near the park, shrill voices of kids on outdoor recess reflected my pleasure in being active outside in fresh autumn air. And when a red-shouldered hawk flew across the creek, my morning in the mystic beauty of the beechen wood was complete.
Diana gives us some interesting insights into the direction the world might be going and a tip about what might be very important part of our pending Presidential election.
Since moving to the D.C. area, I’ve become a wonk — yes that is an official term. While it can mean a studious or hardworking person — things I certainly hope I am, it mostly means a person who takes an excessive interest in minor details of political policy. It unofficially means the kind of person — often a female — who likes and remembers all the sticky details of a subject. Said female is often considered boring, overly studious, and generally not sexy in the least little bit.
In other words, a female wonk is the 21st century version of a bluestocking.
So when I was invited last week to Georgetown University to hear Ambassador Linton Brooks talk about the U.S. relationship with Russia, I immediately jumped at the chance.
Being on the Georgetown campus is amazing. I love surrounding myself with all these intent young people who are…
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It’s the longest day of the year, the first day of summer, and a great time to be outdoors. With books. As a curious naturalist, I have field guides in my kitchen, on my desk, in my car and on my phone. Books on birds, dragonflies, grasses, butterflies, birds, trees, mammals, spiders, birds, ferns, flowering plants, non-flowering plants, insects, reptiles, and did I say birds? I love my field guides for their history (I still have some books that belonged to my parents) and for their up-to-date info and detailed pictures and keys that give me a chance to figure out what the heck I’m looking at. Here’s a link to a lovely essay on the joy of field guides by Helen Macdonald, the author of H is for Hawk.
On a recent hot June day, Lou and I went to the National Zoo. Besides visiting the usual suspects, we had a good time watching the wild Black-crowned Night Heron colony that roosts in the trees near the Bird House.
The zoo even feeds these wild birds. Some of the adults were hanging around the sign that advertised the daily demonstration of this generosity.
The Black-crowned Night-Herons come back year after year to nest at the National Zoo. Their return is as welcome as that of the buzzards to Hinckley or the swallows to Capistrano, though not as well well-known. May all their flights continue.
I’ve tried twice to throw it away. It’s my last single-bed patchwork quilt that my grandmother made. This time, I wrapped it around a display shelf I was donating to Purple Heart—doing a good deed and de-cluttering at the same time. The old quilt hasn’t been on a bed in years. It’s nearly my age and very worn: in places, the thin material is shredded. I can’t wash it because the fabric is too fragile. Might as well get it out of the closet.
My thrifty grandmother cut her patches from colorful feed-sacks. This quilt has an interlocking ring pattern and scalloped edges. When I was a kid, this quilt alternated on my bed with a daisy-patterned one (long since gone). I decided that before sending it to Purple Heart, I’d spread it on our bed and take a photo as a keepsake. After all, I thought, I do still have my crib quilt with the kittens on it and my parents’ double-bed quilt. My grandmother made them all.
Grandmother won a blue ribbon at the 1941 Morgan County Fair for one of her quilts. Years ago I framed that blue ribbon and its envelope (mailed with a one-cent stamp). On the envelope was written “For the prettiest quilt.” Maybe my ring quilt was the one.
I think she would like the way her quilts were used and loved. For me and then for my sons, quilts were way more than bed-coverings. They led a rollicking life, turning chairs into rainy-day caves or making pallets for sleepover guests. Tented on a clothesline and weighted at the corners, they gave the backyard an air of Araby.
While I was pondering these memories, Zeno jumped onto the bed. He padded about as if testing the quilt for feline suitability. He couldn’t know that he is merely the last in a long line of family cats to “make up dough” on this quilt, or to pounce on the toes it covered. The quilt, I saw, still has an affinity for cats.
When he looked up at me with question-marks in his eyes, I made a decision. The shelf gets wrapped in something else. The quilt stays in honorable retirement, with me.
This looks like an interesting addition to our knowledge of one of the early naturalists and explorers who first described the American flora and fauna. Catesby’s artwork is a wonder for his time.
Diana: Editors E. Charles Nelson and David J. Elliott have compiled a book about a man I’d never heard of: Mark Catesby. One of the earliest naturalists, as well as an author and illustrator, Catesby studied the fauna and flora of North America over a seven-year period. He influenced Audubon, Darwin, and the explorers Lewis and Clark. The book, The Curious Mister Catesby, is a treasure and I’m lucky today to have E. Charles Nelson do a guest post telling us more about this intriguing man.
E. Charles Nelson: The natural history of Carolina, Florida and the Bahama islands is undeniably a rare book, and a very remarkable one, too. Its author and illustrator, Mark Catesby produced the book himself beginning soon after he returned to England from South Carolina and the Bahamas sometime in 1726: “The whole was done within my house, and by my own hands …”. He learned…
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