What Didn't Happen Today

My grandmother did not die today. My husband made it home from work without getting into an accident. My children did not fall ill with some deadly disease. My sister's plane did not crash. My best friend's house didn't get broken into. Her brother in Iraq made it to another mess tent meal this afternoon. Change even one of these variables, and my whole world would be falling down around me right now. And, yet, how often do we stop to think about just exactly how lucky we really are? How come no on invests much time or energy into discussing the absence of these types of events, but only in their grim presence?

I'm sure you've heard it before - the thought-provoking (if perhaps untrue) story of the student arguing with his teacher about whether or not God exists... whether He wants to be an active part of our lives. The teacher says since there is evil in the world, it proves there is no God. The student uses the following scientific facts to refute him: Darkness isn't a measurable entity in and of itself, but merely the absence of light. Likewise, cold is the absence of heat. White is the absence of color. Evil is the absence of God in a situation. The mere fact that the world is not given entirely to evil serves to prove His existence.

Please understand - the parallel I am trying to make here is not one of theology. I am not even tempted to explore in a lowly blog the question of why bad things happen to people. Instead, I am fascinated by the scales we use to measure things. I want to know - is my everyday life another example of that which is measurable, or that which is not? Certainly, when accidents happen, they are real enough. They are measurable - in oh so many painful ways. They are tangible. They, therefore, are not just the absence of something else. It must be, then, that everyday life - the 'what didn't happen' that happens around us all the time -  can be only measurable as the absence of tragedy. It is what must not be real - must not be tangible.

Can that be right? I am beginning to see how philosophers get themselves painted into the proverbial corner. I have come to what must surely and logically be a truth, but this is a truth that I do not believe. My everyday life not real? Not tangible!? How is this for tangible: I can still smell my oldest daughter's breath the day she was born. It's so real it almost hurts. When I close my eyes I can feel the hugs that my five-year-old gives me each night at bedtime. I am actually physically warmed when I do so. The depth of my youngest daughter's dark eyes is permanently embedded in my soul, and it compels me to smile each time I recall it. I can hear the hush and the beating of my heart the moment I stepped into the sanctuary on my wedding day. The smell of my grandmother's closet, the twinkle in my grandfather's eyes, the feel of my daddy's hands, the sincerity of my mother's hugs... I cannot measure these things. I cannot prove them. I cannot explain them or duplicate them for anyone else, but they are real, and they are powerful.

Apparently, what we have here is a false either-or analogy. Tragedies, accidents, trauma, disease... these are real. They are measurable. They are terrible. They are unavoidable, but they are far from the only powerful reality in our lives. They are also not the scale by which we measure our lives. Daily life - the substance and heft of it, the deep and abiding joy that is the underbelly of all that we do - IS. It is profound. It is an entity in and of itself, but sometimes it takes a bit more work to notice it.

If tragedy is a thunderstorm, then life is the unseen water vapor in the clouds that brings the blessings of gentle showers and cool morning dew. Accidents may be a gale-force wind, but our daily comings and goings are the unnoticed air pressure that both holds us up and keeps us grounded. The unexpected changes may be a primal scream, but they can't deafen the contented hums, the satisfied sighs, the giggles, the whispers, the song that is the everyday. Today  I am choosing to measure my life by the smiles of my husband, the hugs of my children, the warmth of my relationships. My New Year's Resolution is to remember that the good stuff - not the tough stuff - is the most important stuff and the real measure of my success.

Beauty in the Beast

Warning - this post may be offensive or uncomfortable to some, as it deals in detail with the process of butchering animals. It may also lead you to question how firm my hold on reality is, which is ok with me. What's so great about reality, anyway?

Yesterday I helped butcher goats. Due to time, space, and material constraints, we were not able to do the whole process ourselves. Instead, we took them to a local Amish home, where two generations of experienced (and newly-certified) Amish men killed, gutted, skinned, and cut up the three goats that had been living in my pasture for the past 2 months or so. (If that last statement is too graphic or matter-of-fact, stop reading now. You won't like the rest).

These folks, like so many other Amish families (and like almost all families 100 years ago) still do their own meat processing. Seeing that quality butchering at a reasonable price was a need that was not being met, they started doing custom butchering for others as well. Because of their skill and efficiency, their reputation had grown. This summer they often handled upwards of 100 chickens, 30 goats and/or lambs, and other animals (including hogs and small beefs) each and every Saturday morning. The customers they served were usually immigrants from other nations who had been unable to find the type and cuts of meats they were accustomed to before they discovered the Miller farm. Saturday mornings there were like a combination of the U.N. and the original Jewish temple - with people and animals of all kinds milling about, chaos being kept in check only by a handful of calm and careful Amish men and women. These people had 50 years of experience, hundreds of satisfied customers, and were serving a need for an otherwise under-served population. It was a dream come true - a system that was working well for all involved - so the Government decided to step in.

In order to get certified, they had to spend hundreds of dollars modifying their slaughter house, close down for months (leaving people without a place to get quality, clean, custom meat), and jump through the usual red-tape covered hoops. Yesterday was their first day back in operation. They had to start by having the inspector there to teach them how to butcher animals. My heart went out to them. It's a good thing pride isn't encouraged in the Amish faith, because otherwise having an outsider come and tell you your business might have been too much to swallow.

The upside was that by yesterday afternoon the inspector trusted them enough to let them go it alone, albeit with the warning that she could and would be stopping by unannounced any time she cared to in order to ensure that they were doing things correctly. I'm sure they'll be careful to keep the Clorox use high, and the beard covers firmly in place. (Yep -  you read it right. Think of a hair net, only upside down. The string goes over their ears, I believe, with their long beards tucked neatly into a little facial hair snood. Kind of stylish, in a strange sort of way...)

Anyway, because of the new regulations that they have to follow, I couldn't even watch the meat being processed, let alone help. I was a bit disappointed to have not been able to participate in the slaughter itself. It's not that I delight in killing anything, but I have been responsible for these animals for a good part of their lives (I even helped bottle feed them when they were but a few days old). Since I took on the responsibility for these creatures, I like to be able to ensure that their end is as humane and dignified as the rest of their lives was. More than that, however, is the strange beauty to be found inside of each and every beast.

I know, it sounds gross, but you've never experienced the fullness of God's handiwork until you understand just how fearfully and wonderfully made His creation really is. I've reached inside chickens, stood before halved hogs, and watched as the insides of a lamb cooled in the chilly fall air. Each and every time I am in awe. Everything fits so precisely. Each piece has its own function, but also its own color and texture. There is a palette of colors unique to the inside of us that is even more fantastic that the ones we display each and every day on the outside. Have you ever seen the muscle of a gizzard? It is iridescent, like a subtle rainbow striated by white lines that radiate out from the center. As the gizzard cools, the shine reduces, until it fades almost to a dark wine color by the time you're done processing the animal.

The subtle beauty of a gizzard is in stark contrast to the surprisingly bright color of bile, found in the gall bladder of animals. It ranges from a vivid, kelly green in chickens, to a color and consistency reminiscent of pure green tempera paint in lambs,  to an almost glowing neon color in hogs. The fact that it's potent and bitter and nasty (and can contaminate entire carcasses with just a few drops spilled) is beside the point. When you see it, glistening inside the gall bladder or spilled out onto the ground, you can't deny how beautiful it is. Ever seen the bubblegum pink of a lung? The pale, ribbed lining of a stomach? The rich and deep burgundy of a liver, with its smooth, rubbery texture? The color-filled cones and rods behind the eye? The soft and irresistible grey of a brain? They compel you to look, to touch, to experience.

It's often said that children, like in the story of the Emperor's New Clothes, are the truth tellers of society. I know that my children have been influenced a bit differently than others. They delight in all aspects of raising animals, including butchering. My middle daughter clamors to see the spleen (her favorite part - both pulpy and dense at the same time, and an attractive, deep ruby color), but I am willing to bet that most children, removed from the stigma imposed by society, would find beauty inside animals. Heck, even grown ups who were taught to fear death and loathe butchering have found themselves strangely engrossed by the insides of a healthy animal when given the chance to experience butchering day at the Farrier Farm. The ones who used to come to have their animals slaughtered under the careful hand of the Miller clan in their breezy front yard all those Saturday mornings this summer found that to be true as well. Not only did they get to have their meat and eat it too - and in ways that upheld both their traditions and culinary desires - but they also got a lesson in  in life and in beauty.

Am I crazy? Beauty in butchering, in blood and bone, in death? Turns out, there is a strange irony in all of this (besides just the irony of Amish families having to wear beard covers. Is that a religious violation?  Hmm...). When push comes to shove - I've discovered that guts don't turn stomachs nearly as much as people think they will. The beauty, dignity, and flavor of an animal well raised and butchered isn't nearly as distasteful to the folks around here as the invasive monkey wrench of over-regulation that brought a well-oiled machine to a halt.

I know, I know - The powers that be may be trying to save us from the horror of death, the gore and mess of dismemberment, the risk of coming into contact with the reality of what it means to be a carnivore. But, the outcome of their actions really is that now there is yet one more barrier between folks who are interested in experiencing life on its most natural and simple level, and the beauty that is to be found in that lifestyle. In my neck of the woods we just traded beauty of the beasts for the beastly protection of oversight, and it wasn't a pretty process.

The Not-So-Noble Cat

Yesterday our youngest cat jumped up onto the coal stove. For the hundredth time. Just like he had been doing for months. Only this time, the coal stove was hot. I now believe in the power of levitation. I've only seen that move three times before. (Two of those times also involved cats jumping onto hot stoves. The third incident was an unhappy convergence of a man with a fear of snakes, and a snake with a fear of man who happened to be in the same time at the same place.) 

When he first hopped down, the cat gave the stove an angry glare, and immediately realized that something was wrong. He licked his foot once or twice, put it back down, and found that the discomfort had not subsided. Suspecting it was the floor involved in this trickery, he hopped up onto the sofa and settled down with a smug stare downward. He had gotten as far as squeezing his eyes shut in self-congratulation when he realized that his foot still wasn't quite feeling right, and he wasn't quite sure who to blame. The poor cat was in hell for the rest of the afternoon - not so much because of the pain, but because of the horror of having his whole house seem to turn against him. Shane now has a bit of a limp, though he wasn't seriously injured in the .00000000045 seconds that he spent on the stove top.  He has, however, been avoiding the entirety of the upstairs ever since.

Shane may not be our brightest cat in the bunch, but he's not alone in having thoroughly embarrassed himself in close enough proximity of his people to become the subject of a humorous story. Charles, who we've had the longest, has given us many such moments. Curiosity once got the better of him in regard to a scented candle. Did you know that whiskers curl when they're exposed to an open flame? He had a charming (if not slightly effeminate) look for about two weeks after the incident, and has forever distrusted the smell of lavender ever since. He also is our chronic hairball hacker, though he never seems to need to throw up unless he is surrounded by plush furnishings or electronics. He has managed to throw up on every blanket in the house, a video game system, three different baskets of clean and folded laundry, a VHS Disney movie, and our push-button telephone keypad. (Ok, now that I think about it, this is probably less a humorous story for me to tell than it is for him. I can just hear him around the old milk bowl, "Hey guys, you'll never guess what I puked on today! Heh, heh, heh...")

Our other two cats, Princess (who has also been known as Papa, Little, Kansas, Flower, Lucky, Candy...) and Nimrod (I'm not making it up - it means 'mighty hunter' in the Bible. Turned out to be more wishful thinking than prophetic insight..) have had their fair share of indignities as well. Princess is the only female cat in our house, and has all the typical traits of a girl. She's moody - one day rubbing against your ankles, the next hiding under the bed. She's also touchy, and gets her feelings hurt easily. Everyone in the house knows not to cross little Princess, and while the boy kitties vie to be with her, they also pay dearly for her attention. She has perfected the 'swipe and hiss' move, and wields it with a smile. Nimrod, on the other hand, is 100% enthusiastic little boy, and possesses no sophistication whatsoever. He burrows in the snow with utter abandon, achieves bath time poses that would make a yoga master jealous and a modest maiden blush, and will eat anything that doesn't eat him first. This is a cat that drinks from the toilet, sometimes even before my husband has finished using it. Not the smartest feline in the world, but good hearted at least, and never given to sullenness or fits of pouting.

Now comes the hard part - how do we continue to share our homes with these creatures, give them the respect they think they deserve, and not end up hurting their feelings by laughing openly at their misadventures? It's a delicate balance that must be found, my friends, but I think we can make it work. First off, it's important to try to cover your mirth as much as possible in the immediate aftermath of a cat catastrophe. Make them think you're having a coughing attack, or chuckling over something on the television, for example. Sometimes I have gone so far as to purposely re-enter a room, often while clearing my throat or shuffling loudly, to convince one of my cats that I wasn't present for his or her most recent descent into indignity. Also, never, repeat stories of their shortfalls in front of them. They  may look like they're not offended, but an unpleasant consequence will ensue.

Of course, that's not to say that cats don't also play their part in this balancing act. Our beloved pets join in the subtle subterfuge by adopting one of two attitudes after doing something stupid. First, there's denial, most often in the form of, "It wasn't me," but occasionally stretching so far as to claim, "It never happened." If outright denial is an impossibility, the second choice that cats have is to pretend like they were in control the whole time. Somehow they ask us to believe, through their body language and the very attitude they ooze, that they really and truly meant to fall off the TV, run into the patio door, incriminate themselves by getting their nails caught in the curtains, leap into the bathtub full of water, or otherwise look silly or act like a dog.

With all of our pretenses -  no matter how much we pretend to have not seen our cats behaving strangely, and no matter how much they claim that they meant to do it - there will still be the awkwardness of  knowledge hanging in the air. There is only one saving grace - the silent dialogue that has gone on between felines and people for centuries. We know that the expression 'curiosity killed the cat' has won more America's Funniest Home Video Prizes than even the classic and timeless groin shot. Let's face it - cats do funny stuff all the time, even if they never admit it, and we claim not to notice. Much as they try to convince us otherwise, we know that they're often clumsy and prone to making poor choices, and we forgive them for it so we may co-habitate peacefully.

More importantly in this dialogue, cats know in their heart of hearts that we are silly, ignorant creatures, widely given to exaggeration and even hallucination, probably to protect ourselves from the fact that their species is so superior to ours. They know, in their heart of hearts, that we are unreliable, unpredictable, and totally unable to discern the subtleties of advanced physics, nonverbal communication, reverse psychology, and balls of yarn, but they forgive us for it so we can co-habitate peacefully. It's a hard job, but someone's got to do.


(P.S. - before I could even finish this blog post, Shane took a flying jump at a shadow in the corner, and ended up falling into the narrow space between the wall and the couch, knocking over the lamp in the process. I sputtered to cover my laughter with a cough. He struggled out, licked his leg nonchalantly once or twice, and then swaggered off and is now alternating between eating the corner of my calendar and the telephone cord. Apparently my coughing fit wasn't convincing enough, and I must be made to suffer.)

The Noble Cat

We are a feline family - firmly in the cat camp in the age old 'dog vs cat' controversy, despite a rocky early start in our marriage. (We had a dog once. He now lives with my brother-in-law. Everyone is happier that way. I don't care to elaborate, thank you very much.) We have four indoor cats - everything from a stately (if slightly tattered) ten-year-old Siamese, to a fluffy, lovable stray that wandered into our home and our hearts this summer. (Isn't that how the expression goes? More accurately, he wandered into our home and started shedding immediately as he made a beeline for the food bowl, but we've learned to love the little freeloader nonetheless.)

One cat has a nervous vomit reflex. Another has the world's stinkiest poop (she's the only one who refuses to cover in the litter box, of course), and another simply cannot believe that the corner of my kitchen counter wasn't created as his bed. (You know how cats are - buy them an elaborate cat bed and they'll turn their nose up at it and promptly go lay on your freshly-washed sweater or open newspaper.) Anyway, we put up with the hair, and the surprise attacks to our ankles, and the midnight scurrying because we receive back all the love and attention we could ever ask for (or at least, the absolute minimum amount of  love and attention they think they can get away with giving to us and still get food and littler cleaning services on a regular basis).

Cats complete our households. They snuggle and purr. They comfort us when we're sad. They give us something to tell stories about (not that we would ever, EVER let them know that we abuse their dignity in this way. Seriously - please don't tell my cats I wrote this post. I would be finding kitty fluids of all types in strange places for months to come, and I would never walk out of the house in a hair-free outfit ever again). Despite how hectic things have been, cats have been the one constant in my whole life. (Hmm.... maybe it should be more like, "because cats have been the one constant in my whole life...") Even as I write, there is a cat curled up beside me, and another trying to get onto the keybaslkfjasldfjlasdofuwerouoard. (Shane says hello.)
 
I'm often asked by the dog crowd why it is that I love cats. Their affinity for Fido is as much a mystery to me as my appreciation of Princess is to them. Sure, dogs don't ignore you, but cats don't demand your attention either. A cat may leave you alone for three whole days, but you can return the favor and all you'll end up with is a little extra hair on the counter and a rug that's been slid across the room. Leave a dog alone in your home for three days and you'll have to invest in a steam cleaner, drywall repair, new carpeting, and two years of doggy psychiatry. Cats don't run to greet you, tongue wagging, when you return home from the office (or from stepping outside to get the mail). But, let's not fool ourselves here. A dog is saying, "please take me outside so I can pee on your tire and poop somewhere you're likely to step in the next few days" as much as he's saying, "Gee, I love you and I'm glad you're home."

To me, that's the crux of it all - what makes cats so very cool. They may need you, but they'll never admit it. They are positive that what they give in the relationship far exceeds what they receive, which makes them feel they've earned that extra eighteen inches of your pillow and the chip on their shoulder. Their self esteem is solid, and by golly you're lucky to know them. Let's face it - cats are the big-wigs of the animal world. Got a cat with crossed eyes who shorts every jump and lands back on the floor with a quizzical stare? What about it? Einstein didn't talk until he was three and was fired from menial jobs for years. Stinky gas? Bad litter box aim? Chronic hairball hacker? You're still lucky to know 'em!

Cats have never forgotten that they were once revered and worshipped as Gods at the height of ancient Egypt's reign as the world's main superpower. Next time your cat is staring off in space, oblivious to your presence, rest assured that he's recalling a time in his breed's distant past when you would have been bowing at his feet. A time when families shaved their eyebrows in mourning for a sick cat. A time when he was surrounded by an adoring public, the choicest of foods, and a litter box that ran all the way to the Nile Delta. It's no wonder that Mr. Squeakymouse and the  Krunchy Kitty Kibble that we offer them today doesn't exactly inspire them to mew lovingly and gaze into our eyes with adoration. Perhaps they're right - even with all their shennanigans and shedding we are lucky to have them around. One thing's for sure - at least sharing your home with a cat is better than owning a dog!

Sirius Arguments

My marriage has dodged a major bullet. See, our trial subscription to Sirius Satellite Radio just expired, and I couldn't be more pleased. Don't get me wrong - I totally loved having hundreds of stations, knowing that my every musical whim could be satisfied at the touch of a button, being able to rock out to music that youngsters have been rocking out to for the past eighty years or so. But, all the shoobie doos and sha la las, all the twanging and head banging, and even all the cheesy love songs in the world is just not worth my marriage.

You see, my husband and I are sort of a classic case of opposites that attracted. I am the positive to his negative, the yin to his yang, the Yoko to his John Lennon. So far our marriage has survived his love of baseball (and my apathy to it), my political drive and involvement (and his apathy to that), and even the struggles in our earliest years between a dog person and a cat person. (I'm gald to say he's now a fervent convert, and we have four indoor cats.) Having worked those things out, I really thought our marriage could survive anything. Then, along came a free three-month trial to Sirius Satellite Radio that came with my new car. It almost broke us.

Mark is an 80's guy. He loves the funky rhythms, the hair bands, the insistent guitar riffs, and even the fashions associated. I, on the other hand, am a honkey tonk and bluegrass girl. He may have played blocks to the sounds of Madonna and Duran Duran, but I drifted off to sleep to Ronnie Milsap and Crystal Gayle. When Merle Haggard sang I'm Proud to Be an Okie From Muskogee he was literally singing my song. That's me - born in Muskogee General Hospital in Muskogee, Oklahoma. It's more than a birthplace - it's a heritage.
Little did I know that even though Opposites Attract (Paula Abdul, 1989), our musical differences were threatening to cause a D-I-V-O-R-C-E (Tammy Wynette, 1968).

Car trips, of course, were the hardest. We have a rule that whoever drives gets to pick the station. These past few months we've been arguing over who gets to drive rather than who has to. Even quick stops at a gas station were opportunities for the listener/passenger to pull a quick switcheroo. Upon arriving back to the car from the pump or restroom, someone was bound to be motioned from the driver's side to the passenger's side and a conversation something like this would ensue:

Delighted New Driver: Gee, honey, I thought you looked tired and might like it if I took a turn at the wheel... for your sake, of course. [big grin]
Disgruntled New Passenger: [indistinct grumbles] Alright, but I'm warning you - one of the girls is probably going to need to stop in about 30  miles for a potty break, you know!

Our record was fourteen stops in 100 miles. Our children were confused, but happy, since each game of  'musical drivers' generally resulted in the purchase of some type of snack or beverage. I gained 3 pounds, but got to listen to all the fiddles, banjos, and steel guitars that I could ever want. Mark, likewise, drank four Dr. Peppers and rocked out to no less than seven Cyndi Lauper songs, and a late Eagles hit that even I enjoyed. Thankfully, however, those days have come to an end. The subscription price to continue getting satelite radio coverage may only be $12.95 a month, but I hear that divorce lawyers are pretty pricey. Even if it never came to that, I don't think we can continue to afford the snacks. There's only one thing left to do - go back to disagreeing on talk radio. At least it's free!

The Year of the Pack Rat

Always be prepared. Isn't that the Boy Scout motto? (I wouldn't know, of course, having never been a Boy Scout, but you do pick up these sorts of catchphrases now and again.) From my limited knowledge and nonexesitent personal experience, it appears that the way the scouts stay prepared is by getting together monthly to practice tying and untying knots, and selling popcorn door to door. Better than the Girl Scouts, I suppose - at least nutritionally speaking - but it still doesn't prepare them to do anything more than handle a hostage situation at a movie theater concession stand. ("Jimmy - you untie those knots while Bobby and I sell popcorn. I knew those monthly den meetings would pay off someday!")

No, in my world, rope tricks and carbohydrates don't count as preparation. I'm a saver. A keeper. A hoarder of goods. Saucepan with a broken lid? You never know when you might need that. Half a yard of fuscia muslin? Might come in handy someday. Dresser wtih the broken drawer? It'll make a good fixer-upper project. It's not that I want to keep stuff, you understand, so much as I feel that I must. You see, I inherited collectivitus, though the trait runs more in my father's side of the the family than my mother's. I am hoping there is some sort of genetic treatment - something intricate and expensive, no doubt, that involves radioactive dyes and spliced and modified DNA - that will enable my children to live a normal life. In fact, I'm sure I've read an article about it in one of the magazines I have stacked in my garage somewhere.... Come on medical science - don't let me down!

The worst part about it is the stigma that comes when people who misunderstand the disorder start in with the name calling. It was one thing when I was a wee little pack-ratling and my parents shielded me from the taunts. Now, however, I see the raised eyebrows when I buy my fifth "dollar box" at the local auction house, and hear the bemused checkout person ask, "what in the world is she going to do with all of THOSE?" after I've grab my bags to leave a store. Why can't they recognize that this is a disorder? Why can't they be more undertstanding? Why can't they see that my habit represents my optimism about life? My upbeat attitude about all things? My ability to find the good in even the everyday bits that others might think of as trash? The world needs more of that. Humanity needs more of that. After all, I may be unable to throw away a worn-out flashlight , but I am also never going to throw away a worn-out friend.

My grandmother lived through the Great Depression. She saves styrofoam meat trays and twist ties. They may pile up from time to time, but I never lacked for art supplies and Fairy Boats during the long summer hours I spent at her house when I was a kid. My dad is a tinkerer, and has whole buildings full of treasures. The wind howled around the eaves and the doors gaped widely, but my daddy always had the right sized wheel or wingnut, blade or barn board, pane or pliers for the projects we did together. Now, my children are building meat tray doll houses and cobbled contraptions. I may wince at the thought of having genetically doomed my daughters to a life of collecting (well, that and large feet - sorry girls), but  I'm going to keep my focus on the inherit creativity and preparation that comes with the territory.

After all, I'm pretty sure the Chinese Zodiac has a whole year devoted to the Pack Rat. Beady eyes and nasty tails aside, there must be traits of the rat that are worth celebrating if they have a whole year devoted to them, right!? Yes, I think I remember something about rats being crafty and clever, and ... um.... hang on a  minute, let me go get that placement I saved from the Peking Buffet dinner last  May. I know it's around here somewhere...