Memorial Day

“I’ll take a hot foot sandwich, please.”

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‘It’s August. Grab those beachy memories while you can.’

Somebody wise once said that August is like the Sunday of Summer. (I think it was me, actually, but it’s the kind of thing that more than one wise person certainly could have come up with.)

Now I’ve written about this bittersweet end-of-summer stuff before, in ‘Yup. Even Slackers Get the Labor Day Blues’ and ‘The Days Are Long, But the Season is Short’. But, hey, it’s my blog and I’m feeling, well, a tad ‘Augusty’.

How many times did I get out the boogie boards this summer? Do you have to ask?

I’m pretty sure you know what I mean. It’s like you’ve just dusted off your white bucks on Memorial Day and then you realize Labor Day is coming up and you’ll just have to put them away again without having worn them even once. Or like you told yourself you’d have plenty of time to go through all the photos from that birding trip to Africa and make a book out of them already. And, speaking of books, please don’t get me started on yes, this summer I’ll get my act together and find an agent and/or a publisher to turn my stories into a real pages-and-ink book.

Stories? You bet I have stories. Some didn’t have such a happy ending. Just ask that Belgian guy in the back

But enough whining. Speaking of summers and beaches, here’s a joke that’s a favorite of my mom’s. She tells it best, but I’ll give it a shot. Continue reading

Tuna finds the Baby Jesus Sweet Spot

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‘Memorial Day Memories of a Feline Nature’

My Brother Scott swears our cat Wombat does not exist. He and his boys once spent 10 whole days here and did not glimpse her once. I finally took this picture as proof that she does indeed live and breathe, even if, like the snipe, she is hunted, but never ever seen:

Even when Wombat isn't hiding, she is. Hiding

Even when Wombat isn’t hiding, she is. Hiding

But this story is not really about Wombat. After all, Wombat, though you will have to trust me since you will never actually see her, is still with us. This story is in memory of The Cat of The Child’s Childhood, named (by The Child herself) Tuna.

Tuna was, as were all the cats in my life—those gathered randomly while growing up Lutheran in semi-rural Southern Illinois, and those adopted, serial-monogamy-style, during my Single Womanhood, Seriously Dating, and Moving-in-Together-But-Negotiating-Marriage Years—a stray. A ‘rescue’, a ‘shelter’, a ‘Heinz 57 Varieties’, a ‘mutt’. Tuna came to us from The Dude’s Cousin Charlie’s Friend, the one Who Had Too Many Kids Who Liked To Pick The Cat Up By The Tail. Continue reading