My pets visit me after they're gone. At first, I thought it was just my dog, Smokey, but after Millie visited me yesterday, I realized they all paid a visit to me from over the Rainbow Bridge.
Timothy, my and my husband's first cat, visited me one day a few weeks after he left us. One day, out of the blue, the doorbell rang. When I went to see who it was, there was no one there, no package left, and no person or vehicle in sight. This might not seem eerie, except for the fact that, years before, Tim had discovered he could walk along a ledge by the front door and ring the bell when he wanted to come in.
Smokey came in the middle of the night, a month or so after he passed on to alert me to a problem he saw. I woke up hearing Smokey's tags jingle as he entered the bedroom, and felt his nose nudge my hand. (Note: I felt his nose; I heard his tags. I did.) Waking more fully, I sadly remembered Smokey was gone, but then I saw a faint light coming from down the hall. I got up and walked slowly down the hall and saw . . . the refrigerator door had somehow been left open! I closed it and went back to bed, thanking my ever faithful dog for his vigilance.
Jasmine, my Siamese mix cat, never really showed herself, but although after she died, I picked up all the furry mice she loved to play with, saved a couple and disposed of the others, I found furry mice all over the house for years. Every one had it's leather tail chewed off - which was the first thing she did when she got a new one.
Millie, my last cat, passed away about 6 months ago. I am still in the phase of thinking I see her out of the corner of my eye, but have been passing it off as normal. Last night was more than just thinking I saw her. I felt her. I'd gone to bed and was just drifting off when I felt Millie jump onto the bed in the same spot she always did, and then felt her two front feet standing on my leg, as she always did, waiting for me to reach down and pull her up to snuggle near my face. I lay there, still feeling her feet on me, my head telling me she was not there, my heart aching to reach out to her as I always had, but afraid and unable to do it. I hope she understood why I couldn't do it this time.
There you have them. A series of events, probably easily explained things to doubters, but real visits from beloved pets to me. Pets who, maybe, needed to come back once more to say goodbye or let me know of something that needed my attention.
Tuesday, January 7, 2020
Monday, December 23, 2019
Thoughts While Wrapping Gifts
I wrote this a few years ago, but the thoughts are basically the same every year, except for the song. I never know what song with stick in my head in any given year, but it's seldom a Christmas carol. Also, I lost the cat I mentioned earlier this past year. I'd give anything to have her "helping" me again.
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1. I should have gone with tradition and wrapped on the floor. There is more room on the floor and scissors, pens and tape don't fall off the floor All The Time.
2. The good paper I thought I bought is as thin and fragile as tissue paper.
3. I'll die before I use up all these gift tags. Seriously, they'll be part of my estate.
4. The cat is just as annoying on the table as she was in years past on the floor.
5. Putting more than one thing in a bag is okay if the theme is the same. Individually wrapped gifts means more wrapping, not more things for the recipient.
6. I want to thank the person who invented gift bags.
7. Any wrapped gifts are not subject to criticism. I did the best I could with the crappy paper and meager talent I have.
8. Why am I singing "Ghost Riders in the Sky" instead of a Christmas carol?
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1. I should have gone with tradition and wrapped on the floor. There is more room on the floor and scissors, pens and tape don't fall off the floor All The Time.
2. The good paper I thought I bought is as thin and fragile as tissue paper.
3. I'll die before I use up all these gift tags. Seriously, they'll be part of my estate.
4. The cat is just as annoying on the table as she was in years past on the floor.
5. Putting more than one thing in a bag is okay if the theme is the same. Individually wrapped gifts means more wrapping, not more things for the recipient.
6. I want to thank the person who invented gift bags.
7. Any wrapped gifts are not subject to criticism. I did the best I could with the crappy paper and meager talent I have.
8. Why am I singing "Ghost Riders in the Sky" instead of a Christmas carol?
Wednesday, January 24, 2018
A dream - and not a good one
I seldom remember my dreams, but this one last night stuck with me enough and freaked me out enough that I had to turn on a light and do something else for a bit to shake it off. Let me tell you about it . . .
I was in a rundown old house with a group of rough, dirty, kind of dense people. I'll call them hillbillies, with apologies to all intelligent, well dressed people who live in the hills.
Things were going okay until one part of the group got suspicious of the others for some reason and lines were drawn. So were knives. I wasn't sure who I could trust, but I knew I didn't like the people I was with (the suspicious ones), so decided to sneak off and find the others (who had somehow disappeared.) The crazy hillbillies didn't want me to leave, though, and chased me. I got out, but someone, a good guy I hoped, told me to hide in the basement. While in the basement I found a lot of large panes of glass, so I broke one, took a big shard, and, now that I was "armed", I joined the fight. I stabbed a few people and slashed someone's throat and, in between the killing, I ran and hid from everyone because by that point I didn't know who was safe. Blood and gore were everywhere and, even when I found my way out a time or two, I kept ending up inside again, or in the basement! I woke up just after someone stabbed me in the back.
Let's see Google interpret that one!
I was in a rundown old house with a group of rough, dirty, kind of dense people. I'll call them hillbillies, with apologies to all intelligent, well dressed people who live in the hills.
Things were going okay until one part of the group got suspicious of the others for some reason and lines were drawn. So were knives. I wasn't sure who I could trust, but I knew I didn't like the people I was with (the suspicious ones), so decided to sneak off and find the others (who had somehow disappeared.) The crazy hillbillies didn't want me to leave, though, and chased me. I got out, but someone, a good guy I hoped, told me to hide in the basement. While in the basement I found a lot of large panes of glass, so I broke one, took a big shard, and, now that I was "armed", I joined the fight. I stabbed a few people and slashed someone's throat and, in between the killing, I ran and hid from everyone because by that point I didn't know who was safe. Blood and gore were everywhere and, even when I found my way out a time or two, I kept ending up inside again, or in the basement! I woke up just after someone stabbed me in the back.
Let's see Google interpret that one!
Friday, February 19, 2016
Thoughts on "real" jeans
I'd lost some weight over the past several months and decided I needed new jeans. I searched high and low, tried on more pairs than I care to remember, and finally found a pair I liked. Okay, I loved them. They were snug, but not skin tight and they looked, well, fantastic on me! My legs looked long and, dare I say it, slim! It made me wonder whose legs I was looking at! Needless to say, I got them.
Over the next few weeks, as a few more jeans had met my standards and been purchased and worn, I discovered little known things, or little remembered things, about jeans that button and zip and don't have elastic waists.
When using the bathroom, you have to unfasten the button and zipper. You can't just pull them down. After years of elastic waist pants, that takes some getting used to.
I know now why people say they can't wait to get out of their jeans at the end of the day. Even when wearing jeans that are fairly comfortable, real jeans just don't have the same forgiving fit and give that jeans that basically fit like pajamas have.
Not that I'm complaining - much - I like my jeans and I like that I look pretty good in them, in my opinion, but they do take some getting used to!
Over the next few weeks, as a few more jeans had met my standards and been purchased and worn, I discovered little known things, or little remembered things, about jeans that button and zip and don't have elastic waists.
When using the bathroom, you have to unfasten the button and zipper. You can't just pull them down. After years of elastic waist pants, that takes some getting used to.
I know now why people say they can't wait to get out of their jeans at the end of the day. Even when wearing jeans that are fairly comfortable, real jeans just don't have the same forgiving fit and give that jeans that basically fit like pajamas have.
Not that I'm complaining - much - I like my jeans and I like that I look pretty good in them, in my opinion, but they do take some getting used to!
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Shopping like a man
I don't know why men complain about the way women shop. I really don't, when it's really men who are the all-day shoppers. At least it is in my house.
I can head out to the store armed with a list that hangs from my hand to my elbow, get all the food, medicines, cleaning supplies and other incidentals, check out, filling 4 or more big canvas bags, then stop on the way home to mail some things and maybe get a book at the library, and still get home in about an hour.
My husband, on the other hand, will say he's going to the building supply store for a couple things and I won't see him for 2 or 3 hours. What takes him so long? I'll tell you, based on the times I've gone with him. He has to look at every single thing in the store. Every. Thing.
If I did my shopping the way he does, I'd have to pack a bag and stay overnight! Here's how it would go: I'd inch my way down the aisle, stopping to look at, let's say . . . bagels. I don't need bagels, but I have to look at them, and all the other brands of bagels in the vicinity, comparing the prices, remembering what they used to cost and wondering when they might have a sale, in case I need bagels in the future. Oh, and I have to comment on the fact that these bagels are better than the ones I have at home, but a person would have to win the lottery to pay this much for bagels. Okay, I'm done here. I put the bagels back on the shelf and move on to the bread. I need bread. I look at every loaf of bread on the shelves, commenting on how expensive the good ones are before eventually putting the same kind I always get into the cart. Wait! No, if I were shopping like my husband, I wouldn't have a cart.
Now on to the second aisle . . .
Maybe there are women who can make a day of shopping, but I'm not one of them, and neither is any other woman I know. We spend only as much time in a store as we have to. We get in, get what we want and need, and get out. Our time is too valuable to waste it staring at a can of beans, reminiscing about beans we used to have and how little they used to cost.
Don't even get me started on what it's like to take a husband to the grocery store with you! You'd need an adult sized cart seat to put them in if you want to get anything done!
I can head out to the store armed with a list that hangs from my hand to my elbow, get all the food, medicines, cleaning supplies and other incidentals, check out, filling 4 or more big canvas bags, then stop on the way home to mail some things and maybe get a book at the library, and still get home in about an hour.
My husband, on the other hand, will say he's going to the building supply store for a couple things and I won't see him for 2 or 3 hours. What takes him so long? I'll tell you, based on the times I've gone with him. He has to look at every single thing in the store. Every. Thing.
If I did my shopping the way he does, I'd have to pack a bag and stay overnight! Here's how it would go: I'd inch my way down the aisle, stopping to look at, let's say . . . bagels. I don't need bagels, but I have to look at them, and all the other brands of bagels in the vicinity, comparing the prices, remembering what they used to cost and wondering when they might have a sale, in case I need bagels in the future. Oh, and I have to comment on the fact that these bagels are better than the ones I have at home, but a person would have to win the lottery to pay this much for bagels. Okay, I'm done here. I put the bagels back on the shelf and move on to the bread. I need bread. I look at every loaf of bread on the shelves, commenting on how expensive the good ones are before eventually putting the same kind I always get into the cart. Wait! No, if I were shopping like my husband, I wouldn't have a cart.
Now on to the second aisle . . .
Maybe there are women who can make a day of shopping, but I'm not one of them, and neither is any other woman I know. We spend only as much time in a store as we have to. We get in, get what we want and need, and get out. Our time is too valuable to waste it staring at a can of beans, reminiscing about beans we used to have and how little they used to cost.
Don't even get me started on what it's like to take a husband to the grocery store with you! You'd need an adult sized cart seat to put them in if you want to get anything done!
Sunday, October 5, 2014
My Boots
I love shoes. Sandals, dress shoes, boots. Heels or flats, I love them all. But I love boots most of all, I think. And of all the boots I have, there is one pair I love more than any other. The heel is a nice 2 inch, or more, height, but, due to the chunky heel or the way they're made, they don't feel like heels. They fit my feet like they were made for them and somehow make me feel empowered when I wear them. Magic boots!
But they're ancient, in boot years, and they show their age, if you look closely. The leather is cracked where it has flexed countless times and the cracks have to be camouflaged with black marker. Also, the lining is pretty much gone from the inside, and if I walk through a puddle or wet snow, my feet get a little wet. I know I should retire them, but I can't! I love them too much. No other boots make me feel quite so invincible and, try as I might, I can't find another pair like them anywhere, for any price.
I know that someday I'll be out running errands and it will happen. My boots will retire themselves, coming apart at their seams and leaving me with only the soles amid ragged pieces of worn leather. Until that day, though, despite all my insisting I'll throw them out, I know I'll keep putting those boots on (carefully) and going out to take on the world!
But they're ancient, in boot years, and they show their age, if you look closely. The leather is cracked where it has flexed countless times and the cracks have to be camouflaged with black marker. Also, the lining is pretty much gone from the inside, and if I walk through a puddle or wet snow, my feet get a little wet. I know I should retire them, but I can't! I love them too much. No other boots make me feel quite so invincible and, try as I might, I can't find another pair like them anywhere, for any price.
I know that someday I'll be out running errands and it will happen. My boots will retire themselves, coming apart at their seams and leaving me with only the soles amid ragged pieces of worn leather. Until that day, though, despite all my insisting I'll throw them out, I know I'll keep putting those boots on (carefully) and going out to take on the world!
Friday, March 21, 2014
Connecting with the past
I went to my local library today. I had a couple books to return and there was a book being held for me, my email said. While I was there, I decided to see if a book I had on my wish list was in. It was! Into the crook of my arm it went. And here was another I wanted to read! I couldn't let it stay behind. At the desk I asked for the book being held and - surprise! - she brought two books! One had just come in that day. Bonus! I checked them out and as I left the library with a stack of 3 books and a book on cd, I was hit with the same giddy feeling I used to get when leaving the library in the town of my youth, books in hand, new people, places and adventures stretching out before me.
Why did I have such a unique feeling? I'm an adult and I can, and do, get books from all sorts of places; borrowed from friends, ordered online or bought at a bookstore. And I've got shelves of books at home, just waiting to be read. But none of those aquisitions or sight of books to be read, pleasant as they may be, feels the same as the one I get I when getting books from the library. Why, I wondered.
Maybe, it's just being at a library. People are nicer there. Quiet and friendly, but reserved and willing to let each other just . . . be. I could roam the stacks for hours, if I wanted, and no one would hover over me, asking if they can help me, or trying to get me to look at books they think I'd like, (and telling me "this would look good on you".) I feel at home there, and it's a nice feeling.
Or perhaps it is because getting books from the library connects me with that younger me who relied on the library to provide me with fresh books. It awakens in me the enjoyment I got searching the shelves for the newest book from a favorite author, or finding a new author to read, and going home with my arms laden, knowing I had a month's worth of friends and adventures ahead of me.
Of course, with my aging eyes, the stack in my arms is not as large - what once took me a day or two to read, now takes me more like a week, but the kid is still in there, and the feeling stays the same.
Why did I have such a unique feeling? I'm an adult and I can, and do, get books from all sorts of places; borrowed from friends, ordered online or bought at a bookstore. And I've got shelves of books at home, just waiting to be read. But none of those aquisitions or sight of books to be read, pleasant as they may be, feels the same as the one I get I when getting books from the library. Why, I wondered.
Maybe, it's just being at a library. People are nicer there. Quiet and friendly, but reserved and willing to let each other just . . . be. I could roam the stacks for hours, if I wanted, and no one would hover over me, asking if they can help me, or trying to get me to look at books they think I'd like, (and telling me "this would look good on you".) I feel at home there, and it's a nice feeling.
Or perhaps it is because getting books from the library connects me with that younger me who relied on the library to provide me with fresh books. It awakens in me the enjoyment I got searching the shelves for the newest book from a favorite author, or finding a new author to read, and going home with my arms laden, knowing I had a month's worth of friends and adventures ahead of me.
Of course, with my aging eyes, the stack in my arms is not as large - what once took me a day or two to read, now takes me more like a week, but the kid is still in there, and the feeling stays the same.
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