Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Christopher Cat in Chicago
Topic: Cats
I've had a lot of cats in my life. Some have come and gone, leaving little imprint on my mind. Others created memories that have lasted for many years. Such a one was Christopher.

Christopher Cat came to me on St Patrick's Day in 1972. He was a sleek little orange tabby, and got his name because a boy I went to school with, whose name was Patrick, had a brother named Christopher. At first, he was an apartment cat, in Gary IN. Later, we moved out to the Indiana Dunes, and he had freedom to roam the dunes and beaches of that kitty paradise. About a year after I got him, we moved to Chicago, where (ex)husband and I managed an apartment building. It was an old building on the north side, near the shore. I had a long talk with Christopher, explaining that he had to go back to being an apartment cat, and why. It didn't take. He paced the small apartment like a caged tiger, and would make a mad dash for the door whenever it was opened. Once, before I could catch him, some misguided tenant had let him out the front door. After searching for an hour or so, I went back inside, hoping, by some miracle, that he would come back. Shortly after dark, I heard a noise at our second-storey window--and there he was. While I was letting him in, I noticed The Tree. It was a fairly large tree, growing right outside. He had come up The Tree, out a branch, and onto the windowsill. The question I never did answer was, how did he know which apartment?

After that, he came and went as he pleased, out the window and down The Tree.

I think that every neighbourhood in Chicago has it's people who feed the stray or wild animals. Ours had the Pigeon Lady, the Cat Lady, and the Squirrel Lady. It wasn't long before Christopher had met, won over, and mooched food from all of them. We were first apprised of this phenomenon when little baggies of chopped liver started appearing on Chris's windowsill. By this time, Chris was a large, sleek, well-fed cat. Noticeably not in need of the Cat Lady's offerings.

One day, I decided to follow him around. He had a definite route he took throughout the block, careful to encounter all three food providers. Pigeon Lady was the first. She was scattering corn, knee deep in birds, when Chris found her. She saw him coming, and reached in her bag. Out came a little dish, and a packet of Tender Vittles. Chris graciously accepted this, took his time eating, while I explained to the Pigeon Lady that he was mine, and was very well-fed at home. I figured she could feed a couple three pigeons for the price of the food she was giving my cat. She was very nice about it, but let me know that she would feed whatever she pleased, thank you very much. By this time Christopher Cat was ready to move on. The Squirrel Lady was the next person on Chris's list. She sat quietly on a bench under a tree, enticing squirrels with peanuts. Chris cheerfully scarfed the handful of Cat Chow she put on the bench for him. I went into my routine again, with much the same results. Chris tried to look predatory when the squirrels got close, but his tummy was too full for it to be very successful. The last stop was a ground floor apartment across the alley. The back door was open, and the fragrance of sauteed liver wafted enticingly on the breeze. The darn cat walked right in, and scarfed the dish of chopped sauteed liver that Cat lady put down for him. This was obviously a routine. Once again (this was getting old), I gave my spiel. I asked her about the sauteed offerings on the windowsill, and she explained that, if he didn't drop in of a morning, she went to him with the food. I just shook my head, and Chris and I wended our way home.

Funerals, Weddings and Bar Mitzvahs
Now Playing: Suitable Attire
Topic: clothing
When my mom died, in 1977, it was a shock. As far as I knew, she was in pretty good shape, for a 70+ woman who smoked like a chimney.

My (ex)husband and I, and our brand new baby, lived in Austin at the time, and most of our friends were acoustic musicians. We got together for barbecues, and the most heated discussions were along the lines of whether Blind Lemon Jefferson was a better blues man than Leadbelly.

That's just to point out that our social life was not sartorially demanding. Our money was spent on food, diapers, beer and guitar strings, not clothes.

My wardrobe contained nothing that was suitable for a funeral. Even if it had, it wouldn't have fit, due to my post-natal status. So, I borrowed a dress. I was assured by the lender that it was just the thing for a funeral, because she had bought it to wear to her father's wake the year before. It was navy blue, with white polka dots. Fine with me, as Mom had always said she wanted no black at her funeral. It was a mini, made of that sleazy polyester jersey so popular in the 1970's. And it was a bit snug in strategic places, due to my aforementioned post-natal status.

So, dressed up in the "suitable" dress, baby in arms, I was on my way up the aisle at the funeral home, to take my last look at my mother's face, when I heard a ripping sound and felt a draft. Yup, the worst had happened. The cheap plastic zipper had succumbed to stress. I stood in front of my grieving father and about 100 of his closest friends, suffering a major wardrobe malfunction. I unwrapped my baby daughter, threw her blanket over my shoulder, and quietly walked out.

A very nice lady, who eventually became my stepmother, had a purseful of pins. She came to my rescue, and the funeral proceeded.

I learned two things that day. The first was that every adult should keep in his/her wardrobe an outfit suitable for weddings, funerals and Bar Mitzvahs. Two, actually--for different seasons. Something neutral in colour, conservative in cut, that can be dressed up or down with scarves or jewelery. It doesn't have to be fashionable, just suitable. And that includes shoes. I have never since been without such a costume.

The second lesson was, ALWAYS carry safety pins.

My Mom
Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: part one
Topic: Personal
My mother was born in 1905, and died in 1977, just days after the birth of my older daughter, Chandra. She never saw her grandchild.

She was born in New York state, and her mother died when she was nine. She had one sister and two brothers. When she died, she didn't have their addresses so we could let them know. Not a real close family.

She was the stuff of pioneers. Absolute master of making something out of nothing. When we were so poor that she had to put peanut butter in the soup for added protein, she didn't know she was imitating an African recipe. She could do it all, from plowing a field, to cleaning a chimney, to knitting lace. She braided rugs, made table-top mosaics from asphalt tile, wrought iron-looking decorations from tin cans, Christmas ornaments from cigarette foil--she did her best never to waste anything. She would put the gleanings from her hairbrush out in the bushes for the birds to use in their nests. I am surprised she didn't save them to knit me a sweater!

I have an old, granny-square crocheted afghan that contains left-over wool from a twin set she knit for me when I was four. I can find remnants in there of many knitting projects. Even though it is in pitiful condition, I will never get rid of it; it binds me to my mother forever.

Today
Now Playing: Rain
Topic: Weather
Today it is raining. A cold drizzle that reminds me of England or Vancouver Island. When I was a child in England, girls didn't wear long pants, except for play-wear. I had chronic cold, wet knees. I was a skinny little thing, with no insulation. Discomfort was a way of life.

Here, in Central Texas, this kind of light, persistent rain is a Godsend. It soaks into our thirsty earth, instead of running off and taking a good portion of the thirsty earth with it. It will be a good year for Spring crops, including chiggers, fire ants and mosquitoes.

I don't garden. For a person with an English background, this is tantamount to heresy, and a certain disappointment for my parents. We have nearly an acre of land here, and the only thing we grow is grass for deer. We love deer. We feed deer, probably to the disgust of most of our neighbours. The general feeling in these parts is that deer are all very well during hunting season, but the rest of the time, they are a nuisance. They eat the garden and get tangled in the bumpers of cars. There's a reason for the 25 mph speed limit through our neighbourhood.

Back to gardening. I loathe it. I am blessed with good fingernails, which grow very nicely if I don't abuse them too much. The feeling of dirt under them is abhorrent to me.

My parents were gardening fools. There was a vegetable garden at home, of about 1/4 acre, plus raspberry canes, strawberry pyramids, fruit trees, and the blackberry bush that had to be beaten back every few days. The slogging started in March, and continued until October. The digging, planting, tending, weeding, picking, canning and freezing made a full-time job for my mother, and part-time for Dad. Eventually, they got tired of my griping, and let me keep house and make meals instead. I wasn't real wild about doing that, either, but it was better than scrabbling around in the freezing mud.

Introduction
Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: Please allow me to introduce myself...
Topic: Personal
Hello, Blog. Nice to meet you. My name is Veronica. I am variously called Veronica, Ronni, Vero, Cary, Mom, or Grandma, depending upon who you are talking to. Or, what mood I'm in. Or the colour of the sky, time of day, or any of a hundred other variables. I'm calling myself Ronni here, because of the alliteration factor. "Ronni's Rants" has more of a ring to it than "Cary's Rants," don't you think? I thought you'd agree.

The entries I will be posting will not always be rants; sometimes they will be observations, snippy comments, politically incorrect statements, cat stories, community theater stories, kid stories, or anything else that strikes my fancy. I just feel that, by titling this "Rants," you'll be prepared for the worst.

Anyway, I just feel the need of a place to vent. Blessed Blog, you are it!