The Clown Child

“Be a clown! Be a clown! All the world loves a clown.”

************* 

The mother tucked her child more tightly in bed, so tight the sheets were nearly smooth.

“There, there, dear,” she cooed. “Don't cry. Nobody loves a little girl with a red nose.” 

Her eyes grew dark and sharp.

“Mommy,” asked the child, her little chin trembling, her eyes shut tight like stars, like scars, “Are those teeth for me?”

Her mother smiled broadly.

“No, of course not, darling. Not today.”

************** 

8 of Swords. Not all the monsters are under the bed.

Best wishes!

Archaeology Begins at Home

I cleaned off my desk this afternoon and found a hippopotamus. OK, that’s an exaggeration. I did find a hippopotamus but my desk isn’t entirely clean. It’s just that I can see down to the felt my mother glued to the top of this Renaissance Revival beauty I call “desk” and consider my primary workspace. When life piles up, so does my desk.

Oh, the hippo is a celluloid charm, just in case you were wondering. Apparently it conspired with a celluloid pig to escape the herd of charms I’m gathering to create my own “Junk Oracle.” Some of the cool kids at Readers Studio 2011 had these and were demonstrating how they could be used. My mind is seemingly much like my desk, cigarette burns and all to carry a simile too far, and things pile up for later use. The Junk Oracle concept resurfaced recently and I started rummaging around in the backs of dresser drawers and things.

Perhaps I mentioned this before? One thing about antique dealers’ kids: They have everything the antique dealer wanted. They also have everyone nobody wanted. I have weird stuff. To my husband and house-elf’s despair, I have weird stuff in weird places and not terribly well-organized. If you come here looking for a treasure trove, you might find it, but you’ve got your work cut out for you. This is possibly one reason I don’t have nieces and nephews clamoring to be my heir. That, or I haven’t advertised the vacancy too well.

I love the stuff I find when I go digging though. For instance, I found the spare battery to the Hubs’ camera. Knew it had to be around here somewhere. And good news, I don’t have to re-order one of my prescriptions like I thought. Some of the finds are of more recent origin, like the killer earrings the Hubs got me for Christmas. I like both pair so well that I haven’t been able to put them away yet. And I found some of the stuff I had in mind for an online present exchange of handmade gifts that I’m participating in; and nope, I’m still not gonna tell what I’m making. And the hippo came up.

But that’s not as interesting as the stuff some of you folks are interested in. One of the Facebook games is to look to the thing immediately to your left and list it here. I don’t usually do that because the thing to my immediate left could be a cat or … well, it doesn’t really matter. I just don’t usually do that. But I thought I’d share a few fun things I unearthed today in the spirit of archaeology beginning at home, in no particular order.

A word of caution here: I don’t review stuff. I thought I did once and got a review copy of a nice book, listed here, for a review and realized something about me that I didn’t know before. I have some kind of moral aversion to giving reviews about things too similar to things I have created myself, so I don’t review decks or books on Tarot or Lenormand. I may add some of my personal notes about them, but in no way would my comments be considered a review. Show and tell, yes; review, no. If you are interested in more information about these, though, you can click on them for links. None of this is for sale from me.

• Pepi Valderrama’s Alice in Wonderland Vintage Petit Lenormand. Cute little collage deck that I have read with from time to time. There’s something about playing croquet with flamingos that has always felt a little creepy to me, but that in no way reflects on Pepi’s deck!

• Britta’s Wahrsagekarten, a Lenormand-style oracle deck with instructions in German. I really like the fox card in this deck because he looks so inquisitive. The plastic box is handy because I hate losing cards.

• Melissa Hill’s Postmark Lenormand. I like this one but I expected to like this one. It kind of goes with my love of postcards. Melissa does a cool thing with these in that her tin boxes (thank you, again, for a box) have one of the cards glued onto it. That personalizes things for me. I have #17 The Stork which can mean “things to come” or transformation. There’s something about having the Stork that works for me, especially with this deck.

• Nice! I found one of Judy Nathan’s handmade deck cases. She usually has had her lovely items for sale at Readers Studio, often made from silky materials recycled from exotic costumes and her cases are one of a kind and reasonably priced. If you’re going to Reader’s Studio, you should look for them at her table of bags and bracelets; if you aren’t, lick your wounds and try to find her on Facebook.

• A junker Aquarian Tarot with the Star missing. I bought it that way, knowing it was incomplete, but I thought it would make a wonderful guilt-free decoupage or other craft project. I wouldn’t want to kill a complete deck, even if I have, what, 10 copies, right? But this poor orphan was dirt cheap due to its missing card and just calling my name, the ghost of some craft project in the future. It’s also proof positive that having a case like Judy’s or someone else’s is a good thing.

• Oooo, now here’s a treasure: My Mary-El Limited Edition, number 11/250. My LE is made of the majors and 4 Aces because at the time, that’s as far as Marie had gotten. I really recommend buying the delicious complete Mary-El Tarot. Dude, that raven with the eyes!

• The Z. Lismon Etteila Type II, Re-done and Re-issued by Molly Kahn. I haven’t played with this one much but I loved the look of it with its French names along the sides. It's available through Gamecrafters; the link I provided is a review of it with photos.

• The Travel Tarot Game tied up with a baby blue ribbon, handmade by the adorable and fun Jude Alexander. No, folks, it’s not an app! It’s analog! I’ve played The Tarot Game with Jude and some other Tarot buds and it was insightful and fun. This is not Tarocchi but a board game created by Jude.

• Kirsten Weiss’ The Alchemical Detective, book two in her Riga Hayworth mystery series. Kirsten is cool, period. I want more Riga.

• Anna Burroughs Cook’s Tarot Dynamics Unleashed. It’s Anna’s approach to learning Tarot and uses the Lo Scarabeo Rider Waite Smith black and white illustrations. One thing I found fun was the discussion of Fallen Cards, which, since I’m in the middle of reading a mystery novel featuring Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud’s visit to the United States, has a certain “soiled dove” feeling for me right now. Anna also includes a section on what cards represent where the Moon falls in your birth chart in astrology; and foodles, but mine is the 8 of Swords.

• My Precious (said with a Lord of the Rings voiceover) working copy of The Cirque de Whimsy Tarot by Carol Hartman Devall. I have other copies. My precious. I love Carol’s art and her deck. Someday I hope to drag her out of Nebraska to Readers Studio or SF BATS.

• Robyn-Tisch Hollister’s Crow Stones in blue on white. If you don’t want to go to the trouble of making your own junk oracle with stuff from your dresser drawers and your friends’ kids choking hazards, one of these might suit you. They are less to study than runes but have a few things to tell!

• I must have been in a crow mood (puh-leeze do not speak of the SuperBowl; I’m still in mourning) last year but I could not resist Debra Klopp-Kersey’s Crow Tarot, #13 of 250. I love these hand-crafted decks with great art and a unique and personal perspective. Debra makes these a-MAZ-ing dolls and creatures in her Cumberland Falls Arts line.

• Lo Scarabeo’s Universal Transparent Tarot. Used it once. Got confused. Not sure if I could read with it. Pretty sure the problem is me.

• Monica L. Knighton’s Stolen Child Tarot. Monica put my favorite little yellow warbler in the Sun card and included a custom pendant with my Sun card on it. Monica’s art is breath-taking.

• And finally, my workhorse Rider Waite Smith of fairly recent origin and unremarkable characteristic, except the case is a delightful red knit by none other than Mary Greer!

Well, that was a long list! And my desk is still not cleaned off! Well, there’s always next week.

Best wishes!

Golden Handcuffs

We went to dinner with our friend Mr. Delinsky last Sunday. We went to a favorite hangout, Marin Joe's in Corte Madera. His name is Harold but I never call him anything other than Mr. Delinsky, even when I'm giving him a hug and a kiss and telling him we love him. We do. He's a little guy originally from the Bronx, thin with a hank of grey hair and an Important Nose. He came to California while he was in the Army. He thought he might become a veterinarian at some point and was in charge of the commanding officer's horse.

He never went back to New York to stay after that. It's hard to take the Bronx out of the boy and all he has to do is speak a word or two and you'll know where he's from. At some point he became an insurance adjuster. That's how he met my husband. They met some real characters together in their jobs as insurance adjusters, most of them other insurance adjusters. They were two nice guys in a world that wasn't necessarily so nice to them.

Mr. Delinsky never married even though he still has an eye for a beautiful woman. I can tell he was shy, still is. I suspect he never could feel right about a long term commitment either, the adjustments, the compromises, the indignities. My sense is that he didn't think someone would feel that way about him. He had a dog that he loved. The dog has been gone a while now but he doesn't think he will get another. I teased him once that I was going to find a rescue dog for him for his birthday. I didn't realize that this would upset him or cause him anxiety. It did. Mr. Delinsky doesn't like to be pushed into situations. Everything was better when we both told him we wouldn't really force a dog on him.

He's a gentle man, Mr. Delinsky. He loves Broadway and show tunes. He loves listening to good live music as long as they play the standards. He's always trying to get me to sing with the piano player at dinner. I did once. I'm not sure I would do it again. I'll sing to him at the dinner table though. He loves that.

We went to the Top of the Mark one evening to listen to Riccardo Scales. We met Jeff Labes at Marin Joe's and caught a special dinner show with Jeff and LynAnn King, a Johnny Mercer revue at a cozy Italian restaurant called Aurora in Marin County. We went to a special engagement at the Jewish Community Center featuring a torch singer. His crush on her from afar was clear, so I took his arm and slowly walked him to the table of CD's in the lobby where she stood after the show so they could talk. It was magic for him.

Mr. Delinsky is in his 80's. He plays tennis. He meets his old cronies in the City. His nickname at Marin Joe's is "Dino." People mistake him as someone who would be a member of the Rat Pack, but he's a little less flashy, a man of manners and humor. He is always so stunned that we love to spend time with him.

We have no need to try to arrange a date for Mr. Delinsky. We know he's a confirmed bachelor. We like having him to ourselves anyway. He's a Leo and he is like a little lion who is comfortable in his territory. And yet, he's still got a few surprises, Leo-style.

Victorian Trade Card Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

"You know that YouTube thing?" he rasps over Jeff's piano-playing, a song too modern to interest Mr. Delinsky. "YouTube, right?"

We nod, suddenly curious. Mr. Delinsky is not a computer guy. We want to know the YouTube connection.

"This guy," he continues, "this guy does movies. Real movies. He asks me will I do a movie. I think he asked me because he thinks I'm the only one who would actually do it."

His eyes twinkle at the danger of an acting debut.

"So I said yes. It's something about Rudy Kaputnik. How do you spell that?"

We venture a guess.

"Look it up." I get out my new phone and finally find it. It's The Rudi Kapootnik Story. I play it for him.

"Can you see that?" He points to the tiny screen.

"Oh, look, Mr. Delinsky! You're a movie star!"

He beamed shyly. He told us about the next project his friend has cast him in. He has misgivings. The subject matter doesn't exactly match him. His friend wrote the piece with him in mind, though, misunderstanding his shy and respectable side. He doesn't want to hurt his friend's feelings. We talk about the possible alternatives. He's going to think about it.

He's a lovely example of a modest American dream. Have a house. Maybe a dog. Meet some friends for tennis or lunch. Fall in love from afar. Chase your favorite music. Try something completely different like starring in a movie. His retirement is small but has its satisfactions.

Victorian Trade Card Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord

I think about my own working future. I'm on the "work until dead" plan myself. But I have so much to learn from Mr. Delinsky. The next time someone tells me I have "golden handcuffs" at work, I will think about him and the 8 of Swords and Strength. They look like handcuffs to some, but I know I have deliberately set the thoughts around me with the Strength to stay for a reason.

Best wishes.
 
***
 
Watch Mr. Delinsky starring in The Rudi Kapootnik Story. And if you wonder what America is really like, here's the real Mr. Delinsky, our adorable friend.

The Secret of 738

“Wait, I’m getting something!” I looked more intently at my EMF (electromagnetic field) meter as I stepped slowly past jail cell number 121 on the section of Alcatraz prison they call Broadway.

The needle started to bounce rhythmically up into the “interesting zone” of readings around a 4 or 5 and I started counting, one, two, three. It bounced seven times. It paused. My friend Beth’s son Dylan rushed over to watch. It bounced three times, then paused again. It bounced eight times and then resumed its usual baseline reading of about 1.5.

“738. I can remember that.” The prisoners were called not by their names but by their numbers. I wondered who number 738 was.

Dylan had been looking forward to this night tour of Alcatraz for months. When I first found the night tours, I was hoping for a ghost-hunting theme. I think that was seasonal and this wasn’t quite the season yet. Never fear, ghost-hunting itself really has no season. So we came armed with my EMF meter and a couple of cameras knowing that we wouldn’t be able to do a real investigation with the 300 or so other visitors who had joined us for the evening tour.

We had found easy parking about a block away and walked to the Pier 33 Alcatraz Tour Snack Bar. In the hubbub, Beth, my husband John and I lost Dylan for a very tense few minutes and found him again, doing just what he had been told to do.

“If you get lost in the woods or in the City, just stay where you are so we can find you,” John had reminded him. And there he was just outside the snack bar door, waiting to be found while he took in the sights dockside San Francisco.

The adults all nearly collapsed in relief and we discussed the relative merits of pigeons. One had walked into the snack bar near our table. I sneaked a bit of the soft brown roll from my ham sandwich to the floor. “Rizzo” our pigeon (named for the character in Midnight Cowboy after the inevitable “flying rats” attribution) found the morsel immediately and gobbled it up. I figure Rizzo must be a regular in the snack bar because she looked up at the tables nearby to see who had sent her the offering. I launched another crumb over her head and she chased it down. A sullen teenager imprisoned by his cheerful family sitting at a table across the room frowned in disgust. Well, that would get better in time. Or not. The voice over the loudspeaker announced something official and we all got up to get in line for the boat. We declined the opportunity for a group photo, knowing we weren’t going to buy one. We had some different souvenirs in mind from The Rock.

Out on the water, I reminded Beth, who was a little concerned about sea-sickness, that the ferry ride we were on was smoother than the train ride to Sacramento a few days before. She pointed out the 4-ft swells and I noted that we really could barely feel them. I didn’t want to tell her I had been on San Francisco Bay in storms from time to time when I commuted by ferry, pretty exciting each one of them. Dylan speculated there might be sharks; I said it was pretty rare to see a shark in the Bay since they don’t like the fresh water. We disappeared into the fog.

The fog that night wasn’t the cute little cat-feet fog playing over the hills and into the City and the Bay. It was The Fog, Stephen King fog, Twilight Zone fog. It was fog where the rest of the world disappeared from view so that midway between we could see only ourselves and water but neither Alcatraz nor the bright lights of San Francisco. And then a wall of rock appeared and the voice of our guide told us more about how this remote and inhospitable spot had not been populated with Native tribes, who had the good sense to stay where food was plentiful and the winds didn’t howl, only a mile and half away. The Rock had appeared then white-washed with bird guano (which, if you aren’t into the “nice” names for ooky stuff is bird poo) further “un-hancing” the livability of this high spot in cold water.

First a fort, then a military prison, and then, starting in 1934 Alcatraz opened as the prison we think of as the federal maximum security slammer for high profile prisoners. More accurately, it was the place they sent prisoners who caused too much trouble in the prisons they were originally assigned to. Alcatraz is known for some famous names in crime like Al Capone, “Creepy Karpis” and “The Birdman” Robert Stroud, who by the way was not the sweetie-pie Burt Lancaster portrayed but a very scary guy. There were also the less famous but no less creepy, cranky, bad, rotten or just deranged. And three guys figured out how to escape; officially, no one knows what happened to them. Those and other sensational events provide the highlights of the headphones-guided tour where you can feel the cold fog-wind screaming in through the doorway to the recreation area, struggle against the tightness of a 5’x9’ cell and almost hear the instruments playing on music night, trouble piled upon trouble in 3 stories of cells guarded by men in double-breasted suits and red ties and forbidden blackjacks.

There is plenty of old wiring in these old buildings, some of which are in ruins. Those old wires can make an EMF Tri-Field meter go crazy with a normal source of electromagnetic energy. And then there are the things that make you wonder. One of the guides noticed my Tri-Field meter and mentioned that people often get a creepy feeling in the room next to us. No wonder, it’s what they call a “fear cage,” a room surrounded by electrical wiring that creates a constant strong field that registers high on my little machine. Places with naturally (rather than supernaturally) high EMF readings give sensitive people anything from a buzzing sensation to visual effects. And then there’s the argument that perhaps it is easier for a spirit to manifest in places where that energy is plentiful. Proof? I’m still looking but I know I’ve had my own personal experiences.

As to my 738, counting the bounces of the needle as it pulsed its electricity, I thought of tarot of course. Alcatraz inmate AZ-738 was Edward R. Mayberry. Was that you, Ed? At least there was the story for each of the inmates, 7, 3, 8 repeated over and over. 7 of Swords: Tried to get away with it, whether it was robbery or murder or other violent crime. 3 of Swords: The anguish of getting caught and causing heartache for their families and their victims. And finally, 8 of Swords: Bound by the iron bars and iron will of the prison system, wardens, guards and consequences of a bad idea that got worse as it went along. And then there were the three men who escaped: 7 of Swords, did they really escape? 3 of Swords, did they die in remorse and bitter disappointment in the nearly ice-cold currents of the San Francisco Bay? 8 of Swords, are they or someone else stuck in that place, forever playing out the problem of their lives and unhappy choices?

Dylan bought a t-shirt and a hat in the museum shop and we made our way back down the winding path to the ferry to return to freedom. I noticed that the seagulls, who laughed at us as we had walked up the path to the prison, had disappeared into the night. I heard only the sound of the wind lashing the water against the dock and fog horns in the distance calling their warning.

Best wishes.

Legacy

Since my husband and I hosted his family's reunion last weekend together with his sister and their cousin, I'm exhausted but still thinking about family ties.  I do, of course, plan to write about the family reunion, keeping with the tradition in blogging, if there is such a thing, that no topic is safe from discussion via a blog.  However, until I can gather my wits...or was it just the one wit?  Until I can gather myself back together, this is a reprinted column previously published in Aleesha Stephenson's lovely Timeless Spirit eMagazine, November 2010.  I hope, if you have not already, you will take advantage of the free subscription.

Mom married late in life and had my brother and me eleven months apart when she was 41 and 42 before there were a lot of special medical processes to assist with late in life babies. She was overjoyed to have children. It was her lifelong dream. She had tremendous insecurities about her own looks and attractiveness, so two happy babies with big blue eyes were a miracle to her.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t have hair for a year or so; she taped bows to my head until my first wispy, then thick blonde hair grew in. She marveled that I spoke complete sentences at 9 months then realized the downside of an introvert mother raising an extravert child.

“The reason you talk in your sleep,” she explained, “is that you just didn’t get everything said during the day.” Most of the time, she adjusted as much as she could to having a chatterbox child. She was curious and eager about childhood mental development. One of my earliest memories is sitting in my high chair in the kitchen telling “Banana Stories” with her.

“If I had three bananas,” she held up her fingers and drew bananas in yellow chalk on our chalkboard on the kitchen wall, “and you ate one of them, how many bananas would I have?” I giggled uncontrollably at the thought of the delicious naughtiness of a possibly purloined banana and answered. I never tired of Banana Stories or the stories of her childhood. I became her confidante, her sounding board and sometimes her only friend.

Over time I realized my mother, despite her delight in her children, was almost constantly depressed. She held onto what was painful in her life like clutching a knife at the blade or gripping broken glass. I knew the stories of her pain so well that it was almost like being there. Her first grade teacher made fun of her drawing of a 4-legged bird. Her mother always dressed her sister in blue dresses and she got brown ones. Her college professor held a tuning fork to her head to prove it was a vacuum. She was flashed on a train. She was humiliated by her parents, her sister, her teachers, her first boyfriend, her friends, her friends’ families, her bosses.


Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



Of course, she persisted in life. She had a journalism degree from a respected university. She was a reporter and an editor. She was a WAVE and worked at decoding secret messages. She was a wiz at Blackjack. She started her own business as an antique dealer. She loved baseball.

She told me in a matter-of-fact voice more than once that the more intelligent you are, the more suicide seems like a good option. The smarter you are, the more you realize how hopeless everything is, she explained.

Even as a small child, alarms, healthy alarms went off in my head when she would say this. She had praised me for my intelligence, rewarded me for it. I wanted to be smart. It was fun, fun being me. I wanted her praise. But I did not want to die. My mother had an encyclopedic knowledge of the world and voracious urge to learn more. She explained that the requirement for being a truly good journalist was to know everything. And I watched her every time she posited the correlation between intelligence and suicide, Chatty Cathy made silent at these times.


Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord



Must I choose between being stupid and alive v. being intelligent and dead? And of course, was she going to succumb to her idea of the ultimate intelligence? Was she the realization of the Queen of Swords reversed: bitter, sad, so focused on the negative, denying her own empowerment, hopeless, angry, constantly disappointed with herself and the rest of the world? Was she the embodiment of the 8 of Swords, the limitations of her own thinking imprisoning her? Was she also the 5 of Pentacles, always feeling on the outside, rejecting all comfort of religion with her professions of agnosticism, citing her favorite Biblical moment identifying with Doubting Thomas?

You never know the gifts you will give others, especially your children. In spite of her enduring and passionate negativity she had given me a few gifts, one consciously. “Just remember,” she told me, “Nothing, nothing diminishes you.” I don’t know exactly where this ray of hope came from within her. Perhaps she, like any ferociously protective mother, sought to sacrifice herself to her demons but save me.


Picture Postcard Tarot
(c) Copyright 2010 Marcia McCord


An in her terrible Sphinx riddle connecting intelligence to suicide, she gave me another gift, unwittingly. She cemented my identity as separate from hers. I could not agree with her. I realized the limitations of logic, especially hers. I could not be diminished by her depression. I could not be dragged down into the hell of her sadness. Sensitive as I was, aware of spirit as I was, I was given such an important gift. I was able to separate myself from those near me.

Being a tarot reader, I hear and sense some amazingly wonderful things but also some horrors beyond the most frightening movies or books. Some tarot readers ask each other, “How do you separate yourself from your sitters or from a reading? How do you keep from falling in a hole with them?” Even if they survived an “identity crisis” in childhood like I did, I recommend exercises to maintain sense of self.

Take time away. Do something linear and tactile like wash the car, walk the dog, pull weeds. Meditate. Be conscious of your own boundaries and revel in them. They distinguish you, in more than one sense of the word. Soon, the paradox we live in, of being all connected, yet all separate in this life will settle in comfortably. We are spirit and matter. Both are important.

You’ll find the gift, the legacy of learning from others’ lives. Nothing diminishes you, either.

Best wishes.

Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

Something about the 4th of July makes me crave cherry pie. As soon as I mentioned it, my husband dashed to the store and bought the ingredients, so he appears to be motivated too. So I’m more or less committed to it now. At least they aren’t terribly difficult, now that we have all the modern conveniences like canned syrupy cherries and pre-made pie crust.

We were just talking about the hassle of making a cherry pie from fresh cherries yesterday. The “kitchen is fun” stores like Williams-Sonoma and Sur le Table probably have cherry pitters. I’ve seen the modern ones and they don’t seem that different from the antique cherry pitters we had for sale in my mom’s shop. I was always fascinated with all that antique kitchen gadgetry, the apple peelers, the cherry pitters.

As a child, I could never understand these as being modern conveniences in themselves. You had to place the piece of fruit just right and it really needed to be the right size and shape. Of course nothing about the pitters and peelers eliminated the work of picking, washing, taking the stems off, etc. What was so convenient about having a machine to do just the one task?

When I lived in Southern Illinois, one of the beauties of that area was the abundance of fruit and the availability of “U-Pick” fields. The summer I divorced my first husband was especially an adventure for me.

OK, I admit that it’s probably not the best thing to say that getting divorced was an exciting adventure. Compared to the last two years of my first marriage, however, it was like summer camp. I had left “Archie Bunker” and moved into a cute little two-bedroom house with dreadful long shag carpets. The kitchen was big, even the pantry was big enough to put all my books and a chair in it along with the usual pantry stuff. I had a living room, an enclosed front porch, a pleasant pink and green bedroom, bath and a second-bedroom office. It was just enough for me, my two cats and my parakeet.

It was the first time I had ever lived completely on my own, too. Aside from the ongoing annoyance of working out the terms of my divorce, I enjoyed it. My mother was still alive and was taken by a new show called Hill Street Blues. She couldn’t stand it that I couldn’t afford cable TV so had it installed for me so we would have more to talk about. We both loved the undercover cop who bit people and the Three Guys Garbage ruse and the romance between the prosecuting attorney and the police chief.

When the strawberries came into season, I put on my best grubbies and set out for the U-Pick fields. I had to go early to avoid the deathly summer heat and humidity, so it was coolish and humid, that peculiar in-between clammy fog of Southern Illinois mornings that can render your clothes sopping wet in minutes just from the air. I got my crate from the U-Pick office and set about crawling up and down the strawberry rows on my hands and knees in search of that bright red treasure. I picked 17 pounds of strawberries.

It didn’t occur to me that 17 pounds of strawberries was, well, an awful lot of strawberries for one person, even one person with two cats and a parakeet. I was sopping wet, heavy with humidity and manual labor, and proudly took my harvest home. I cleaned and topped them all by hand, literally using my thumbnail to take off the green caps to prepare them for freezing. In the process, I probably ate something like 7 of the 17 pounds, too.

This falls under my category of it being best to learn from the mistakes of others. Whatever you do, don’t eat 7 pounds of strawberries at once. Trust me. The human digestive system has a way of dealing with this. A friend of mine refers to The Night of the Long Knives.

Well before that Big Night, the Big Day of picking and cleaning the strawberries was hard enough. For one thing, I had some pretty dreadful laundry to do after creating my own mud from humidity soaked blue jeans crawling on rich, black earth. I was in pretty good shape then, so there wasn’t much of a sore-muscle penalty, at least. But in topping the strawberries by hand, I did pull the skin under my thumbnail away from the nail.  It stung every time I bumped it, ran water on it or maybe even breathed. But man, oh man, there were strawberries!

The thumbnail part of the penalty phase made me appreciate, finally, what the convenience of the cherry pitter and apple peeler could be. While I don’t think I ever saw a strawberry topper gadget, while nursing my sore thumb and rumbling tummy I started to think of possibilities that never materialized.

Years later, one 4th of July, I remembered the Strawberry Fields Forever and decided to make a cherry pie. Canned cherry pie filling, frozen pie crusts, the easy way, I thought. There was one little drawback to my plan. I had had surgery on my right hand which was in stitches and a stiff brace. It’s my very dominant hand and it was rendered as useful as a doorstop for three weeks or so. I was confident. After all, I had learned to brush my teeth with my left hand, so why not bake a cherry pie? I was inspired by true stories of people who have overcome inconveniences and challenges and I was up to the task.

After a couple of hours of foul language and flinging ingredients and implements around my small kitchen, I had indeed baked a cherry pie. Since one of my ill-fated moves in the process was to tear the top crust so that it could not be used without being completely reworked, I decided it would be cool to have one of those lattice tops of crisscrossed strips of crust. It wasn’t Martha Stewart-level innovation, but it did work. I proudly took it to my friend’s backyard barbecue and we enjoyed what I thereafter called Marcia’s Left-Handed Cherry Pie. It was delicious.

With the 4th of July just around the corner, I’m in the mood for cherry pie again. I don’t have to pit the cherries or pick them. Both my hands have survived surgery well enough; I just have to remember that the left one has that nerve damage that makes me think I have a grip on things when I really don’t. I have lots of room in my current kitchen and an ever-willing assistant in my husband, Mr. Right.

Like the poor dear in the 8 of Swords, I really do have the ability to rise above the constraints put upon me and even those I put upon myself. I could insist that I have Martha-like perfection and be constantly disappointed by my failures. Or I can free myself of my own perfectionist ideas and focus on my goal: Cherry pie. Hey, it’s a cherry pie, for goodness’ sake. And I don't even have to do it with one hand tied behind my back this time.  Let Freedom ring!

Best wishes!

Pet Cards

I recently acquired a tarot deck for my collection called Tarot Cards for Cats illustrated by Kipling West. West’s cats look like pleasant, approachable and intelligent creatures. This got me thinking about my own cats and tarot. My cats are not always the storybook kind but there is a card for each of them.

Alice, a dramatically marked Maine Coon of the “fat crayon” variety and the biggest, toughest creature in the house, is extraverted and mild mannered despite her nickname "Alice Malice". Alice came to us one Christmas season when she wandered into a friend’s house during a party; the friend was highly allergic to cats, so her humans rescued everyone involved and brought her home. Alice's favorite toys are full boxes of tissues, Tinkertoys and her siblings who aren't as happy about being prey animals as Alice thinks. She is paws-down the Alpha Cat in the house and her reign is a relatively mild and optimistic one since her purpose in life is to luxuriate at all costs. She is fond of her spa time when her humans are in the shower and can be found spread out upon the bathmat. At nearly 25 lbs, she is an enthusiastic eater. Alice loves the cocker spaniel, giving him spontaneous hugs, baths and other nervously unrequited attentions. Alice is a catnip lover, a connoisseur of blends from exotic places. She is also a bird-lover, attracted to all things musical. In her own contribution to the musical world, she is the loudest snorer in the family, even snoring while awake at times. Often others will remark on the little flute-like noises she makes. She prefers to sleep at the top of the cat tower or, basically, anywhere she likes. She adores men, especially her male human, often alighting with delight (hers) in his lap. Alice is very best friends with the only male member of the cat cast, Tony, who approaches but cannot match her weight. Alice's dream is to be a spa resort spokesmodel and to lounge by the water; she would also enjoy learning to bowl. An 8-lb ball should be about right. Alice's card is the Queen of Pentacles.

Peepers, a pale Siamese-ish 9 lb “alley point" with striking blue eyes, is a shy girl prone to snooze in linen closets. She came to her home as a beach bunny from the Seal Beach Animal Shelter after her previous owner was unable to care for her. A cat of discriminating tastes, she bit the first interested prospective caretaker before surrendering herself into purrs in her current owner’s hands during the interview. She has become quite a lap-kitty in her maturity, a pleasant change from her originally self-imposed isolationist stance, but likely one of a practical nature as most laps in the house are warm. Peeps, as she is known within the family, seeks balance in life including retribution for wrongs done to others. A few years ago, when Binket was a kitten, the kitten squalled when she got stuck at the door. Peepers flew out of hiding and promptly beat the dickens out of the dog, an innocent bystander unjustly accused of abuse. To avoid further fallout from this traumatic incident, we have never told Peeps that it was in fact her male human who had made the baby cry. Peepers’ favorite toys are those which are sparkly and crackly, lightweight and easily lost. In her heart of hearts, Peepers would rather be an only cat of a quiet, elderly, dogless couple in a home with light-blocking window treatments and plenty of linen closets. One of her principal forms of communication is through her tail, which can assume the pose of a question mark when curious, can lash like a whip at the guilty and can point at right angles to an empty food dish to alert authorities to an imbalance in the distribution of resources. Peepers' card is Justice.

Eleanor a/k/a Ellie and Elly-Belly is a sensitive 5 lb touch-me-not with a very feminine long black and white tuxedo coat with no undercoat. She hails from the Benicia-Vallejo Humane Society. She is the most vocal of the five cats. There are several deep-seated reasons for this. One, her previous owners had her declawed and so, being defenseless, she screams at just about anything. If you are familiar with the Warner Bros cartoon character Pepe LePew and his very, very reluctant girlfriend, Ellie is that girlfriend. In spite of her declawed state, Ellie is voted most likely to slip out the door to explore the back yard although she is easily captured or convinced to return to the safety of the house. Two, whether it is her own kitty-psychology or some pheromone phenomenon, Ellie is the Omega Cat. All the other cats recognize her less-than-zero status and will either chase her until she screams or in rarer event drag her around like a well-loved teddy bear. Ellie loves the cocker spaniel also. However this love is spurned by the usually generous and patient dog who will at most greet her purring and rolling with a soft low rumble of warning to stop doing that before everyone is embarrassed. Ellie also adores her male human, usually standing solidly on his torso, kneading his tummy in ecstasy with her tail closest to his face. Last, and certainly not least, Ellie has the oft-remarked-upon habit of leaving a strong-scented “perfume” reminder on objects made of soft cloth or comfortable pillows in the night. For her consistent role of self-imposed victimization, Ellie’s card is the Eight of Swords.

Binket is a hardy 7 lb short-haired calico with an in-your-face temperament and no respect for authority. Dubbed “No No Bad Cat” by her ever-patient humans, she spent much of her youth trying to catch paper going into or coming out of personal printers and running up the antique quilt (now in shreds) which used to hang on the wall just to prove her cleverness. Binket came to us from a cat rescue group in southern California complete with a roaring case of ringworm which she shared with the entire family before all were cured. Despite her physical beauty and diminutive size, she is a ferocious gladiator in her plan for world dominance. Voted least likely to become a lap cat, Binket does have a soft side, one she views with obvious discomfort. Ellie is her favorite friend, due in large part to their immediate acknowledgement of dominance and submission. Binket relies on Ellie’s superior fashion sense and grooming while Ellie fawns over Binket’s talent for cruelty and torture. Binket and Ellie can often be found companionably snoozing in a large basket in a sunny window when Binket isn’t mopping up the floor with the ever-willing Ellie. Binket has a soft spot for any small puffy thing resembling a cotton ball usually called Puff Baby in various incarnations. She fancies herself a romance-thriller writer and will play out scenes where Puff Baby is in terrible danger, lost under a door perhaps, and in need of rescue. She is perhaps working out some of the trauma of her kittenhood having been rescued from the Boeing plant in her youth. And a romantic she is, for she adores without reservation the cocker spaniel, often cooing to him, rubbing herself on him and otherwise seducing the equally smitten yet polite dog with her charms. She and the dog are the inter-species scandal of the neighborhood. Binket’s dark side is most clearly demonstrated by harboring an intense hatred of the much larger, much slower and good-natured Tony. She expends much energy attempting to kill him. Formerly the Alpha Cat, she was forced to give way to the sheer weight and superior strength of Mighty Alice, but hatches plots daily to recoup her throne. For reasons that should be obvious, Binket’s card is The Devil.

Tony is an unsuspecting dark mackerel tabby of 15 lbs. Tony came to us from the Benicia-Vallejo Humane Society when his owner made a fateful side-trip on her way to a rugby game. Tony’s big heart and affectionate manner would melt even the heart of a rugby team owner. A lookalike for B. Kliban’s Cat, Tony has a smallish head with a smallish brain to match, green eyes (one of which has a stripe), a large pendulous butter-colored abdomen, small feet and a heart of gold. Curious about his unusual shape, more turtle-like than cat-like in some ways, his humans consulted specialists to make sure of his health. The vet pronounced him normal, if “funny looking,” and speculated that his parents were probably peculiarly shaped cats also. Tony is a lover, not a fighter. He is best pals with the cocker spaniel who recognizes his sincerity and gentleness and enjoys the company of Alice when she deigns to visit the northern borders of her realm. Because of Binket’s clear intent to murder Tony, he tends to stick to the safety of the north side of the house making his home in the bedroom, bathroom and office. He is fond of sleeping in soft round places like the muffin shaped pet beds or his person’s arms. He is always first to greet his person as she steps out of the shower, eager to reminisce to the scent of freshly washed hair. Tony’s favorite toys are his Stuart Little mouse and Mike Fink the Flat Mink, late of the fashion section of the Church Mouse Thrift Shop on the Plaza in Sonoma. He started out being an infielder, playing a great game of fetch with a soft ball (as opposed to a softball) but soon tired of the annoyance of having to bring the ball back. He is very much the companion cat, often jumping into laps and onto shoulders, assisting with paperback novels as they are being read, attending in the bathroom, coming when called and even placing items of jewelry in shoes so that they will not be lost for long. He is quiet, peace loving and down to earth by nature, his midsection preventing much climbing and exploring in the aerie reaches. Tony’s ambition is to sleep, eat and snuggle with his female human as much as possible. Some less charitable within the household might call him a “Mama’s Cat.” Tony’s card is the Page of Pentacles.

The cocker spaniel asked not to be named to protect his privacy. A rescue himself from the Furry Friends Rescue, we have only recently begun to deduce that he has been placed with us as part of the Federal Witness Protection Program since he refuses to have his picture taken or published. He is a gentleman of refined manner and obvious breeding who has taken great pains to be gracious to his ill-bred but well-meaning family. Negotiations with him for an exclusive interview are pending. Once those have been completed and approved, a profile and card will be published. Until then, eager readers, we must give him his cherished anonymity.

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Please donate to the pet rescue group of your choice and, if you can, provide a forever home for a little someone special.

Best wishes.