Memorial Morrow

Did you enjoy Memorial Day? Did you remember fallen soldiers? Did you partake in celebrations of the free life for which they presumably died? Or, are you like me and slept through most of it?

On the one paw, I didn't get invited to any barbecues. On the second hoof, it was pouring rain most of the day, so it's unlikely there were any barbecues to be invited to. On the third tentacle, what do barbecues have to do with memorials, anyway? Were the soldiers particularly big barbecue fans when they were alive?

I think my maternal grandfather fought in World War II. Or something close to it. Pretty sure it was the big one. I never really got to know the man. I was three or four when he died in civilian life. And even then, he was living some six thousand-plus miles (ten thousand-plus kilometers) away from where I was and still am. But I understand he was a fairly jolly soul with a sense of fun and smiles.

I never knew my other grandfather either. They both died during my early childhood. My paternal grandmother wasn't too far behind, done in by the effects of smoking circa her age 70, my age 7. I remember their half of a duplex in Skokie better than I remember them. A near-wall of plants overlooking the round, dark wooden table. Red carpet beneath the low coffee table in the living room, in turn beneath my grandmother's ashtray and game of solitaire — you know, with actual, physical playing cards. Dull beige couches and the old recliner. The black metal railing with swirly-cue bits. The rotary phone in the spare bedroom. Rust coming out of the bathtub faucet. The dark but tame basement, with its big freezer full of "goodies". Baby Linus and Lucy, wherever they feel like being. The memories fade, perhaps like the pictures that I'm sure we have somewhere. If not here, then certainly at my aunt's house, in which basement the low coffee table remains. Along with other relics.

Edit, an hour and change later: I'm told that, in fact, both my grandfathers were World War II soldiers. Fitting. Yes!

My mother's mother remains. Unfortunately, she does so in Israel, as I say, a continent and a half plus a major ocean away. Our communication is limited more or less to annual "snail-mail" cards (she doesn't do computers), and, every few times out of her weekly phone calls, I'll attempt a conversation via that medium. I tend to have nothing much to say, and she can barely hear my deep voice over the phone anyway.

A couple months ago, one of my cousin's friends whom I met at her wedding and subsequently befriended on the 'Book, playfully out of the blue listed me as his grandson. Joke's on him; I accept. Yay, I have a living grandfather! He's in California.... but still closer than Netanya!

Linus

Three days from now, the twenty-second of December, 2012, marks the four-year anniversary of the death of Linus the cat, as well as the two-year anniversary of the death of my younger aunt. I wrote a big thing about Lucy, Linus's sister, after she died. I wrote a big thing about Cookie, my father's sister, about half a year before she finally took her one-way trip into the tie-dye dimension. But I never wrote a big thing about Linus, even though his life did end during this blog's lifetime; I only wrote a tiny thing. I feel like he deserves more.

Linus was, quite simply, the ideal pet. About his only quality that could be considered a drawback was that, like Loki before him, he was diabetic and required insulin shots on a rigid twelve-hour basis. But that wasn't a big deal. He didn't feel anything in the scrunched-up back between the shoulders (cats are like that), he got a treat after each shot, and he was happy. So beautifully happy.

He loved attention. He loved being petted. He loved a good, soft belly rub. His size, condition, texture, and easy personality made him the ultimate snuggle-bunny. He was, in essence, a living pillow. Not too clingy; very laid-back. He had a good life, and he knew it. He loved everything....except the dogs. (And perhaps Loki.) He and Lucy had to take refuge in the basement any time the dogs visited, and that was nearly any time I visited. The dogs have never gone to the basement. I always did. I knew where the really good quadrupeds were.

Sometimes in the morning, while the dogs were still locked away in the bedroom upstairs with my folks, Linus would be out on the dining room table, just relaxing. I'd bring the newspaper in, set it down in its plastic sleeve next to him — he loved licking plastic for some reason — pull out the chair a bit, sit down, snuggle him, bury my head in him, and stay there until someone else had gotten up and come downstairs — usually my cousin, who would see us and just sort of spiritually melt.

Linus was the only pet in our family that I could really do that with. The other pets were either too small (the yorkie, or Lucy), too reclusive (Abby), too grouchy (Loki), or just not really designed for snuggling (the pointy-eared schnauzer). Loki slept with me once, and watched Saturday morning cartoons with me, but he wasn't much keen on fully snuggling. About the closest approximation to Linus I've had, and still have, is Dinah the second schnauzer, who is basically the canine version of Linus. Same general temperament, good bit of size, nice soft texture. Yet, as much as I enjoy snuggling her, I've never really succeeded in burying my head in her and just leaving it there for a sizable time, the way I did with Linus. She's just not built that way.

I miss Linus so much. In this crazy world with religious nuts, gun nuts, sex nuts, money nuts, war, poverty, diseases, natural catastrophes, artificial catastrophes, and all other brands of madness raping our senses, I feel an ever-growing need to find something or someone snuggly and appreciative, bury my head in them, and just leave it there for a while. For brief windows in time, I had such a creature, and I will be forever grateful for that and for him.

Rest in love, precious pumpkin.

P.S. Now and then I run my cursor over his tummy in this picture and imagine his purrs. (Click to enlarge.)

Linus — 1993 - 2008

Rest in peace, big boy.........

GROAN

You'd think a person my father's age would know better than to keep hazardous material within reach of certain household quadrupeds......

Welcome

Ha ha, I have a bit of a tendency to fidget when I'm on camera, so when my hands are below the shot, it kind of makes it look like I'm up to something I shouldn't be. Hee hee. I assure you that everything happening in this video is G-rated. I think.




Questions? Complaints? Requests? Hints and allegations? E-mail me here or here, follow me here, or Facebook me here.

This blog is dedicated to Lucy, whom I thank for seventeen years of pleasure, and to Loki, Abby, and Linus for their contributions to memories as far back as my own memory goes.

Peace............