Packing



Yes, I bring a lot of stuff, but I don't bring too much....just enough. I travel heavy, and I rarely regret it. Weeks of making and re-making checklists ensures that we want for nothing when we go on a trip. I bring lots of clothes for all kinds of contingencies like rain, heat, cold, gettin wet from fallin into the water, and gettin stinky from bonfire smoke.

The first time we rented a cottage at Granite Lake, I admit I brought way too much stuff, but that was because I had no idea how well-equipped the place was. (The place we had rented the previous year was bare-bones: just the building and the furniture and nothing more: no dishes, no cutlery, no bed linens, no nothing.) After our first stay I knew better, and since we've checked this place out at Netley Creek, I have a pretty good idea as to what to take.

Because we are taking the little bass boat, we've decided to load it and all the related boat/fishing gear into the truck, and I'll take the rest, including the critters, in my Cruiser. There's lots of luggage space, especially with the seats folded down, so I don't think we'll be packed like sardines this time. Because it's only a half hour drive, the gas isn't much of a factor. All the way there, I will be loudly serenaded by our very own three tenors: Jose Cat-eras, Placido De Meow-O, and Luciano Cat-arotti. Oh joy.

We forgot that all the stores are closed today (Canada Day); we'll have to get the rest of our groceries, etc. tomorrow after church. With little else to do, we decided to go to the casino for the first time in a long time, and we both won! Enough to clear off our Visa bill and buy gas for the trip with cash. Wahoo.

Won't have time to blog tomorrow, as we will be leaving after shopping and packing. Have a great week, everyone!

Hooray



Wednesday, I received in the mail, the skincare kit I had ordered online (thank you for the recommendation, Sue). Its contents were formulated specifically for the use of radiation and chemotherapy patients who are experiencing skin reactions or who have sun sensitivity due to their treatments. Included are sunscreens for the lips and skin that will come in very handy during our week-long getaway.

And yesterday the bed wedge I ordered from eBay arrived. Once I test-drove it for comfort and realized that it was precisely the same height and slope as the hospital bed that we had on loan from Home Care, I couldn't wait to tear the extra bed apart and drag it out of our cramped bedroom....which was no easy feat, as the thing weighs a ton. Wow, it's so nice to have our spacious bedroom back again, to have the nightstands positioned where they ought to be, and our queen-sized bed spaced properly under an overhanging print (a framed poster from a local stage production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream"). Joni Mitchell was so spot on when she warbled, "You don't always know what you've got 'til it's gone." Until you are forced to sleep in a separate bed from your spouse for 6 or 7 months, you don't know what isolation feels like.

Perfect timing again: I can take it to the cottage and sleep in comfort, without finding myself sliding off a stack of pillows or gettin sick to my stomach in the middle of the night.

More significantly, I feel as if I have won a victory in the battle I'm waging with the Monster, by reclaiming a part of my life that It had taken from Curtis and me.

Last night I went to bed filled with prayers of thanks for feeling better and being snugly wrapped in the arms of my very own hillbilly.

I Feel Nekkid



It's no secret that I loves me bling, and without it I feel stripped. This morning, after gettin a cortisone shot in my knee, I went to my favourite jeweller and dropped off three of my rings to have them resized. They had become so loose-fitting with my weight loss that I was afraid of losing them, and I figured I would miss them the least while bein busy fishin and havin bonfires. So far, I've had only three or four near heart attacks, brief instants when I go into panic mode until my sluggish brain catches up to remind me that my rings are not lost; they're safe.

For the next few days, though, I'm sure observers will wonder if I am being periodically poked with an electric cattle prod:

"OH MY G....Oh yeah, that's right...."

"OH MY....Oh yeah, never mind...."

"ACK!....Oh right, silly me...."

Passport Woes



This passport application thing is givin me a big pain where I sit. Why we will require a passport to cross the border into the US, with whom we allegedly have a Free Trade agreement, is beyond my comprehension. So is all the freaking red tape.

They want ORIGINALS of my identification. As if I can afford to be without my medical card for the six years or so it takes them to process my passport! And I need someone to act as guarantor to attest to the fact that the horrific passport photo I had taken today, is truly me. I can't even tell it's me. I mean, I know my appearance has been altered for the worse by my condition, but in the mug shot it looks like my head has been boiled in a pot for several hours. AND NO, I'M NOT POSTING IT; that would frighten everyone away forever. So remind me again why I'm bein charged all these fees to end up with identification that doesn't even resemble me?

On Thursday morning I am getting a cortisone shot in my knee, and I'll bring my documents and ask Dr B if he'll act as my guarantor. Then I'll go down to the passport office and present my papers in person, in hopes that they'll just photocopy my ID and give it back right away.

I can just hear them at the border now: "Pardon me, ma'am...[I hate when people call me ma'am.]...are you telling me that this boiled cabbage is you?"

"Well, um, yes...."

"I'm sorry, but you're not allowed to export produce."

Sigh.

Trampolines and Trailer Parks


They just seem to go together...

Curtis told me that the state flower of West Virginia is the satellite dish, and the state sport is trampolining. Given that their vehicles are on blocks and their homes are on wheels, the trampoline thing makes sense.

I just don't see why any responsible parent would put one of these things on their property, unless they are looking for a quick way to get rid of their kids. Every summer, there are newspaper and magazine stories about people seriously hurt on them. And judging from the number of trampoline mishaps shown on "America's Funniest Home Videos," it's amazing that there aren't even more.



In a public trampoline park in Turkey (I guess there's a shortage of trailer parks there), the regulations posted are there to protect park owners from any liability.



I'm not sure, but I think a rough translation is as follows:

D**HEADS!

1. If you are stupid enough to play on this thing, there's a 5 to 1 chance you'll get hurt.
2. Please don't expect us to be responsible.
3. Please do expect us to record video of your mishap and submit for possible cash prizes.
4. Do not bounce with more than one person in the same spot.
5. Do not bounce with sharp objects like machetes in your pockets.
6. It is a bad idea to bounce under the influence of drugs or alcohol.
7. Management is entitled to keep any money that falls out of your pockets while you are bouncing.
8. You might consider donating your organs and limbs now, while they are still useful and functioning.
- The Management.

This is the only kind of trampoline that makes any kind of sense to me:


No springs to fall through and break your legs, no hard metal, and only water to land on if you fall off.

Just the Two of Us



Curtis and I will be holed up at home this weekend, gettin ready for our week-long cottage rental. We have to pull his little bass boat out from behind the garage and clean it and the seats up with the power sprayer, and go buy an anchor, a floating safety rope and a battery for the motor. I'm making lists, of course (I'm glad I kept the ones from our previous outings for reference, or I would have forgotten a few things, for sure). This time the cats will be goin with us (hooray), so we'll have extra luggage to transport.

Since our doctor's office is catty-corner from the grocery store where I went today, I popped in to make an appointment for a cortisone shot in my right knee - arthritis is actin up again. Ilona, the receptionist, expressed shock at my appearance. People who see me all the time keep tellin me I look so well, but she hasn't laid eyes on me for months, and I was wearing heavy winter clothing then. She remarked on the puffiness in the left side of my face and said I looked thin and pale (doesn't help that I wasn't wearin any makeup and my eyelashes, like my hair, have turned white. Plus, I had a bit of a rough evening, although I did get to enjoy my dinner twice: once on the way down, and again on the way up, if you know what I mean. Ugh.) She did also, however, comment on her amazement at how much the tumor on my temple had flattened out.

Speakin of hair, I don't think I will have my roots touched up again. It seems that, not only has the Sutent stripped my hair of its colour, but it won't allow it to properly accept the hair dye: It came out kind of red/orange, and after numerous washings, is now sort of yellow. I'll just have to let it grow out the way it wants to. I might go back to Plan B, which was to shave my head and wear a wig while it grows out, so I don't have a multi-coloured head. There are worse things.

My finger joints refuse to heal. Last night before bedtime, I gooped Ozonol on both forefingers and wrapped them with gauze and tape. This morning, Curtis said it looked like I was holdin a couple of six shooters in my hands ha ha.

My brother Fred and his son Travis got home last night from Germany, where they attended seven World Cup Soccer games. He said there were no words adequate to describe what a fabulous time they had. I'm really glad the guys enjoyed themselves because they both have stressful jobs, and Fred has a lot on his plate handling all our mom's affairs. He and his wife, who just returned from a week-long visit to her mom in Regina, Saskatchewan, are off to their gorgeous cottage this afternoon for the weekend so they should get a chance to recoup from their travels.

But we'll be stickin pretty close to home for the next week, just the two of us, plus the three fuzz-faces, of course. Hope you all have a good weekend.

Humour


Of course, I haven't shut up since.

I love to laugh. Boy, do I ever. And I have the kind of laugh that makes other shoppers in Wal-Mart turn around and look. Just ask Curtis.

The only times I ever got into any kind of trouble in school, were when I was caught telling jokes to my classmates. Their laughter was disrupting the class.

I've been known to make light of some serious situations, and that has won me disapproval at times. I guess I crossed the line, and that was offensive to some people. It was never my intention to upset anyone; more than likely, it was nervousness. My way of coping with stress. I will often crack up my oncological team, and will kibbitz with staff in the OR right up until they put me under anaesthesia (one way to shut me up...). Humour has seen and is seeing me through some pretty tough and frightening times.

The truth is, that, although I know a zillion ethnic jokes, I've never been comfortable with putdowns. I do not enjoy "humour" that victimizes.

What happened to innocent humour? The kind that didn't target individual people or groups, but just satirized human foibles? The "Deja View" channel on my television runs old episodes of "I Love Lucy" and "Dick Van Dyke," sitcoms that relied heavily upon pratfalls and exaggeration. And they didn't resort to sexual innuendo or profanity to get their laughs. (The censors wouldn't permit it.)

I guess I've become a prude in my old age. During my first marriage, I developed quite a potty mouth; then one day, I decided it just wasn't that attractive and I cleaned up my act. Foul language doesn't shock me; I just find it ugly. At my brother's cottage, Curtis played part of a DVD with a live standup routine by Martin Lawrence. I believe he used "Motherf***er" or some form of it, as a noun, verb, adjective, adverb....even punctuation. And he really never said anything remotely funny in the fifteen minutes that we endured him. Before appearing on TV and in Disney movies, this guy made a living at being an entertainer? I must be aging, because I just don't get it.

On the other hand, I found myself laughin out loud at a lot of the "Everybody Loves Raymond" episodes that were part of an entire season on DVD that we gave my brother as thanks for doin our taxes. But then, I've always found ordinary comic characters with recognizable quirks the most amusing, which is why I suppose I was such a big fan of "Seinfeld, a show about nothing."

I'm following a talent competition on TV called, "Last Comic Standing," and there are some very funny folks on there. Any one of the finalists deserves to win, as far as I'm concerned. Now that's a tough gig: They have about five minutes to elicit laughter from their audience, and they have to do it alone. Yes, some of their humour is profane - Come on now, I'm not that uptight. But a lot of what they do is so darn intelligent: social commentary, the exposure of universal human weakness, the pitfalls of relationships, etc. This kind of humour was pioneered by comic geniuses like George Carlin and Dennis Miller. Smartass philosophers, gotta love that.

Humour is a great teaching tool. I found during my twenty-five years as a high school educator that kids not only learned stuff better when I used a humourous anecdote to teach it, but they retained it. Years later they will remind me of some goofy thing that I said in order to illustrate a point, sometimes to my embarrassment. I suppose there are worse things for which to be remembered, than bein the "funny teacher who laughs a lot."

**********

Humor is just another defense against the universe.
-- Mel Brooks

Summer Time



The thing I marvel at the most about Manitoba summers, is the long hours of daylight. This time of year, my favourite, is when it is light out from about 4:30 in the morning until 10 or 10:30 at night. Having come from a mountainous region, Curtis is still amazed by that, as well as our endless skies, which is evident by the number of photos he took of the cloud formations over Caddy Lake.

It has been quite hot here lately, and with that heat comes humidity, making for turbulent weather. I can almost forgive the forecasters their bumbling guesswork about upcoming conditions. The other day, three different meteorological sources gave three different forecasts: sunny, sunny with scattered cloud and a possibility of scattered showers, and thundershowers. Yup, short of a freak blizzard, that about covers it. Our gardens are off to a pretty good start, although they droop between soakings due to the winds drying out the soil. I added a hydrangea plant to the front flower bed, and it is greedy for a separate watering just about every day. Hope it doesn't die on me when we're away for a week.

In less than two weeks we will be enjoying our riverfront cottage rental, and this time we get to take the cats, so I'll be a happy camper. I have a big bag of marshmallows ready to be roasted at the fabulous fire pit that's there.

Curtis was able to rid our garage of the carpenter ants just by using a powder pesticide, so we cancelled the exterminator. That saved us quite a bit of money, which is always a welcome thing.

From eBay, I ordered a special wedge pillow (a less expensive version of the "Bedge" that Karen described a while back), in hopes of bein able to get rid of the hospital bed and sleep in our own queen-size with my husband again. For months now it has been crowded in our bedroom, and I have been feelin increasingly isolated by myself on that little bed. If the new pillow elevates me sufficiently that I don't suffer acid reflux at night, I'll feel very lucky indeed.

My forefingers (the first knuckle-joint on the thumb side) have been very slow to heal from the mugho pine oil reaction that I suffered four weeks ago. The joints are very raw and tender, and split easily. If I ever go anywhere near one of those buggers again, it will be in a suit of armour.

It's day 11 back on the Sutent, and my tongue is beginning to get sensitive. So far, my taste buds are still workin, so I'm enjoying food while I can.

On Thursday last I attended a retirement party for a friend, an excellent and highly respected teacher who gave 32 years to her profession. She will be teaching Royal Winnipeg Ballet students at the University of Manitoba next year, 5 mornings a week, so she's not quitting altogether. I was very happy for her, but it made me sad that I didn't get to finish out my career as I had always planned. Leaving so abruptly has been hard on me emotionally. Almost every night I have detailed dreams of bein in the classroom, teaching lessons, conferencing with students, and coaxing them through presentations. Sometimes when I awaken and realize what will never be again, I have myself a little boo hoo. I don't miss the marking, and I sure as heck don't miss the meetings and the politics, but oh, how I miss the KIDS. Did they ever know at all, how much I cared?

I still think like an English teacher: When I read something, hear about it, see it on the internet or on the TV, I automatically start thinkin about how I could "use" that in a learning situation. I've given away or left behind all my teaching materials, all my files, all my bulletin board displays - everything - in the hopes that they can be of some use to someone else.

Ah well, in a couple of weeks school will be out, and it will just feel like summer break to me again. Maybe my busy brain will allow me to take a holiday. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the long, languid days of a Manitoba summer.

Not Even a Nibble



But who's complaining? Not the night crawlers, that's for sure. Despite not catching any fish, Curtis and I still had a good time relaxing in the beauty and luxury of my brother's cottage. Because it's situated in a provincial park, large areas are left undeveloped, including the forest directly across the bay from his place. The result: a gorgeous view, as you can see if you pop over and check out the photos on Curtis' blog. There's nothing more calming than sitting in the huge screened porch enjoying the fresh air, and gazing across the lake to see a pretty doe wading and drinking, and grazing happily along the shoreline.

We're all unpacked, and the cats are happy we're home again. Ready for our next adventure....

Be Back Soon



We're gone again, enjoying the luxury of my brother's cottage at Caddy Lake. Have a great weekend, everyone.

Words to Live By



Striving for excellence is something I have always valued and admired greatly. As infants, we are born with an innate determination. Witness a one year old trying to climb a carpeted stair: no matter how many times he wobbles and lands on his bum, he'll keep trying. He won't cry or expect an adult to help him, although often one will come along and lift him over the obstacle. In most cases, the baby will go back and resume the effort on his own, because it's his nature to crave accomplishment.

Too often humans and their social institutions strip individuals of their instinctive need to strive. Well-meaning but over-indulgent parents, who demand nothing of their offspring and lavishly dole out unearned gifts and privileges....welfare systems that reward inertia and remove incentive....education systems that lower standards to manufacture favourable statistics....lax judicial systems that do not demand accountability for one's criminal actions....all examples of ways we have invented to sabotage our own wills.

Challenge is necessary for human development, and for the growth of healthy self-image. Failure is a harsh teacher, but it is the attempt that inspires both the individual and his or her witnesses. In a brilliant scene from the film adaptation of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest," the emasculated patients on a mental ward are forever changed when R.P. McMurphy strains agonizingly to lift a marble sink on a bet. He doesn't succeed, but his observers feel no sense of disappointment. "At least I tried," is the message he leaves with them. "At least I did that."

And we all must, no matter what odds we face. Complacency is just not acceptable to the human spirit.

None of us can expect a perfect realization of our goals. Let's face it: There are some obstacles we may simply not be equipped to overcome. But we can show others the way....It may be a path fraught with disappointment and frustration, but there is glory in the attempt.

And every once in a while, someone achieves what was thought to be impossible.

The Critters of Barrier Bay



Curtis and I had a wonderful long weekend in beautiful Whiteshell Provincial Park. You can read about it and see some great photos on Curtis' blog.

I decided to focus on something that thrills both of us more than almost anything: being surrounded by the sights and sounds of the wildlife that abounds in the area.

Twice on the drive to the resort, we saw deer dart from the woods. Luckily, they seemed repelled by the chrome on our truck and turned tail, so they were spared any injury.



After unpacking, we strolled down to the dock, where I spotted a young snapping turtle sunning itself on a rock before he dove into the water.



There was a variety of birds that regularly visited the feeders suspended from our cottage's overhang: the ruby-throated hummingbird, the American goldfinch, and some small finches and black-capped chickadees:






The noisy crows were in abundance, of course, and always scouring our deck for any food scraps left behind. One of them must've been Dutch, because it sure sounded like he had his wooden shoes on when he came clompin along the railing of our upper balcony early in the morning.



We kept the bedroom door to the balcony open at night, so we could enjoy the sound of the night critters. We didn't actually see the Canada geese, the phoebes or the whippoorwills, but we certainly heard them honking and tellin us their names.





We also heard the gulls, squalling and at times sounding like cats meowing crankily, as well as the common loon, the latter of which put on quite a mating display for us while we were fishing.




Among the various waterfowl were numerous ducks, which amused us with their aquatic landings and fishing prowess.



The infinite variety of wildflowers attracted some gorgeous butterflies.




There isn't anything quite as therapeutic, for us, as being amidst the tranquility and purity of God's little creatures. All I can say after this glorious long weekend at the Whiskey Jack chalet is ahhhhhhhh.

Curtis and I are gone to Barrier Bay until Monday. Look for a full report and photos on his site after our return. Have a great weekend, everyone!

Almost There



Tomorrow after lunch we head out to Barrier Bay until Monday. I'm ready for that whirlpool bath! Here's the menu: Friday dinner - Spaghetti a la Homer (with Mizithra cheese) and fresh garden salad, key lime pie for dessert. Saturday breakfast - bacon, eggs, hash browns, toast; ham bunwiches for lunch if we're hungry; Dinner - chicken souvlaki, Greek salad, Greek lemon potatoes, key lime pie. Sunday breakfast and lunch - same as Saturday; dinner - grilled hamburgers and homemade French Fries. Monday breakfast - home baked cinnamon buns with icing. We'll snack on any or all of: Belgian chocolates, popcorn, garlic hummus with pita chips and/or flatbread, fruit tray, vegies and dip.

I made the key lime pie yesterday; boy, did that juice ever sting my healing fingers while I was squeezin those lil baby limes! This afternoon I'll prepare the lemon potatoes after I return from CancerCare, a quick visit to my mom in the nursing home, and a stop at Costco.

Today I go for bloodwork, a consultation with Dr C and Nurse Pat, and a new supply of Sutent. I should feel well for the next week until the side effects kick in again. The timing actually worked out perfectly, so we should get full enjoyment out of our luxurious weekend.

I only wish we could take our kitties with us. The more time I spend at home with them, the worse my separation anxiety gets. I know they'll be fine, but I will miss them.

Well, time to start my busy day!

Roots



I had been feeling a little overwhelmed by my roots, which were not so much grey, as white. Even though I am a natural blonde, my hair colour is golden/ashen, not platinum, so they were extremely noticeable, making it appear as if I was bald along my part.

Not any more.

Wade, my hairdresser, decided yesterday that the way to go was to first dye my roots to match my natural hair colour, and then put highlights in. The highlights look great; the root job looks a little red to me, but that could be my sensitive scalp shining through.

What this means is a root touch-up every 4 weeks, and I'm not crazy about that. For one thing, the dye didn't burn my scalp, but it did prickle uncomfortably. To be fair, I had been admonished to not use hair dye for six months after my radiation ended, and I cheated and had this done less than five months afterwards.

I might end up shavin my head, wearin a wig until the white stuff grows out, and just living with it; because it's hard enough to deal with all the side effects of chemotherapy without adding an itchy or irritated noggin into the mix. We'll see.

In the meantime, my hair looks brighter for the summer. Wade used a flat iron on it, which I know is the style, but Curtis and I are used to seein me with a curly head, so I'll be draggin out my hot rollers today, as usual.

For those of you who asked, my hands are on the mend. The effects of the mugho pine oil reaction are slowly diminishing: the skin on the wounds, which had turned into an ugly gangrenous-looking leather, is peeling off, exposing tender new pink skin. I'm constantly washing and moisturizing, and I'm able to wear my rings again.

Shoes


Is there a woman on the planet with feet shaped like this?

Unlike my friend Marina, and many other women, I'm not wild about shoes. Mainly because a lot of them hurt my sensitive feet. Wearing comfy sandals this time of year allows my tender tootsies to breathe and stretch.

I can't lay claim to much of a fashion sense when it comes to footwear, but I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than wear some of these:


Men allegedly find these sexy. It makes my calves go into spasm to even look at them.


Has there ever actually been a market for these?


The graphic says it all.

It's a real challenge to find a pair of shoes that feel good. Unfortunately, by the time a pair get really comfy, they tend to look like these:


You can almost smell these, can't you?

These feel good, and I live in them indoors. Just bought myself a new pair on Saturday:


It's the only time you'll ever see me wearing anything with fur.

Why do we wear shoes? Aside from the obvious need for protection from pointy things on the ground, and snow, I mean. I think it's because feet are so ugly. In my humble opinion, feet are the least attractive part of the human body - more so in some cases than others, of course. My female friends rave about the wonderful luxury of a pedicure, and I have to admit, some of em do get some mighty pretty toes out of it; but the thought of someone pickin at my feet is enough to make me lose my lunch. It's hard enough for me to saw at my own callouses with a foot file, ew. And, I'm sorry, but some feet are just beyond help.


Doesn't matter how you dress these gruesome things up; they need to be covered!

Monkey



Second marriages mean blended families. Curtis and I had children of the four-legged variety: When we married, Curtis had a cat (Monkey) and a boxer dog (Max) and I had two cats (Duffy and Milo). Of the four critters, Monkey was the tiniest. And the most assertive.

Although always having been an indoor cat, Monkey was an accomplished mouser, which is a great asset for a country feline. Since moving to a Canadian city, those talents are no longer required, but there isn't a catnip toy in the house that stands a chance around her.

Monkey and Milo are the best of friends, and although they don't cuddle together (none of our cats do), Monkey constantly rubs up against Milo, begging for grooming, which always leads into a boxing match. Both cats swat at each other with their clawless paws, often rearing up and striking poses that prompt Curtis and me to refer to them as "Godzilla cats." They love to chase each other through the house.

Monkey, like Milo, bullies Duffy, frequently blocking him from entering a room just because she can. And during the day, she acts like I'm a threat to her, even though when I'm in bed she'll climb aboard me and knead and cuddle. She has a purr that could drown out a Mac truck engine. The affection is strictly on her terms: she will not allow anyone to pick her up or carry her.

Our little pastel calico Persian is a very vain girl, who loves to stretch out and swish her tail seductively. I would love nothing more than to grab her up and smother her with kisses, but when I try, she kicks and strains like a small boy bein smooched by an old aunt.

Doesn't mean I'll ever give up.


Monkey with her Bill Gates catnip doll

Duffy



Duffy is our non-Persian longhair, a big lanky cat that I adopted from the Humane Society when he weighed less than 2 pounds. (When I took him for his first shots, my vet told me, if he grows into his ears and paws, he'll be a big boy. She was right!) He was all bones, eyes, whiskers and ears, and his fur stuck out maniacally in a hundred different directions. I acquired him just days after my ex announced that he no longer wanted to be married; getting a cat was my way of asserting myself by making a decision that did not have to be approved by He Who Controlled. But that's another story, and better left untold...

When Duffy first confronted my amiable chow chow, Jinx, he puffed himself up as big as he could (which was laughable) and hissed. Jinx danced happily in front of him, for she loved cats and was delighted to finally have one of her own; and Duffy quickly realized that the lionesque dog before him was no threat. They became the best of pals, and used to play together gently, Duffy wrapping his forepaws around Jinx's great mane, and Jinx mouthing Duffy's back until his hair was all gobbed up into punk rocker style.

He was not quite so gracious about accepting another cat into the home, when I adopted our tabby Milo some four months later. Although they sometimes chase through the house together, Duffy is the perennial victim of our two other cats, bullied and pestered by them until he screams with aggravation. He was especially dismayed when Monkey cat joined our household, and allows her to dominate him even though he is twice her size. He loved Curtis' boxer Max (he seems to favour dogs over other cats), and enjoys cuddling with and "talking to" Curtis, so it's not as though his life became miserable.

Duffy has two claims to fame, besides his beauty: He loves to knead or "make biscuits," as Curtis calls it, and he is terribly clumsy. I've never known a cat to fall, miscue on a leap (bangin his head on the underside of a chair instead of jumping onto its seat), or knock things over as much as he does. I think I blogged before about the time he swished his gorgeous body-length tail through a candle flame and tore through the house lookin like Halley's comet, as well as when he fell into my bubble bath and then purred contentedly while I towelled him dry.

I love this cat. He will always be my special boy, a symbol of my new independence. I even forgive him the claw-marks raked down my collarbone when he slips off of me when I'm in bed.

A Few More of My Favourite Things

Leslie was interested in seeing a picture of our pie safe:



I ordered this piece to be built in unfinished pine by a local woodworker, then added a light stain and some stencilling myself. On the top left stands a brass alarm clock from Holland that is over 110 years old. On the upper right hand shelf is an old-fashioned doll handcrafted by moi, and on the right door hang my dad's Hans Brinker figure skates - they clamped onto his shoes with a few turns of a key.

One of our most prized possessions is Curtis' gramma's china cabinet, brought all the way up to Winnipeg from West Virginia. I love its classic lines:



I've never been one to be interested in china, but I find Gramma's dinnerware exquisite in its simplicity:



These lovely dishes had been wrapped in newspaper (ACK! The ink!) and packed in boxes for years. After careful washing, it was sadly apparent that two of the dinner plates were damaged. A short while ago, I was delighted to find never-used replacement plates on eBay. We use Gramma's dishes for special occasions like Easter and Thanksgiving; both Curtis and I are sure that she's pleased about that.

Here's a closer look at the lovely rose pattern and gold edging:



The graceful curves of the serving pieces, I find particularly appealing:



I mentioned in my previous post that we enjoy antiques and replicas of antiques, and that our basement, in particular, is filled with them.



Here's evidence on this little pine shelf, which I filled with handmade and purchased items. I am especially fond of the gingerbread man cookie cutter that I spied in a local antique shop.

Lastly, a couple of items I salvaged from the cottage that I lost in the divorce wars:



The old wooden chair and milk can, I painted and stencilled to match one another. I used to restore and refurbish a lot of weatherbeaten furniture, taking pleasure in bringin new life to old things.

One of my joys (among many) in marrying Curtis has been to blend our two households with furnishings and decor that was particularly meaningful to each of us, and thus has become even more meaningful to both of us. We've melded two histories to make a new present and future.