ThingsPondered

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.

the world who you are: 

just start talking.

Failure to Conjugate Third Person Singular

                    a/k/a

        Don’t say Don’t with he

Santa Maria, Madre de Dios!  There are many languages more

complicated

(MUCH more complicated)

than English. 

We are talking PRESENT tense – also not a huge

challenge.  In English, generally we use the same exact verb (action word

for you Wal-Mart devotees) with five of the six types of people groups. 

The is action word identical for: I, you –singular, we, you-plural, and

they.  Therefore, we need only learn one other form of the verb to

complete our vocabulary.  Why, then, do you insist on declaring to the

world that you are happily locked into the lower class?  

It seems to be a badge of honor to talk like a country-western song.  I

know you are not stupid people.  You have many skills, talents, and

bodies of knowledge.  You can run rings around so many of us with your

expertise in myriads of arenas. Yet, you persist in trashing English when

the solution is SO SIMPLE.  There is even a pattern:  often all that is

required is adding an “s” or an “es” to the verb used for the five other

pronouns.

Examples:  I do, you do, He does.

Therefore, when the word “not” is part of the sentence, we have: I don’t,

you don’t, he doesn’t.

Try it.  It is easy, truly.

Why does it need to be so late on the east coast?  Can’t our fellow Americans in the Pacific Time Zone watch a game that starts at 2:00 PM their time?  I do not see obstacles to that.  If that could happen, then the east coast people will be watching starting at 5:00 PM their time – certainly an appropriate time for scarfing down all the wings, pizza, beer, chips, and so forth.  As for the Californians, they can take a turn for a few decades of “needing” (?) to eat Superbowl foods at a time they might not normally eat in the middle of their afternoon.  The Superbowl commercials will be just as funny.

The end of January/ beginning of February is cold and dark, and possibly full of bad weather conditions,  for half of the east coast at the traditional Superbowl starting time.  If party guests are drinking spirits, then they possibly have the alcohol to process before they can head home,.  Late, late, late night for adults and some children.  On a school night.  On a work night. 

It’s time for a change.

A friend of mine was ballistically happy recently over a win by his old school’s football team.  He explained its poignant significance and permits me to share it:

“In the fall of 1968, a friend and I stopped at a roadside tavern one bright, cold Saturday afternoon.  Lo and behold, my team, Syracuse, was on TV playing the vaunted Notre Dame in football.

While quenching our thirst, we watched the game.  As it approached its dramatic conclusion, Syracuse led 16-14.  Notre Dame had the ball and was approaching the Syracuse goal line, but was thwarted with 4^th and long, but well within field goal range. The teams lined up for the anticipated kick, and after agonizing suspense, it flew wide right of the uprights.  Syracuse wins!  But no!  Horror of horrors, Syracuse was being penalized for running into the kicker.  The next kick was good and the game erroneously given to Notre Dame.

Why erroneously?  Because the Syracuse man didn’t run into the kicker – he was pushed, and by a Notre Dame player!  So, it was not a foul and Syracuse should have had the win.  However, this was before the days of instant replay, so end of story, perhaps.  It was end of story - until the Syracuse U. coach suggested to the ND coach that he acknowledge the error, which he would not.  So, the Syracuse Athletic Director made the same suggestion to his counterpart at ND, with the same unsatisfactory result.  Next, the President of Syracuse University contacted the Notre Dame President, who, not wanting to make any momentous decision, placed a long-distance trans-Atlantic telephone call to a private number in southern Europe.  An elderly gentleman with an Italian accent (so the story goes) answered and was told of the dilemma.  He responded, ‘Syracuse, eh?  Isn’t that the school that was founded by the Methodists in 1870?’  ‘Yes,’ he was told.  ‘Enough said,’ he concluded, and terminated the conversation.

Fast forward to another bright, sunny afternoon.  This time it is November 2008.  The same two teams face each other at Notre Dame Stadium with the Syracuse Orangemen being a three touchdown underdog, yet having a one-point lead in the closing seconds.  Amazingly, the same scenario of Notre Dame going for a field goal occurs.  The field goal try was short and this time there was no one running into the ND kicker.  Thus, Syracuse University held the well-deserved actual and belated moral victory.   

Is forty years too long to wait for a just reprisal?”

Thanks, BT, for sharing this.

I grew up without football on Thanksgiving Day.  I am very thankful for that.  Here is how it came to be and why I continue the tradition.

My parents grew up without television.  Mom and Dad each came from large extended families, and the holiday of Thanksgiving truly meant family time.  If their local high schools or colleges had a football game on Turkey Day, I guess this event did not burrow itself into their respective schemas about how one celebrates Thanksgiving.  Or, perhaps the fact that we did not live in either’s home town severed any connections to a local football contest.

Our tradition was to take a family walk in a county park.  Living in southwestern Pennsylvania, we could enjoy brisk weather for exploring the woods, yet usually count on the absence of snow on the ground.  This particular park was familiar and welcoming, being the site of summer scout camp, occasional swimming, and other fun activities.   

After that, somehow another tradition evolved.  We were far from grandparents or cousins.  It was “just us.”   Therefore, instead of us eating a turkey cooked at home, we dressed up in our very good clothes and went to a restaurant.  It was always the same one, and we kids only saw it on Thanksgiving.  After driving for what seemed like an hour “over the river and through the woods” (literally – gorgeous rural woods), we arrived at the Century Inn in Scenery Hill.  This inn, built circa 1794, was very Colonial including a large stone front step which was visibly worn down from the footfalls of so many visitors.  Perhaps even George Washington slept there.  (He could have if he came west to oversee troops during the Whiskey Rebellion.)  Our family always ate in the keeping room – the small room with the enormous walk-in fireplace.  Also, we kids always had the historically interesting appetizer of fruit shrub: a fruit sherbet with orange juice poured over it.

This was my Thanksgiving.  I had exercise and family time and good food.

Therefore, I am appalled at the rudeness of football fans (particularly of the male persuasion) who feel that the Thanksgiving events must occur around some idiot television producer’s schedule.  I am revolted at the notion that this family meal for which the purpose is reflection on our many blessings should possibly be eaten in front of the set, or with a TV set blaring conveniently close-by.  These ideas are so patently ridiculous, that I do not trouble myself with them.  I am extremely thankful for a lifetime of no-TV-giving-of-thanks.

Reading, Pennsylvania is the proud home of a minor league hockey team in the Toronto Maple Leafs farm system.  The local fans are incredibly loyal.  They cannot get enough of Reading Royals clothing, merchandise, or news.  Adding to the hoopla, the organization has a wonderful system for putting signs out (similar to political campaign ones) along major highway cloverleaves on any day of a home game.  Much excitement has come to town with the Royals and most of it should be credited to the energetic fans.  Due to this, I feel they deserve a song.  I humbly offer one below.

Royals Fan Song for the Reading (PA) Royals Hockey Team

New lyrics to the tune of “Baby Face”  2008 copyright Maren E. Morgan, all rights reserved

Verse 1

Royals Fans,

We’ve got the greatest team; we’re Royals Fans!

The blue (purple) and white bring fear to hockey land:

Every man

dreads our line-up for they know

 they won’t ever win

‘cause  Royals can

Out-skate, out-shoot, out-score 

Them and with just One hand!

We’re bless-ed from above.

Royals’s the team we love-

We’re the Reading Royals fans!   

Verse 2

Royals Fans,

We’re not fair weather friends; we’re Royals Fans!

Opposing teams do not make winning plans,

They’re also-rans.

Don’t go starting something:

Your team will get a thumping!

We will win.

We make the other teams despair

And all pound the sand,

They leave the rink in shame

While Royals have the fame,

We’re the Reading Royals fans!