New Cheap Entertainment at Our House

There is nothing like a kitten to provide hours and hours of cheap entertainment. Again, we have a kitten in the house, and our home dynamics have changed once more.

When Diamond and I were on our daily walk on Friday, she took a keen interest in the kudzu –covered bank near the beaver pond down the road from our house. I knew she had found something, but didn’t know if it might be a turtle, an armadillo, a grasshopper, or some other small animal. I let her off leash and began listening. Coming from the undergrowth was a meek little “meow.” Oh no! Not another kitten! I waded into the twisted vines to investigate where she was sniffing. I heard a “PFFFT” coming from deep in the brambles, after which Diamond quickly went into reverse and backed out. I took her over to the edge of the road and put her into a sit-stay, so that I could get a better look at whatever she’d found. Out from the kudzu leaves poked a little black and white face, showing curiosity, fear, and false bravado. I put my hands out, palms up, and this adorable little kitten approached me gingerly, sniffing my fingers. Scooping it up into my arms, I immediately felt a ferociously strong purr box. Diamond waited patiently in her position, but I could tell that she was keenly interested in her find. I released her, and she headed right back into the kudzu. While I held the kitten, now snuggling up in my arms, I heard another “meow”, as Diamond sniffed further into the mess of kudzu vines. I tried to coax this second set of vocal chords out into view, but wasn’t able to see the other kitten. It was too scared to take a chance on us. After about five minutes, with kitten in arms, we reluctantly left the pond bank, and headed back home.

Entering the house where Phil was resting in his lounge chair, I announced, “Look what Diamond found.” Phil knew that it was a kitten, as this has happened more than once since Diamond has come to live with us. I put the kitten into his lap, where he flipped it over, announcing, “It’s a little girl.” I was elated. With two male cats in the house, I was ready for a little female. I took her back from Phil, while he prepared a welcome-home meal for her of cat chow and milk, and loved on her a little more. Her purring never stopped, and she didn’t object at all to being held the way our Rocky does. After letting her down to eat, we let her investigate her new surroundings, and except for being wary of Diamond, who was chomping at the bit to smother-mother her, she settled in just fine.

Big Tom sauntered through the cat door shortly after Little Girl arrived, gave her his typical “ho-hum, another cat in the house” look, went to the food dish, and pretty much ignored her. Rocky, on the other hand, was traumatized. One glance at her, and he went into an over-drive frenzy of kitty panic, zipped through the cat door, and disappeared. We didn’t see him again until suppertime, when he slunk back in, hoping not to encounter this new monster in the house, grabbed a bite to eat, and headed back to the safety of outdoors.

Two days later, the little kitten, still without a name, sleeps next to me as I write. Tom still ignores her, and Rocky has decided that even though she is terrifying, he doesn’t want to leave the good life he has here, and steers clear of her. She and Diamond touched noses this morning, which delighted our sweet German Shepherd mommy dog. Hope springs eternal. For me, I’m in love. She slept on a pillow above my head last night, and I roused once to feel her nibbling on my hair and to listen to her beautiful purr. When I awoke this morning, she was curled up in one of Phil’s big hands, receiving a gentle petting from him.

The little girl has already made us laugh until we just about doubled over. She declared war on her shadowed reflection in the wood floor, attacked the door mouse doorstop, spent twenty minutes wrestling a piece of yarn, chased the laser pointer light all over the living room, doing flips and turns as she pursued it, and practiced her left hook on Diamond’s nose when Diamond got a little too close for comfort. She also got stung on the face by some kind of insect that she captured. But most of all, after figuring out how the cat door works, she proudly practiced going in and out several times in a row.

There’s just nothing more enjoyable than a kitten! Now to figure out the perfect name for her, because we’ve decided she’s a keeper!

Loving and Hating the Town that Always Seems to Be Asleep

I was reading my friend, Natalie’s, blog recently (http://nataliebuster.blogspot.com/)about loving and hating New York City. As I read her thoughts, I longed to walk down some New York streets, stroll in a park with Brian and Roy, and step into one of the many little eating places they have found to share with me. I wanted to smell the city smells, listen to the city noises, and taste the city food. I also wanted an afternoon of window shopping in the city (although I always feel like country-come-to-town), keeping alert to avoid bumping into a constant throng of people on the sidewalks, and dreaming big dreams. There is something about the city that sparks my imagination and revitalizes my creative energy.

Like Natalie, I often feel like I don’t belong in the city, even though I love it every time I go to New York to visit. But, I’m always glad to get home, which brings me to my own reflections on “Loving and Hating the Town that Seems to Always Be Asleep.”

Social Circle, Georgia – my hometown for the past seven years. I don’t live inside the city limits, but on a dirt road about three miles from the lone traffic light in the center of town. Except for 3:00 pm on a weekday school day, the town is pretty drowsy. But when the school buses roll out in the afternoon from the local schools, you don’t want to be at the main intersection, or turning left out of the post office parking lot, unless you have plenty of time to spare. It’s also very important to abide by the 25 mph speed limit in town, because the Social Circle policemen absolutely love to pull over speeders and write out tickets. They are especially visible on Sunday mornings – I've decided that they are on the prowl for people who are running late for church. The townspeople are friendly enough, but very few know me by name, except at the bank, which I visit on a pretty regular basis, and at the post office, where I pick up my mail a few times each week. I’ve been a member of the Methodist Church since moving here, but still only know a handful of people. Like Natalie in New York, I just don’t feel like I quite belong in Social Circle. I don’t have any family members in the local cemetery, and no streets are named for my family. I don’t live in one of the many historic homes in town, in one of the few trendy subdivisions or on one of the rambling horse farms outside of town – I sometimes think I’ll always be an outsider here. There are times when I feel as much out of place in this little town as I do when I’m in New York.

I miss the conveniences of living in a bigger town. With only one little local grocery store that is actually very well-stocked with fresh produce, local eggs, and great meat, the pickings are sometimes slim (and a little more expensive) on other items that we like to stock in our pantry; thus, we make regular treks to the nearest Walmart, ten miles away, for a wider selection of food and other necessities. We also have to travel a minimum of ten miles to get to the restaurants we like; eating out is an event. Luckily, we’ve found a good dentist and a wonderful family doctor in Social Circle, so at least we don’t have to travel far for our health needs. We also have “Fred’s”, a Walmart in miniature, that carries a nice variety of greeting cards, canning jars and lids, cheap Crocs knock-offs and discount jeans, and other odds and ends that we can pick up locally.

Even though I have not fully acclimated to small town life, I love my five acres on my dirt road. With my gardens, the forest behind our house, and all of the beauties of life in the country, I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. We always have something new to learn and experience. For instance, last Saturday morning at the crack of dawn, Phil and I watched in amazement as our colony of bats returned from their nightly feeding frenzy to the bat house he built for them on the side of our house. We laughed and cheered as we watched them zoom in toward us and then slip into their house to sleep off their nightly carousing. I never thought I’d be excited about providing a home for bats, but this country living is catching on, and I find myself finding wonder and enjoyment out here every day. I love the dark starry nights, listening to the quiet whispering of the wind in the pine trees, watching the beautiful butterflies sipping nectar from the thistles and other wild flowers, and relishing the solitude of sitting on my porch sipping a minty mojito or glass of crisp wine. When I think back to my days of commuting to work in Atlanta, I shudder, take another sip of wine, and thank God for blessing me with my home here on my dirt road, and my newly-found simple way of living.

I’m always ready to visit New York, but I think I’ll stay here in Social Circle, where life is very, very good.

The Salt of the Earth

Living out here in the country, we have become friends with a few of our neighbors. They are wonderful people, and I am reminded what the phrase “salt of the earth” really means.

Doug is our closest neighbor. You can walk to his house if you have ten minutes to spare to get there. Cross-country, he is much closer, but I prefer to walk on the dirt road, and then up his long driveway. In the summer, I can pick wild plums along the way. We met Doug seven years ago while we were building our house, when he came over to check us out. A wiry guy, he talks just like actor Sam Elliott, and after he’s been out in the woods hunting, he looks kind of like Sam, too. Doug is an electrician, and ended up doing all of the electrical work on our home for us. Funny as hell, Doug is! He can have us rolling with his stories of growing up in the Florida panhandle with parents who believed their son needed to grow up tough, and a kid who was fearless. A murderer of English grammar, Doug’s language is colorful to say the least. A decade younger than us, he calls us Miss Jennie and Mr. Phil, out of respect for us having ten years on him. He is kind and generous, and loves to come around to sit on our porch and chew the fat with Phil. Last week when he was here, I asked him if he had heard from another of our neighbors, an elderly farmer named Earnest (pronounced “Ernst”). I hadn’t seen Earnest driving his old pick-up truck up and down our dirt road for quite awhile and I was concerned about him. Doug answered that Earnest’s children had to finally have him put in an “old folks home.” “You know,” he offered with all seriousness, “Ernst has the old-timers disease.” Doug and I are talking about going into a neighborhood business together – raising chickens for eggs and meat. He has an ideal place for it, and since he travels a lot in his work, I’ll help him with feeding and egg collecting when he is away. We think we can raise enough to provide eggs for us and for another set of neighbors, Shannon and Neshlia.

Shannon and Neshlia live closer to Doug than to us. I pass the back of their property line on my way to Doug’s house. Shannon is a house painter, and Neshlia (pronounced “Nishla”) works as a cashier in the elementary school cafeteria. Both are as country as they can be, and they also provide us with colorful language and ways of saying things we would never imagine. Shannon is slow-talking and always has a smile on his face. Neshlia reminds me of those dolls with over-sized dark eyes, innocent and curious. Whenever they come over to visit us, riding their four-wheeler, they bring their own six-pack and stay until the beer is gone. Shannon loves my bread, and Neshlia is amazed that I know how to make it. They also like my jelly, and were surprised when they brought back the empty jar that I gave them another full one. In return, they bring us venison and entertain us with their stories. The other night while sitting at the kitchen table with Neshlia while the guys were downstairs drinking and talking about the state of affairs in our country, she told me that she and Shannon were leaving the next day to go hunting. Shannon and Doug lease a hunting camp with a group of their buddies, and they spend a lot of fall week-ends there. I asked Neshlia if she was a hunter, too. She answered, “Are you kidding! I just go down to drink and hang out with the other girls for Thanksgiving.” She proceeded to describe to me how the camp was set up, with a dirt floored cooking building and huts surrounding it where each couple had their own hut to sleep in, little more than a tent with solid sides. She told me that she and Shannon were lucky with their hut. “It’s really warm,” she told me. “We have a profane heater in ours that keeps us from getting too cold.” I’ve been thinking about them this cold week-end in their hut with the profane heater!

The salt of the earth! These friends provide us with a flavoring of country Georgia life that neither Phil nor I have experienced close-up before moving here. I got a taste when I lived in a parsonage in rural Virginia, but never got close enough to those people who always kept a safe distance from the parsonage family. We have bonded with Doug, Shannon, and Neshlia in a friendship that encompasses everything that says Neighbor. We respect each other’s privacy, but we are ready at a moment’s notice to help out, have a party, or work on a project together. Shannon and Doug have helped repair a leak in our roof, Doug has installed some additional lighting in our kitchen, and the three of them pow-wowed this summer over the best way to grow their gardens. Neshlia is a warm-hearted country girl whose welcoming kitchen table is always set with a bowl of snacks on it, and she is a tender nurturer of stray cats. It doesn’t matter that Phil and I are from “the city” and have college educations. They know us as Phil, the carpenter, and Jennie, the bread and jelly maker.

And isn’t that what neighbors are all about?