ThingsPondered

(Warning: Not for the weak-stomached or faint of heart.)

In late winter 2003, the United States of America had a President named George W. Bush.  He was, at that time, exploiting the 9/11 attack on our country in order to promote war on Iraq.  This war-making would be very beneficial to his and his friends’ financial interests and, he hoped, to his political career.  A rather weak-willed citizenry followed him like the proverbial drove of dumb sheep.

It was my blessing (or curse) to see then that this would be another Vietnam-like fiasco and waste of lives.  Thus, I participated in a march for peace (also known as anti-war) in the nation’s capitol.  This was on the Ides of March, 2003.  A month later, the USA entered the protested war. 

For the sake of historians who relish primary sources, I would like to publicly report the text on signs of my fellow marchers.  A thorough knowledge of the players, allies, scapegoats, and the nation’s mood and contemporary pop culture will be needed to understand some of the messages. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How did our oil get under their sand?

Read my apoca-lips.

Dad, I need money for gas.  Can I start a war?

Chiracq for American president.

Merci, France!  Danke, Deurschland!

Empty warheads in White House.

W stands for wrong.

The Pope, France, Germany, and Daddy can’t all be wrong.

Make love on a rock.

Drunken draft dodger drives country into ditch.

Bush: war-whore.  Whose missile is bigger?  (This accompanied by racy cartoon drawing with a missile replacing a male anatomical feature.)

(A sign carried by a young woman:  ) 

The only BUSH I trust is my own.

We know Saddam has the weapons because we have the receipts.

Support our troops:  Bring them home!

Tea for peace delegates                                    $325

Conference room                                            $1,80

Hotel rooms                                                     $3,445

           PEACE                                                   PRICELESS!         

I miss sex in the White House.

Who would Jesus bomb?

I’m in shock but not in awe.

Frodo has lost.  Bush has the ring.

No child left behind really means send them to Iraq.

(On an 8-year-old boy’s T-shirt:  ) 

Am I collateral damage?

A sandwich-board sign on a jack Russell terrier…

(One side) Little Dog for Peace.

(Other side) He’s not my President!

Now, in 2009, many more people agree with the marchers.  A bit late, I say.  Hopefully, we will finally remember history so as to avoid being condemned to repeat it.

With much irony:  Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. *

Maren E. Morgan-Thomson

·         *It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.

A story of a bachelor’s induction into cat fatherhood

Sammy’s mother had already chosen me.  Mysterious-looking in her tabby raiment, she was an alley gal who suddenly appeared at the door of the restaurant I lived above.  After she figured out how to get into my third floor rooms, the staff decided she was mine.  I named her Fritzie, after the cook.

Fortunately, I had advisors on the ways of the domestic feline, for I had never owned a cat.  As a team, we set her up with a basket for a bed, food, and toilet accommodations.  Fritzie was a sweet girl who quietly enriched my life with her presence.  Cautious presence, that is.  Apparently, she must have been mistreated by people and was wary of me approaching her.  Yet, she was the one who selected my life and, all in all, she seemed to be thriving.

Thriving, indeed.  Fritzie was swelling.  The first educated guess was – God no – worms.  A vet was able to examine her and happily eliminate that possibility.  Concurrently, the reason for Fritzie’s changes revealed itself.  She was on the nest.  Or the litter box.  In other words, my little vixen was pregnant.

At the appointed time, the litter was delivered.   As the kittens grew, they started to move around and do those “kitten things:” chasing each other, practicing their leaps.  I had no plans to keep any of the kittens, but…there was one little fellow, Sammy, attired with white boots.  I found that appealing and also comfortingly reminiscent of family legends regarding my grandfather’s cat, “Boots.”

Once, as I sat watching TV with a plastic tumbler of water at my side, Sammy leaped up and grasped the cup.  Mind you, the proportions were as comical as you or me trying to embrace the bulbous reservoir of a water tower.  Of course, he couldn’t really get a claw-hold. As I steadied the wobbling tumbler, slightly lifting it from the table in the process, Sam steadily and slowly slid down and off – just like a cartoon kitty – falling all the way to the floor.  Unfazed, he gleefully bounded off to his next adventure (and into my heart.)

A few days later, Fritzie’s brood romped about my apartment.  Now fully weaned, they used a cut- down cardboard shipping box for their quarters.  Because its sides were about eight inches high, gaining entry to the box provided a playful challenge for the kittens.  One of Sammy’s siblings took a running start and, like a high jumper, made her attempt.  She got her front paws over the sides of the cardboard barrier, intent on pulling herself up and over.  Sammy, with all the wild abandon and joy of a successful linebacker, rushed and sacked her.  They both toppled outside the box, delightedly wrestling and chortling.

The deal was clinched.  Sammy stays.

For these heartwarming recollections, many thanks go to Pete Souders, former owner of Ortlieb’s Jazzhaus in Northern Liberties for two glorious decades.