Good-byes and Bad-byes

Within a day or so of bringing the huge pile of kittens home from the shelter, we could tell that the little ones, the Fetal Rats, were struggling. Come on, Mother Teresa weighs not even five lbs after a big meal, and she’s trying to feed nine babies! Her own five All Blacks, healthy and strong, easily push the newborns away from the milk bar whenever they like. Plus, they’re eating canned food, so they’re fine.

As frequent foster families do, we keep KMR (instant kitten formula) on hand, so we began supplementing the little ones right away. But one of them never really got the hang of life, and slipped away during the night. So sad, though not unexpected.

Thinking about this poor little soul, I have been thinking about people who have left my life. Some, those who have died, did not choose to go. Others parted ways for mutually accepted or at least understood reasons, their exit incorporated into the colorful tapestry of life.

To put it in quilting terms, a quilt with all light and bright colors is boring – in the best designs, the dark parts make the bright colors shine in contrast, so they are just as valuable. So in my heart quilt, the lost kitten makes me more delighted at the health of the others, the death of a dear father highlights my gratitude for his ongoing influence in my life, a failed romance teaches me what doesn’t fit.

The hardest exits, the most hurtful, are those that happen suddenly, with no explanation, and no clear cause. This has only ever happened to me twice, and the hurt and confusion are nearly unbearable. Efforts to reach out, reconnect or clarify soundly rebuffed, I will always wonder, never know and ever doubt my own value whenever I think of these people. I would love to apologize, make amends, at least understand. Knowing that closure will never happen is a constant ache.

One of these goodbyes was a woman friend to whom I was closer than my own sisters. Another was a man who opened my heart and filled it with light. With both, the endings came suddenly and without warning: I truly have no idea what happened. I miss them, no matter how hard I try to let them go, no matter how many other wonderful friends and loves remain.

Such partings do not provide valuable dark contrast to the design of life, only ragged, gaping holes, and the best stitching in the world can’t ever mend them.

All Blacks, Fetal Rats and Mother Teresa

Last week I got an email from the new foster care coordinator for the animal shelter. She was scraping the bottom of the barrel, she said, desperate for help. Could we please take in a litter of five black and white kittens about two weeks old?

Setting aside my annoyance at being the bottom of the barrel (we’ve fostered a lot, and just sent back this year’s questionnaire having checked the “Call me first!” box as usual) I assured her that we would be happy to, as soon as I got back from Vermont. Two of our own cats are black and white, we call them the soccer balls, and we’ve never had a black and white litter, so it sounded like fun.

While I was away, she sent another email, telling me that someone had brought in a litter of four, one-week-old kittens, found without a mother, and that she had introduced them to “our” foster mama, who had accepted them with her own, and would that be ok with us and see you tomorrow. Ok, this girl is new, and very young. What Ever.

We collected the whole motley family. The black and white litter turned out to be all black with only a small patch or two of white on the occasional belly. In honor of the New Zealand rugby team, they are the All Blacks. The All Blacks are tragically cute as they wobble around and experiment with soft food (all over their little faces), swim in the water dish and learn how to play, with each other, the dogs and us.

The other litter was nowhere near close to a week old. Umbilical cords still attached, they weighed what two-day-old kittens do, according to our records of former litters. Two are white with splotches of gray, two are tigers. They look like rat fetuses. I suspect the white ones will morph into siamese, and simply hope they all survive! The rugged All Blacks easily muscle the Fetal Rats out of the way at the milk bar, so I have to be careful to supplement every few hours.

Mama cat, taking them all in with grace, and loving the ugly and abandoned as well as her own, can have no other name but Teresa.

So there you have it. We’ll have our hands full of kitten care and kitten love for a few weeks, and will love every minute.

Daisies and Lupines

When we built our cottage on the Cape, David wanted a paved driveway in a loop to practice motorcycle turns. In the middle of the loop was left a single tree and a pile of dirt. Being the dedicated non-gardener that I am, I threw a bag of Vermont wildflower seeds in there and called it good.

Much to my surprise and delight, the following spring brought the daisies and lupines pictured above. I don’t remember ever seeing them together before, and their exuberant purple and white made me laugh. Every June, they return with more and more enthusiasm.

Growing up in Maine, both of these flowers were part of my childhood. One year when I was 6 or 7 years old, I wandered off one day to explore the woods and fields behind our house in Hampden. I was alone (perfectly normal for children in the 60s in Maine), and poking along one of my favorite paths came out of the trees into a field entirely covered in daisies. I remember being overcome with joy, taking in their triumphant march down to the river. The following year, I went back when the daisies showed their happy faces around our house, but the field had been plowed under and planted with hay, and my disappointment was as deep as had been my delight the previous spring.

Lupines are like magic blue and pink firecrackers poking into the sky. Picking them is useless; they don’t last in water. They flourish where they are, and to enjoy them we have to move ourselves to their homes, not bring them into ours.

No one has planted hay in our circular driveway, so now I get to see the daisies and lupines together every spring. They are like old and trusted friends.

My first ever solo motorcycle trip to Vermont felt a little bit like exploring the woods when I was young. It was a little scary, and exhilarating. Not all of it was pleasant – I still don’t like highway riding, even though I am able to do it well enough.

When I got to Stowe, I connected with the old friends with whom I’ve worked on the balloon meet for so many years. My two days there held the customary laughter, productivity and rejuvenating fellowship. This being my last year (see Changing Direction, March 5, 2011), time with these people took on a new poignancy. Yes, we will continue to be friends, to stay in touch, to keep up, but it won’t be the same. I was freshly reminded how much I love them all, how dear they are, how part of me.

Riding home, the worst part of the trip came first, Interstate 89 and its miles and miles and miles and miles of construction. I definitely do not have the confidence to go the customary 5 to 10 mph over the speed limit on corrugated pavement, as the car drivers often do. So on the one-lane bits, with no place to pull over, lines formed behind me. Frustration, embarrassment, stress… and deep breaths and reminders to look out at the beautiful mountains through which I was riding… that’s how the first 70 miles of my trip fell out.

At the end of the longest stretch of road work, I emerged back onto regular pavement as the road curved around a steep hill. At the end of the curve, just as I was back up to speed, a brilliant patch of daisies and lupines burst into view on the side of the road.

They felt like old friends – always there when you expect them, and a happy surprise when you don’t expect them at all, but need them the most.

Nerves and Nerve Food

It’s just a quick trip over to Vermont for a meeting about the balloon festival. And the weather forecast looks fine. So why not go over on the bike?

Because I’ve never done anything like this before and it’s 336 miles one way and I’ll be all by myself and quite a few of the roads got washed out last week and it might be cold and I got an owie in my back a couple days ago and if I take the car I can come back Tuesday and quilt all day Wednesday and there are hills and twisties all the way and no David or capable Ayres Adventures tour leaders to rely on if I get in a fix...

and most of all because I’m a wimp.

That’s the long and the short of it. And because it will be good for me, I will go. And I’ll probably have a great time on the road too.

Mom called yesterday for my birthday, and we laughed about the concept of age. “When your father died,” she told me, “I was only 52, and I thought I was old and that my life was over.” 

   “Yeah,” I replied, “I thought you were old, too, and I’m 55 today, and don’t feel old at all. In fact, I feel like I’m just getting started!” 

   “I don’t feel as old at 75 as I felt at 55,” she admitted.

So I can’t use my advanced age as an excuse. My hair is still red, and I’ve never been one to shy away from adventure either.

That leaves just plain nerves. Nerves are not new to me. I’ve felt them millions of times -- like I said, I'm a wimp. Looking back though, I find that every single time I’ve just gone ahead and done whatever made me nervous, I’ve been very, very happy I did. And when I wimped out I was mad at myself and embarrassed.

Fortunately, from birth I’ve been exposed to the secret weapon true Maineiacs use to vanquish nerves: Moxie Nerve Food. When people ask what it tastes like, I can only describe it as a yummy mixture of root beer, sarsaparilla and battery acid. And it packs enough of a jolt to make Red Bull seem like chamomile tea by comparison.

I take my Moxie seriously. Consider the following:

• My email address is moxielady@me.com (ME is the state code for Maine for those of you “from away”).

• Moxie is the official drink of Maine, and I’m a native, with the papers to prove it.

• I have consumed enough of the delectable drink to turn my insides to steel. People from away can rarely choke down a single swallow, let alone down it by the case.

• I have a Moxie-orange motorcycle, built by BMW to honor my father’s German heritage.

• Her license plate is MOX-E. (MOXIE was already taken, but close enough)

• There is plenty of room in my saddle bag for a can or two, diet these days.

So off I go in the morning. I may post from Stowe tomorrow or the next day, or maybe not. Depends on how my nerves hold up.