(Moving to) Utah

I didn’t wake up one morning and say, Hey, let’s move to Utah. In fact, when our daughter and her family moved from Arizona to Utah … leaving us to sell a second home we’d bought there to spend more time with the grandkids … I said, We’re not following them again. And for 5 years we didn’t. But two weeks ago, we loaded up our two cars and left our California house (which, by the way was still in escrow) and set out for St. George, Utah, our overnight stop. Passing through Las Vegas, someone rear ended me then fled the scene, but my car was able to continue. And now we are staying in our daughter’s house in Herriman until our new house there is ready. So properly speaking, we haven’t (Moved to) Utah (particularly since our belongings are stored in a warehouse in California awaiting our move-in date). Hence the title of this post.

(Leaving) California

A week ago, we packed both our cars and drove down Weir Canyon Rd. from our empty house at the top of the hill. Even though California has been our home for over fifty years, there were no tears, at least for me. Id been saying goodbye to people and places for weeks and I haven’t teared up yet. Selling our house, getting rid of stuff we no longer need, then packing and moving the rest has been an incredibly stressful process. The way I am, I tend to get through stressful times by putting emotions on hold and toughing my way through. The way I am, I know that once we are settled into our new house, I will have sit down, put on some sad music, and melt down.

Friend for a Year

Almost a year ago, a big tuxedo cat sauntered out of his crate at the Yorba Linda – Cats in Need rescue as I was doing my weekly stint caring for the kitties. He strolled right up to me purring and climbed on my lap. The tag on his crate said his name was Claude, so named because one of his previous owners had declawed him. It was almost as if he knew I was looking for an adult cat to rescue. Claude was a double-rescue who’d been rescued then returned by his supposed forever family. I liked him, a lot, but I’d been looking foe a glamour-cat like a Siamese or Himalayan. The next week he greeted me the same way and I made a mental note that if he was still at the rescue one more week, I’d bring him home. He was and I did.

Movin’ On

It is May 22nd, two days after my 75th birthday.  It was a lovely birthday.  My daughter, Amy, turned up by surprise from Utah on Sunday night just before we were leaving to see one of my favorite comedians, Jim Gaffigan at the Long Beach Performing Arts Center (tickets also a gift from Amy and her husband, Lars).   We went to the movies and had a very nice dinner on my birthday at the Cedar Creek Inn and on Tuesday, Amy took me to Disneyland (I can be a big kid still).  Now, she’s back in Utah and I’m still 75 (well, technically 75.005479).   One day of Yikes-I’m-75-Blues and its time for Movin’ On.  In our case, literally.

The Art of Napping

If you have ever owned a cat (or more correctly, if a cat has ever owned you), you know that cats sleep a lot.  According to catster.com, cats can sleep up to 16 hours a day, more as they get older (I can relate).   As a somewhat fitful napper, I am always jealous of how my cats have seemed to be able to nap comfortably almost anywhere … and appear blissfully at ease in the most interesting positions.   Yes, there’s stretching, too, but we’ll leave that for another day.  However, my newest feline companion, Claude, between his Rorschach-Test markings and the variation of positions he assumes in his beds, raises napping to the level of art.   Here is a collage of just a few of his abstract patterns.

On the Nose

Checking the main page of my blog today, I found that I haven’t posted since January 11. Such absences are all that uncommon during the past few years, during which my posting has probably best described as intermittent. Perhaps sporadic. Or spasmodic. Anyway, I am prone to postless periods of increasing duration. You probably get the point by now. There are reasons besides literary laziness or poster’s block. For example, we are in the process of going through the stuff we’ve accumulated over 17 years in our current house, discarding the stuff that is junk and donating the stuff that is still useful to charity. George Carlin, commenting on the stuff we all keep, said, Have you noticed that their stuff is junk and your junk is stuff? Except he didn’t say junk. Or course, sorting though my stuff takes time that could be spent posting and inevitably, I come across old pictures. Who can resist sitting down to leaf through a pile of memories, which means no posting or sorting.

A Christmas Eve Past

At ten years old, had someone asked me what I liked better, Christmas or Christmas Eve, I wouldn’t even had to think. Christmas, of course. A mere six years later, Christmas was still the favorite, but Christmas Eve had gained a lot of ground. By sixteen, I’d learned to appreciate anticipation of Christmas Eve, my Mom’s happy Christmas mood, the smell of pies9 cooking in the oven and carols on the radio. And, of course, going out with my Dad to pick up gifts from our relatives homes was one of my favorite things of the year. And here I sit at seventy four, looking back nostalgically and I find that many of my favorite memories are of Christmas Eve. And in particular of one about 40 years ago.

Singin’ (in the Car)

Almost fifty years ago, my wife Muri and I moved to a new house in a new neighborhood in Yorba Linda, California. We quickly became good friends with our next door neighbors, Rex and Bettie, and almost as quickly, Rex and I discovered we both liked to play the guitar and sing. One weekend when we were camping together, singing by the campfire, Rex started to sing the Kingston Trio’s Remember the Alamo.

He’s a Cat

My new friend, Claude, that I adopted from Cats in Need – Yorba Linda, has been with us for just about a month now.   And the results are in: He’s a Cat.  I present the following in evidence.

Goodbye … Again

Last week, we said goodbye to our dear friend, Jackie, who passed away after an extended hospital stay.   We had been visiting her twice a week at the hospital, both to enjoy her company and to give her daughters (who both have their own children to care for) some time off.   We watched and waited for signs of improvement but at least to our eyes, they never really materialized.   Jackie was tired and somewhat groggy much of the time but as we sat and talked about our almost fifty years as friends, the Jackie we knew would make regular appearances, the radiant smile and her laugh lighting up her hospital room.   Last Wednesday morning her daughter called us to say, You’d best come down and say goodbye, she’s not going to make it.  She was unconscious when we arrived but we took turns sitting beside her, talking to her, saying our goodbyes.  Late in the afternoon, after the family had arrived, she was taken off life support and quietly passed.