Surviving Frances

Yep. I'm back. Survived Frances. Still no power (they say it may be another week) or phones.

How, you might ask, am I blogging? My employer rented a conference room in a local hotel that has power, since our office is also powerless. So I'm sitting here, after work, blogging. My employer doesn't mind -- a fringe benefit. Also, I brought my two dogs here. The heat at home was really affecting Good Old Boy, the retriever whose health has been suffering. Coworkers have been great, watching the dogs while I ate supper, etc.

Here's what I would have logged the rest of the weekend, if I coulda:

Sunday, approximately 2 a.m.

The noise wakes me up -- the wind is beating on the windows like the balled-up fists of a monster who wants in. I wonder if I should move into another room, since my bedroom faces east, where the wind is coming from.

How futile my efforts to tape the windows seem now. If Frances wants to send glass flying everywhere, she surely can. I doubt she'd even notice the tape.

I lie in bed, waiting for the sound of breaking glass.

Sunday, 5 a.m.

I'm awakened again, this time by the light in the living room flickering. It fades almost to nothingness. Rebounds. Fades again.

"Please stay on," I beg.

The light resurges, only to die, this time completely and finally.

Sunday, 7:30 a.m.

The winds have died down a bit. I barely crack the kitchen window, sending a blast of air through the room, then assemble the gas camp-stove, bring a pot of water to boil, and pour it through the grounds in a coffee basket to make a pot of hot coffee, then close the window. While the water is heating, I put batteries in the radio.

The radio reports Frances is moving slowly. Frances is wobbling. Frances is zigging north, now south. Frances made landfall as a "high" Category 2 hurricane, in the darkness. She is creeping across the Florida peninsula, moseying, taking her time, a diva who enjoys keeping everyone waiting. She is fickle and temperamental.

Thank God she wasn't a Category 4 storm.

Jack the Brat has lost interest in Frances. He plays kitten games, stretched out on his back, bouncing a little cloth toy on his feet like a seal tossing a rubber ball.

Imagine Puss 'N Boots (the Shrek 2 version), speaking in campiest Antonio Banderas tones:
"'Urricane? I muck your 'urricane. I play weez my toyz. I don't care about no stinkin' 'urricanez."

A little while later, Frances is throwing more punches, and Jack is hiding under the bed. Alongside him in hiding is his trusty cohort, Elvis, a large black-and-white tuxedo cat.

Sunday, 2 p.m.

What's this on my ceiling? I shine the flashlight on the area for a better look. Two narrow streaks of moisture. Oh, great. (Monday, I check the roof, and Frances had partially succeeded in prying up part of the flashing to the roof vents.)

The radio is my companion, my link to the outside world this day. I listen to a couple of different stations, getting updates on Frances' position, community responses, and callers' questions.

I keep hearing cracking sounds around the neighborhood, the sound of trees breaking, as tropical-storm winds continue. The top of a tall pine in my yard broke during the night. Somehow, it manages to keep its tenuous hold on the tree through all the wind.

Sunday, 4 p.m.

In one of the lulls, I go out into the yard with the dogs again. They're too scared to go out by themselves -- they seem to think my standing over them while they do their business will keep them safe.

I look toward the well, which used to be in the back corner of the yard, and wonder where it is. Then I realize a neighbor's tree has come across the fence and hidden the well.

The wind starts to kick again, and all three of us run for the shelter of the house.

Monday afternoon

Two coworkers come by to check on me. The main roads are pretty passable now, they say. I decide to make a run myself, gathering information for the newspaper. The appeal of riding around in my car with the air-conditioner blasting is not lost on me, either. My Australian shepherd, The Best Dog in the World (Betsy), road-trip lover, comes with me.

We may not have electricity (and thus, air-conditioning and refrigeration) restored here for another week. Has the power company decided to wait and see what Hurricane Ivan does before bothering with more repairs?

I had been feeling a bit sorry for myself before this trek, with tree damage, roof damage, no power, no phone — but no longer. My town literally looked like a bomb had gone off over it.

I saw the source of yesterday's cracking sounds. Tree after tree in my neighborhood was broken in half.

It strikes me that Providence has been at work, in this storm, as in Charley. So many huge trees that could have fallen on houses and injured or killed people fell away from homes, instead. It's too much to be coincidence.

Still, trees had exploded all over roads, houses, power lines. Several streets in my neighborhood are blocked by huge, downed oaks. At one intersection, someone, I'm not sure if man, or more likely, Mother Nature, had taken downed power lines and looped them over other power lines, so they were off the road.

People stand in their driveways here and there, trying to catch a cell phone signal. Others are piling up yard waste by the roadside. The buzz of chain saws fill the air.

You know it's a disaster in Central Florida when the convenience stores are closed, and many of them are.

Downtown, a restaurant's awning is torn apart. Business signs are blasted apart. Fascia and siding are ripped from buildings. Broken trees deface the university’s campus.

The grocery stores and the Marts are open and busy, but have no ice -- a hot commodity when there's nothing else to keep perishables from spoiling.

The southbound traffic on the main drag is nonstop with people returning to check their homes. A long line winds around McDonald's, where the drive-through is open. In fact, every open restaurant is doing great business. So is every operating gas station.

At a little apartment complex, a group of neighbors sit outside, relaxing and talking, as chicken and meat sizzle on the grill.

"You might as well get it all out of the refrigerator and cooked, before it spoils," they explain. It's much more pleasant outside, in the breeze, than inside sweltering buildings, too.

They have the right spirit. A little thing like a hurricane won't keep them down.

I go home and get the porch furniture and grill out of the garage, and the nearly-thawed steak out of the freezer.

I'm grateful damage to my home is minimal, and we're all safe.

Now we'll have to watch Ivan.

Frances plays games, says 'here I am'

Okay, I have to admit it...I got a little spooked. The winds got up to tropical storm force; the rain pounded; the trees tossed around. Then the sucker punches: three separate, strong gusts of wind -- must have been around 70 mph each. There's no way to anticipate them, and certainly nothing I can do about these slams. It makes me feel so helpless against the elements.

Once again I'm reminded of my need for the one who calms the sea and the wind.

This was just a taste of what's to come -- this is just the very, very edge of Hurricane Frances starting to move in. A reminder of her power.

Jack the Brat sat by the window, fascinated. A line of dark stuff from the east, the Atlantic, boiled up, and he moved to the safety of the sofa to watch it. Betsy assumed the usual position she takes when anxious -- wedged between the sofa and the coffee table, near my feet. She moved with me into the office and is now curled up at my feet here.

We're under a tornado warning. I think I'll shut down the computer and unplug everything to protect it against power surges. We've already had one brownout and resurgence of power.

If I get another window, I'll post later this evening, if anyone's reading.

Pat

Waiting for Frances

I spent the morning taping up windows and digging up some sandy dirt which I can use to make sandbags, if needed. I brought home some plastic sleeves from the newspaper office, which I can fill to make my own mini-sandbags. Hopefully, I won't need any, except maybe around the sliding glass door to the patio.

Everything that needed to be done outside, I wanted done this morning -- before it could start storming, and to make sure I had enough time to take a nice, warm shower afterward. The hot, humid air just smacks you when you go outside, and the simple act of putting tape over the windows left me soaked with sweat.

Now I'm just putting around the house, watching the TV coverage, and petting the animals. They sense something is up and all four of them are staying right under my feet. Good Old Boy and Betsy got baths yesterday so the house won't stink of damp dog so much -- now they smell like cheap shampoo. A definite improvement. I brushed a half-bushel (well, it seemed like it) of fur off Good Old Boy, who loves to be brushed, and less off Betsy, who hates it.

Jack the kitten is now officially Jack the Brat instead of One-Eyed Jack. The vet checked him Wednesday and declared his injured eye in amazingly good shape -- he's even seeing out of it. So it won't need to be removed. Yaayy! (But what I thought.) He's a miniature Tasmanian devil, screeching around the house. Cute personified.

Last night, Jack the Brat got up on the sofa with me, where I was lounging. He wedged himself between the sofa cushion and my leg, on his back, his front paws crossed over his chest and his big, back feet sticking up in the air as he snoozed. How could anyone resist something so adorable?

The hurricane hasn't hit here, in northern Central Florida, yet. Frances has been moving very slowly, and the eye of the storm will make landfall much later than originally projected. I gather from TV reports, a lot of people are getting really antsy -- especially the ones who've been in shelters since Thursday. Can't say as I blame them. The outer bands of the hurricane are creeping closer, and it's been windy, about 20-25 mph winds with some gusts, but nothing extraordinary. I'm guessing in another couple of hours we'll be getting some higher gusts here. They're already getting pounded down in Broward County and southern Brevard -- just from the outer bands.

I'm watching the satellite pictures, and Frances looks like a huge spider slowly moving over her prey to devour it. Her winds aren't as high as they were before she attacked the Bahamas, but her eye has spread out -- 70-80 miles wide now, and her wall has spread out, with hurricane force winds 120 miles out from the eye wall. She's just getting started on Florida. I hope people will be patient and use their common sense, and not decided to run out and check on their mobile or beachside home, or pick up a few more items. They could get caught in the nasty stuff.

I'll post again later, if I can. We'll have to see how long the power holds out.

I just don't get it

Dubya is 11-12 points ahead of Kerry in the polls? I just don't understand it. Okay -- let me think about it.

Humm. Nothing is too low or too dirty for Dubya. Tell the big lie. (Go over to Father Jake Stops the World for a look at the big convention-speech lie.)

Attack the person and character of your opponent. Get people who still carry all that anger from the Viet Nam era, the ones who believed that any criticism of our government was treason and betrayal of our troops. Fan the flames of their hatred. Encourage them to attack your opponent's war record, not because of his war record, but because of his politics.

Besmirch and smear as you smirk. The Dubya trademark. He and his "have more" power base.

The good news is Kerry has finally gotten really mad about it, I think. Mad enough to sling the shit back on the shitster. I caught Kerry on the attack on Bush for Bush's attack on him: how dare Bush, with his record of evading service, question Kerry's service record?

Kerry sounded mad. Good. He needs some fire in his campaign. I think people will respond to some passion from him -- I get the impression many think he's an Ivy-league, dispassionate intellectual, talking about a "sensitive" war on terror. (More Bush/Cheney twisting and distortion.)

I want to see Kerry on the attack.

***

Meanwhile, the party crasher approaches

Hurricane Frances is sending her calling cards in advance of her visit. It's been a bit more windy and gusty than usual today. A couple of brief, hard showers passed through, then the sun came back.

It's as if Frances RSVP'd to a party to which she was NOT invited. She's a definite party-crasher.

We'll probably get more showers tonight, but the really tropical weather shouldn't set in until tomorrow afternoon. Then we'll be in for it for 24-36 hours, as Frances takes her time moseying on down the road.

I'm going to do some cooking tonight and tomorrow, then I'll have stuff that can be warmed over sterno. I can make coffee on my camp stove, and I've got plenty of PBJ, cheese and crackers, canned and fresh fruit, etc., that doesn't require heating. I'm well-provisioned for this hurricane.

I've filled up every container I could find with water (and I've accumulated plenty for just such an emergency), along with all my hoarded water jugs, so I should have enough water for washing up and toilet flushing, as well as plenty of drinking water.

I notified the church I could take some evacuees here, for some live on the beachside and in mobile homes, but so far, haven't had any takers. The Episcopal retreat center near Orlando opened its doors for such evacuees, and I guess other have gone to stay with relatives. The deacon would have stayed with me, but she's allergic to animals.

I've got plenty of food and beverage. The threat to my safety seems to bring out the buried hunter-gatherer in me. I've hit the grocery stores several times this week, picking up this and that and more of the other, so I could easily provide for a few needing shelter from the storm.

I'm going to tape up the windows in the morning. I wish I had some plywood to put over them, but I don't. Still, I feel safer here than most places. I'm away from the coast and the river. My cinderblock-and-stucco house, tiny and inexpensive, was nevertheless built to the latest post-Hurricane Andrew hurricane codes.


Hope I don't end up needing shelter myself. The forecast of Frances' path now indicates the eye of the storm will come closer to my neighborhood than earlier predictions indicated.

She is a party-crasher, that @#@X#, Frances.

More later.

P.S. -- keep not only us in Florida, but those in the islands in your prayers. The Bahamas have taken a terrible beating from the hurricane.

Oh, no, not again!

Guess what. Another hurricane is bearing down on Central Florida.

Like many folks around here, I haven't quite recovered from Hurricane Charley. Now, big, mean @#X@#!! Hurricane Frances is coming at us. Frances is big, too, a heck of a lot bigger than Charley, big enough to cover the state with her bands. She's a Category 4. Just swell.

Thank goodness, some church friends had come by and cut up the big pine tree Charley toppled. Its top was caught in some viny growth in the wild hammock along the edge of my property, and in another windstorm, it could have ended up on top of my well or crushing the chain link fence below. A semi-retired Father-type from church, his grandson and a couple of their friends labored over that tree for several hours. {{{thank you, guys!}}}

Adding trial and tribulation, my well pump went out last weekend. I jiggled and cussed it; a friend came over and checked it; I finally broke down and called the well company (sigh..can't afford these expenses). The service guy said a couple of capacitors had burned out. It wasn't as expensive a repair as I feared it might be, though, which is the good news. At least I didn't have to spring for a new pump motor.

I had to get the well running, so I could start stockpiling water for Hurricane Frances. I spent some time yesterday evening and this morning filling up my motley collection of plastic jugs and pots with water. I want enough to last 5 days, because with everything so saturated now, Hurricane Frances' winds and rains will pull down a lot of trees and the power lines will come down with them. Frances is expected to take her time moving across the state, taking about 24 hours, plenty of time for her to dump 10 inches of rain. We may have tropical storm-to-hurricane winds for 24-36 hours.

I hit the grocery store last night and again this morning, stocking up on coffee, sterno, charcoal, nonperishables and steak. Yes, steak. I can cook out on the grill after the storm goes by!!!!

Luckily, I had already stocked up on batteries, because the stores were running out of them again.

We shouldn't be getting bad weather until tomorrow evening or early Saturday, when the tropical stuff preceding the hurricane starts rolling in. The eye won't be in this area before Sunday. Some models are now calling for it to stay on a westerly course instead of turning more to the north, which will put us on the northeast side of the hurricane, which may not be an advantage -- it's nasty on that side of hurricanes.

So we're just playing a waiting game. Hoping and praying and waiting to see what Frances does next.

Life and near death in the unSaintly household

I had a scare last week with Good Old Boy, my elderly golden retriever.

He's been more subdued/much less active since the last tumor was removed a few months ago. His legs have seemed weaker and more arthritic, and he's been spending more time just flopped on the floor. I'd been putting the food and water bowl where he could stand on the edge of the dining room carpet to eat and drink, because his legs slipped out from under him on the kitchen tile a couple of times, and he couldn't get up by himself.

Last week, he took a sudden turn downhill and couldn't get up by himself, period. He would just lie on the floor and bark in frustration, his back legs hardly moving at all. I would try to hoist him up, but his legs would buckle. The need to pee stiffened his legs and resolve just enough to stagger out, come back in and collapse.

I was sure this was the time Good Old Boy would have to be put down. I wasn't even sure if I had made the right decision to have that last tumor removed.

A co-worker came over and helped me load Good Old Boy into the car and I took him to the vet. I asked her about something that didn't feel right along his ribs. The vet hemmed and hawed, took an x-ray, said Good Old Boy has a mass along his ribs, which may or may not be pressing on his spine, also, his arthritis is worse. Steroids and Rimadyl might help -- it was a 50-50 shot.

I went ahead and let her give Good Old Boy a large shot of steroids, let their assistant load him in the car, and took him home, feeling pessimistically that I'd have to get him back there Monday to be put down (the vet who made the house calls for Zsa-Zsa was out of town). I managed to get Good Old Boy out of the car, but had to leave him lying on the garage floor for a while -- I just couldn't get him to his feet.

Saturday was no better; he seemed even a bit worse. My back was starting to hurt from hoisting him up. Good Old Boy is a big dog, about 85 pounds when the vet weighed him.

Sunday morning he got up. He came and leaned against my legs, looked up at me adoringly, as if saying, "Thank you for helping me up so much."

He walked around the house. He got up to go out by himself.

Good Old Boy has been stiff and awkward, but he's been getting up and down on his own since then. I don't know if it was the medication, my rather pessimistic prayers and laying on of hands, or a combination of things.

I know Good Old Boy's time is limited. The bony ridges around his eyes have become more prominent and his eyes are more sunken in. He still has that mass. He still breathes hard and looks like he's in discomfort at times, but he seems glad to be alive.

Thank you, dear God.

In the meantime, Jack, or Kitten-zilla, as I call him, is doing great. His face is almost completely healed. His right eye (which had been punctured) looks 100 times better --he should be able to keep it.

Jack is an example of God's artistry at work. He has perfect tabby markings. His coat, a bit rough when I got him (maybe he had been a feral kitten), is now sleek and smooth. He has perfectly-shaped little paws, dove-colored fur on their tops and chocolate pads on the bottoms. His forehead is wide and his chin comes to a neat point. His soft triangular ears are a good size, which according to claims in the James Herriott books, would make him a good mouser -- but I don't think we have any.

What a beautiful creation.

He is a little-monster kitten, attacking my ankles from under the bed, chewing on the dogs' tails, tormenting Elvis the cat. Elvis is starting to get used to him though, and even plays with Jack the Brat a little.

When Jack isn't being a brat, he's curled up in my lap, purring.

Back to normal (sort of)

The wonderful power was back on Sunday evening, and my phone was back to life Monday evening.

Being without, of course, made me appreciate things like cool air, hot showers, TV, radio and lamps.

Being without these things also made me appreciate some Bible verses. After spending a few evenings with hurricane lamps as my light source, I now have a more vivid image in my head of what it means to have a lamp light my way. When deep darkness surrounds me, I must move very carefully. The dependability of the light from a lamp held in front of me is the only way I can navigate around obstacles and past pitfalls.

This is what it means to depend on Christ to lead me through this dark world.

Surviving Charley

Thank you for your prayers {{{{y'all}}}.

We made it through Hurricane Charley okay, except that my home is still without electricity, landline or cell phone service.The power went out Friday evening as the stronger outer bands of the storm approached.

I came into town this afternoon, and I'm using my office computer to make this entry.

From the look of things, I may not have power at my home for another day or two. The hurricane veered more to the east than the last storm track showed before my power went, so we didn't get its full effects. Even just a little distance makes a difference -- I live on the east side of town, and there's a definite increase in damage sustained just miles east of downtown.

The only damage at my home is a tall pine tree down in the yard. It's trunk is resting against my well tank, which it moved a couple of inches. I don't think it damaged anything, but I won't know for sure until the power is back. The pine took out the top of a pepper tree as it came down and is resting on it and some growth from a overgrown hammock area by my property line. A chain link fence runs through the hammock to create a backyard area for the dogs, and the fence looks untouched. So far, so good!

I stayed put yesterday morning. There were so many downed trees and power lines it was dangerous to be out and about, and I knew from past experience some roads would be blocked from downed trees. Officials were asking people to stay home. In fact, I've heard one person in Central Florida was electrocuted by stepping into a puddle with a live, downed line in it.

Yesterday afternoon, though, I went riding around with my boss, talking to people and getting photos of damage -- downed trees limbs and people working to get trees off their homes, power lines balled up in tangles of tree limbs on the roads, transformers resting on the side of the road. Huge, 130-foot water oaks split or uprooted. But amazingly, not many buildings were seriously damaged, and there were no hurricane-related deaths in my area that I know of. Thank you, God.

If it weren't so miserably hot, it might be fun being without power -- it's kind of like camping out -- making coffee on my Coleman camp stove, reading by lamplight and flashlight, having some enforced time of R&R, laying around the house, playing with the animals. It's hot and muggy, though, and no shower. I washed my hair in the sink this morning with stored-up water, then took a bowlful into the walk-in shower and had a really good wash-up. I feel better. Riding around with the car's air conditioner blasting felt great, too.

The thing I've personally suffered from most is lack of communication. I'm used to constant contact by TV, computer, radio, phone, often two or three modes going at the same time. I listen to the TV or radio while I'm online. I sleep just fine with the TV on all night.

I'm a communications junkie missing her fix.

My cell phone went out completely Friday night --tower down. I had home phone service until Saturday morning, then a tree must have fallen on a line. Dead. Still. The stores sold out of D batteries a couple of days before the storm, and I had every other kind -- loads of AA, AAA, 9-volt and one pack of C batteries. My little radio that runs on AA batteries has disappeared from the face of the earth. I have several radios that run on D batteries, but NO BATTERIES!!!!!! FRUSTRATION!!!!!!DON'T THE STORES KNOW TO STOCK UP ON THEM IN HURRICANE SEASON???? WHAT'S WRONG WITH THEM???? (And why hadn't I checked my battery stash sooner?)

So I had no source of news. No idea what was going on. I sat in my car Friday midnight/Saturday a.m., listening to its radio for news, wanting to be sure the storm had passed.

I found a little radio that runs on four C batteries at the evil mart today (the rudeness of selfish people in the stores at times like these is another rant. I found myself getting very snappy and cranky). Anyway, I bought the radio. At least I can listen to the radio tonight. I won't be so cut off from the world.

Now I'll pray for relief from storms for a while, and that my well works properly when the electricity comes back on.

Waiting for Charley

Charley is bearing down on my little burg in Central Florida. The hurricane was predicted to make landfall farther north and track to the north of us, which would still bring tropical storm weather my way, but now we're in the direct path of the hurricane. Charley is now a level 4 storm, expected to hit here later tonight. Right now, I'm just waiting.

The weather hasn't been bad so far, just very gray all afternoon, and mostly calm, with the exception of one small squall line, but I've heard ominous rumblings the past hour. We've been under a tornado watch all afternoon.

Certain things always happen at the worst times. Like, my air conditioning going out this morning. I wanted to have the house as cool as possible before we lose power, which I'm sure we will. A friend came over and found a fixed the problem, a blown fuse. Thank you!! It's now very cool in here. I can stave off misery through the night, anyway. Tomorrow will be another story.

I expect to be powerless for at least a day, based on past history with these storms. And this looks to be the worst of any I've been through -- so far, we've been very lucky with these storms. I'm saying a little prayer of protection for me and all of us here in Florida.

Just to add a little extra to the day, the water went out while I was taking a shower this morning. Yes, God does have a sense of humor.

I grumbled my way out to the well, turned off the power to it, cleaned the connections of the toggle switch (or whatever you call the little thing that flips back and forth, making electrical connection to run the pump), and it came back on. The water fizzled out again as I washed dishes while ago, and I saw the problem this time -- some tiny, black ants, apparently sensing high water coming, are trying to congregate in the little electrical box. Fried ants keep the switch from making good contact. Oh, well.

I went in to the office for a short time, to help cover up the computers and secure the building. Luckily, I stayed late last night to get things done. We we already planning to close up shop early today.

Now I'm just hunkered in, waiting, and cooking some food (chicken and pork and vegetables) out of my freezer, while I can. I predict the animals and I will gain a few pounds out of this. I also stocked up on snacks in a late-night grocery run on my way home from the office last night. Hurricanes are no time to diet, in my opinion.

I'll post as I can.

:=) Unsaintly Pat, in Central Florida

A week of kittens, killings and killer storms

Jack the kitten is careening around the house like a miniature dervish, visible to the eye only as streak of charcoal and cream. He's obviously feeling good. His injured eye may have to be removed; it looks unhealthy inside. The vet will make that call. In the meantime, it isn't bothering Jack at all.

I've been working long days covering a murder story. It's the kind that reminds me of how ugly and evil human beings can be, yet I also have seen compassion and God's love working in people.

I don't think my long week will be over for a few days -- now, two hurricanes are barreling down on Florida. I don't expect much from Bonnie today, but my area may see some nasty weather from Charlie, who will be coming through tomorrow afternoon or night. So I'm filling up water jugs. Kind of like the woman at the well in our readings over at Gospel Guy's site, except my well is electric and if the power goes out, I have no water. The power usually does goes out when we get these big storm, so I'm filling up those jugs now! I also need to run to the store and pick up some non-perishable goodies and dog food.

One-Eyed Jack

There's a new man in my life, a younger one. He's a little rough around the edges, a little beat-up. He's lived through danger.

He was a blind date of sorts.

Of course, he's a cat. Well, kitten, about seven weeks old.

The vet called me the first of the week and asked if I'd be interested in fostering this little kitten, who had been mauled by something -- likely, a dog. The vet was getting ready to go on vacation when this little thing showed up on her doorstep. I don't know whether he was dropped there or if the maker of us all simply led him there.

The vet brought him to me Wednesday. One side of One-Eyed Jack's face is pretty well torn up, and one eyeball was punctured and may have to be removed. Hence, One-Eyed Jack. He's not a real pretty sight right now, at least on his right side.

Otherwise, he's adorable. Affectionate, loaded with personality. A perfectly-marked charcoal tabby cat.

So I'm fostering him. I know the vet figures I'll end up keeping him, as a replacement for Zsa-Zsa. A friend from the office wanted to bet me dinner that I'll keep him.

I hope a good home will turn up for him, though. Poor Elvis is distraught. The tormentor of his life is gone and he's been relishing being the only cat. Now this thing arrives.

So, we'll see how it goes. I've taken him to the office with me the past two days. This afternoon and evening, my office mates ended up babysitting him while I went to a crime scene to get a story. I was picked up as a stringer on it for a big-city Yankee paper, so I'll make some desperately needed extra money, too. Not glad for the circumstances, but glad for the paycheck. And I'm glad I work with a crowd of animal lovers!

Anyway, I'd better go give Jack his antibiotics. I'll keep you posted.

Red Alert, Red Alert!


It's looking like the imminent threat of terrorism Tom Ridge told us about Sunday is based mostly on information several years old, confirming some of my nastier thoughts, that this administration is shamelessly willing to use the threat of terrorism it has helped intensify to its own political/reelection ends.

Of course institutions like the IMF and the World Bank are prime targets. Large financial institutions have always been prime Al Qaeda targets. It comes as no surprise that terrorists have been gathering information on them. These potential targets should already have tight security measures in place.

That's not quite the same as making it sound like this is some hot news, just obtained this weekend. Now are we supposed to huddle around the fire and depend on our fearless prez to protect us? This puts Wag the Dog to shame for heartless manipulation.

Everyone who's watched the war in Iraq unfold knows that we're at more danger of terrorism than ever. Just because our major news media have dropped Abu Ghraib and Fallujah, don't think they've been forgotten in the Middle East -- or how this whole war has influenced views of the United States.

I'm sure the names of "National Security" and "the Patriot Act" will be invoked when they help Dubya obtain his political ends.

We are at a heightened threat of terrorism, that's for sure. Would there be a threat anyway? Yes, but it's much worse now, thanks to the prez and co. I won't forget this.

NO DOGS OR SAILORS ALLOWED

I remember my parents talking about their early days in the Navy. They lived in Norfolk, Va., a Navy town. Yet there was so much prejudice against sailors there that many apartment buildings and rooming houses bore signs with the warning, "No Dogs or Sailors Allowed."

Is that the sorry state our churches are coming to? I wonder if soon I'll see a sign like this in front of an Episcopal church:

WE ARE AN ORTHODOX AND TRADITIONAL CHURCH
No gays, women or liberals allowed.

According to the Daily Telegraph (7/20/04), the Archbishop of York has proposed dividing the Church of England into two, "one part with female clergy and one without... to avert an exodus of traditionalists when women become bishops."

The article continues,

"Dr Hope is keen to encourage a compromise between die-hard traditionalists and middle-of-the-road Anglicans that will minimise the structural divisions within the Church. The diehards are demanding a "third province", a church-within-a-church with its own archbishop, bishops and training colleges operating in parallel with the remainder of the Church, but with no female clergy.

As The Telegraph disclosed in January, the third province option has been included in the unpublished official report on women bishops by a working party headed by the Bishop of Rochester, the Rt Rev Michael Nazir-Ali.

But Dr Hope prefers a scheme which, rather than creating parallel structures, enshrines the rights of traditionalist parishes that could find themselves in dioceses headed by women bishops or liberals. Under such a scheme, parishes opposed to women's ordination would be able to reject the pastoral care of their diocesan bishop if they found them unacceptable. Such parishes could choose to be ministered to by a like-minded traditionalist bishop, who could visit them, if necessary, from outside the diocese. Parishes can already opt for "flying" bishops under provisions introduced for traditionalists when women were ordained priests 10 years ago."

Third province? Finding bishops "unacceptable?" This sounds a lot like the AAC platform.

Of course, these churches could then split again, over other issues. Then we could have eight churches within a church. Or 16.

And just where do we find God in all this? How do we love our neighbors as ourselves?

Call me just fed up with attempts to co-opt God. And where does the Republican Party get off pressuring clergy to support Bush or appropriating church directories for political purposes?

God is not a Republican

I am a patriotic American. We are blessed to live in a country with a Constitution designed to protect our civil liberties. I am a Navy "brat" -- my father, about whom I'll write one day, was a career Navy officer, and I'm proud of him.

I used to be a registered Republican. Not anymore. President George W. Bush made me too embarrassed to keep that party affiliation. I went over to the Democrats a little while ago.

One of the things Bush has done that I intensely dislike is to act as if God is on his, and only his, side; as if God is a registered Republican, supporting Bush's actions in Iraq, his approach to relations with other countries, and his domestic agenda. (And whatever else Bush gets it in his head to do.)

This is really nothing new in right-wing politics. Remember the Moral Majority of the 1970s and '80s? Wrapping oneself in the flag is an old tactic. It's designed to smear your opposition as unpatriotic.
And wrapping oneself simultaneously in the flag and in the cloak of godly righteousness is a double whammy, implying the opposition is not only unpatriotic, but also a bunch of unchristian, non-God-fearing sorts (whose rights, by the way, are protected by the Constitution).

God has no political-party affiliation. God is not even an American. He is the one above all names, above all powers, to whom every knee must bow and every tongue confess. Period.

When the Pharisees used a coin bearing Caesar's inscription to try to trick Jesus into a compromising statement regarding the separation of earthly and spiritual powers, he told them, "Give to Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's." There's a clear distinction.

Those of us who call ourselves Christian should know that Jesus, if anything, was a socialist. We try to tone down his message to fit within our comfort zone, but he said, in the 25th chapter of the Gospel of Matthew, "All nations will be assembled before him and he will separate people one from another as the shepherd separates sheep from goats. He will place the sheep on his right hand and the goats on his left. Then the King will say to those on his right hand, 'Come, you whom my Father has blessed, take as your heritage the kingdom prepared for you since the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you made me welcome, lacking clothes and you clothed me, sick and you visited me, in prison and you came to see me."

Jesus told Peter to "feed my sheep." No laissez-faire economics or rampant capitalism here, just socialism in the truest sense -- taking care of each other, especially of society's most vulnerable members.

Lots of things that circulate around the Internet find their way to my e-mail in-box. I can't count how many "forwards" with depictions of Stars-and-Stripes-covered crosses I've seen. This makes my stomach turn, and it would give me the same reaction no matter whose side the mail supports. The cross should always come first, above all earthly symbols.

Beware of politicians claiming some special favor or divine mantle from God to do what they're doing. There was only one who could claim this privilege, and he lived on the Earth a couple of thousand years ago.

With a little help from my friends
 
All of you please accept my thanks for your prayers and good wishes. They make a difference. It makes a difficult time easier to endure. I think I can physically "feel" prayers for me.
 
Here's something I've been meditating on; it has to do with being in a dim or dark place in my life. At these times, God might be right there; Jesus might be knocking at the door of my heart, but my own spiritual malaise makes it very difficult to feel that nearness, to be aware of that presence.
 
When I can't grasp the light to cut the darkness around me, when I can't seek the face of God, I can still see God's light reflected in the loving people around me.
 
At church tonight, I looked at the face of Mother Marvelous, who gave us a scare with her health this past week. When I look in her face, I see the light of God and the love of Christ. It is here, in the world. It is in her. It is in Deacon S., manifested in a different way, and in the Rector in yet another way. It's in adorable Doria, who shines with the light of a city on hill, though telling her that embarrasses her. It's in so many at that church.
 
This is what keeps me going through the dry times, and why it's so important to be in community, in a caring family of faith.
 
***** 
 
A friend sent me an article that was published in Newsday last week, an article by Jimmy Breslin called "As the List Grows, Bush is Unmoved."

Breslin is passionate in his disgust for Bush, and in his empathy for all the young lives wasted in Iraq for a war that shouldn't have happened.
 
Even back in the days when I thought there might actually be weapons of mass destruction that needed to be removed from Iraq, I vehemently opposed sending in troops. Didn't we learn anything from Viet Nam? There are smarter and better ways than the cowboy charge.
 
Breslin's is a powerful indictment of the man who "wanted to be a wartime president."  Well, the man got his wish, but not exactly the way he wanted, I suspect.
 
I guess Bushie thought there would be more glory as a 'heroic' wartime prez, and the public easier to manipulate in a wartime situation -- gotta stay patriotic and support the shrub, whatever he does. It's amazing.
 
Here's the link to the article, published online at "Common Dreams."  http://www.commondreams.org/views04/0715-08.htm

• On cats, God and heaven
•  
• I've been in a snit with God lately.  It started before Zsa-Zsa got sick.  I'm not sure, but I think God is now using things to do with Zsa-Zsa to reach me. 
•  
• Of course, cats have long been associated with the supernatural.  I don't think they fit too well in the framework of modern Christian theology, but, well, I don't care.  Here goes:  
•  
• Monday evening, after Zsa-Zsa died, I lit some candles, got the prayer book and started modifying some of the prayers for the dead to fit Zsa-Zsa.  For some unknown reason, a tea light melted down completely, the fluid caught on fire, started smoking and set off the smoke alarm.
•  
• That shouldn't have happened -- no reason for it, but it reminded me of the time seven or eight years ago when I was having a romantic evening with a boyfriend. I had lit candles all around the room and we were engaged in very romantic talk when Zsa-Zsa came strolling toward us, oblivious to the fact that the fur on her flanks was ablaze.  She had strolled too near a candle. We grabbed her and wrapped her with a towel to smother the blaze, an action of which she was most unappreciative.  Luckily, some fur was all that had burned.  The apartment stank of singed cat fur for days.
•  
• I had to laugh, remembering it.
•  
• The next morning, Tuesday, the Best Dog in the World (Betsy), Good Old Boy and Elvis the Cat all took turns staring, as if in a trance, at a spot in front of what I call "the cat room."  (It's a spare room that became the cat hang-out and feeding place the dogs dare not enter -- they have to get past a pet gate of which they're terrified. It's been used to confine them in the kitchen.)
•  
• I have no idea what they were staring at and what compelled each of them to come look, separately. There was certainly nothing visible to my human eye. But it's a spot through which Zsa-Zsa would pass frequently. 
•  
• This morning, I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of her sitting on the arm of the sofa, licking her paw as if in preparation for washing her face.  A trick of the imagination, most likely, because I still expect to see her.  Every night this week, I've come home and felt like something was wrong, then realized I was one short.  I subconsciously do a head count when I come in, and one animal has seemed unaccounted for.
•  
• I keep feeling that Zsa-Zsa's little spirit is reminding me that she might not be here any more, but it's all right.  She's all right  --  not unaccounted for, but in a good place.
•  
• I'll always miss Zsa-Zsa, just as I still miss her precedessor, who's been gone for 15 years now. But I believe if there's a heaven, all these creatures we care so much about are there, too.  In my Father's house are many mansions, with lots of room for pets.  Otherwise, it just wouldn't be heaven.
•  
• And if God cares about little orange cats, and the Bible says He/She cares even about the little sparrows that fall, then God is okay in my book.
•  
• If I make it to heaven, I know Zsa-Zsa and the others will be there waiting for me.
•  
•  
•  

The end of Zsa-Zsa

I've written about the animals in my life a couple of times. You may remember Zsa-Zsa from my post of Nov. 12, >November Archives, called "Great Stinkin' Cat Shit."

Zsa-Zsa, a 13-year-old orange Persian whose health was always much frailer than her spirit, took very ill over the Fourth of July weekend. I decided not to take her to the vet. In her estimation, vets were the most evil people on the face of the earth, and she had panic attacks when she had to go see them. Not their fault -- she had been mistreated in her first year of life, before she came into my home, and any attempt to grab hold of her and do anything to her brought on an extreme reaction.

It was months after I got Zsa-Zsa before she would sit next to me or in my lap, and it was several years before she got over her terror of brooms. At first, she would stay in the same room with me, but on the opposite side of it. She gradually moved closer and closer. Then she would sit on the back of the sofa, near me. Then next to me. Then, finally in my lap. She became a very affectionate cat with me, but suspicious of other humans, and she never got over her fear of being held immobile.

Zsa-Zsa's breathing problems required frequent trips to the vet and steroid shots in her earlier years, and she hated each visit more than the last.

She was finally weaned off the shots onto steroid pills, and when I became involved in the healing ministries, I practiced laying hands on Zsa-Zsa and was able to get her off the medication completely, which the vet said was much better for her overall health.

But now she was breathing with difficulty, and something else was wrong, too, because she was not eating, only drinking lots of water. I suspected kidney. With Zsa-Zsa's reactions to the vet office, though, I knew the panic attack getting her there and on the examining table would kill her. She was too weak to endure it. I decided to let her die at home, where she would want to be.

I thought Zsa-Zsa only had a day or two left on that Fourth of July, She was still with me Friday, the ninth, but still not eating, and breathing with difficulty. A friend at work, to whom I will always be grateful, found a vet who would make house calls. The vet came out that evening and determined that Zsa-Zsa was terminal, with shrunken kidneys as well as lung problems. Zsa-Zsa's heart was still very strong, the vet said. She gave her a shot of steroids to see if that would buy her some time.

It helped her breathing somewhat, and it gave me the weekend to spend petting Zsa-Zsa and fussing over her. Zsa-Zsa still wanted to be petted and stroked. Her legs were getting very wobbly, but she would come to me and purr like a buzz saw as I caressed her.

I called the vet and she came back yesterday morning. I petted Zsa-Zsa as the vet and her assistant gave her the injection that stopped all her breathing problems. Zsa-Zsa died very peacefully and quickly, at home, where she would have wanted to be.

Zsa-Zsa's ashes will be buried in the yard, with a rose bush or azalea bush -- I haven't decided which.

Funky Days

If you're a regular reader, you may have noticed that I've been erratic in (mostly not) posting the past few weeks.

I've been in a funk. I'm going through some awful family stuff I won't even talk about except to say that it has to do with the root of all evil and family jealousies and control issues and all the really fun stuff.

It feels like the negatives in my life are overwhelming the positives. It sucks. It, along with all the usual slings and arrows of life and then some, has thrown me into a real testing of my faith.

I couldn't have written the 'Sanctimonius' story, except that I already had it in my head. I meant to write it a week earlier, but I didn't. I saw Fahrenheit 9/11 on opening night, but couldn't find my voice to say anything about it for a good week.

My voice is coming back a bit. Maybe that means I'm getting through this. I hope so.

Anyway, here's my bit regarding the movie. I wasn't sure if I would like it -- Michael Moore is sometimes a bit over the top. But I did like it. Here's what I got out of it, apart from the stuff you've probably already heard a lot about -- the queasy-making election results, the big lies regarding WMDs, etc.


"Who's Your Daddy?"

Amid all the brouhaha over Fahrenheit 9/11, I thought I'd offer my impressions from the movie.
Let's get this out of the way: Yes, President Bush is bashed mercilessly, but filmmaker Michael Moore just helps Bush bash himself through video clips.
For example, one thing I'll always remember from Fahrenheit 9/11 is Bush in deer-in-headlights panic when he was told about the second plane crashing into the World Trade Center. Poor man, he didn't have anyone to tell him what to do. So he sat there, with a grade-school class, reading a story. He had no clue what else to do. There was no one there to take control of the situation for him.
How presidential. What a world leader.
Here's another thing I'll remember from the movie, and it makes me fond of Michael Moore. It's Moore's love for the people back in his hometown of Flint, Mich. These are the poor people on whose backs this country was built, as Moore points out.
These are the have-nots who see joining the military as the only ticket out of a low- to no-employment economy, and who are shamelessly recruited into service. These kids are the ones who get killed in places like Iraq, while the children of the "haves" avoid military service. Moore found only one congressman with a child in military service.
It's class warfare of the most awful kind. It's cynical exploitation of poor youth.
One young man from Flint shakes his head during an interview. He'd looked at the bombed-out buildings in an Iraqi war zone on television, then looked at the crumbling, boarded-up buildings in Flint. He recognizes the war zone at home.
Juxtapose that image with this one: the contempt George W. shows for these people. Here's a snickering quote from Bush as he addresses a well-heeled crowd at a fund-raiser: "This is an impressive crowd, the haves, and the have-mores. Some people call you the elite; I call you my base."
Ah, yes. Government of and by and to benefit the have-mores. Like your friendly neighbors at Halliburton, its subsidiaries, and the Carlyle Group. Among the companies Carlyle owns are those that make equipment, vehicles and munitions for the U.S. military.
Guess who works for Carlyle? None other than former President Bush and his secretary of state James Baker. How convenient to have such people helping you get defense contracts, especially Bush Senior, who still gets his daily CIA briefings.
These briefings are no doubt very helpful to the Saudis, some of the Bush family's best friends and business associates. The Saudi Arabian ambassador, Prince Bandar, is known around Washington as "Bandar Bush," he's so tight with the Bush family. Earlier in George W.'s career, the Saudis propped him up in various oil companies, which Bush promptly ran into the ground.
Why, as Moore pointed out, do the Saudis need to invest in Texas oil? They don't. They're investing in White House influence through the Bushes. This is something else I'll remember from the movie. And the Saudis own around 7 percent of the United States.
George W. makes $400,000 per year in office. The Saudis have put $1.4 billion into Bush enterprises over the years. As Moore asked, who you gonna think about first when you wake up in the morning — the American people, who pay you $400,000, or the Saudis, who've paid you $1.4 billion? "Who's your daddy?"
There have always been corrupt politicians. There have always been backroom deals. But there's something so calculated, so shameless, so heartless, so low about this administration, an administration that made up a ball of lies to get us into a war in Iraq for the corporate profit of its cronies.
Fahrenheit 9/11 is plenty hot enough to make my blood boil. If I were feeling feistier, I'd say, "I'm ready for the revolution."

The Complaints of Job

Job 23:2-4 (NIV)
Even today my complaint is bitter; his hand is heavy in spite of my groaning. If only I knew where to find him; if only I could go to his dwelling! I would state my case before him and fill my mouth with arguments.


A Cry to God

Where are you oh God who promised me life
then surrounded me with death
Where are you oh God who promised me hope
then dashed it on the stones
Where are you oh God who promised comfort
then left me alone and bereft.
Are you there?
Are you listening?
Do you mock my cries to you?
Or do you even hear them?
Am I just speaking to the wind?
Did I just imagine a God who loves me
because I need you so much?
Where are you where are you
What can I do
Where I can go
What can I do but search for you
beg mercy plead to be where you are
What else is there?

--Pat

Part 6
More of a Short Tale

Trooper Mary Brody swung the state police cruiser out onto the highway, set the cruise control, and adjusted the bulk of her body for maximum comfort. It was a nice day to patrol -- a quiet day in June, little traffic, birds singing.

Her mind drifted. She thought about what she would cook for supper that night. Trooper Brody enjoyed food and she enjoyed thinking about it. Maybe she would go to a movie afterward, or down to the pub where some of her officer-friends gathered for beer.

Trooper Brody was in the zone.

"Jumping Gee-hose-a-phat good Lord!" she exclaimed, slamming on the brakes.

For she had come upon a bizarre sight. On the edge of the right lane stood a man in a frilly, pink robe, bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. She knew it was a man, because the contours of the prominent rear end, pointed toward her through the flimsy pink material, were much too flat and bony to belong to a woman. Hairy, spindly legs emerged from the bottom of the robe.

Trooper Brody pulled the cruiser to the shoulder of the road, got out, adjusting her holster, and approached the man. He was mumbling incoherently and sobbing between gasps for air. He turned as he heard her booted feet on the gravel behind him.

He looked at the bulky figure in the state police uniform and started whining, "No, no, no."

"Aw, God, cover yourself up," said Trooper Brody in disgust. The man's robe was hanging open, and some rather private parts were hanging down below the garter belt.

"I guess I don't need to frisk you," Brody said to the cowering man. "What is your name, and what are you doing here?"

"S-s-sh--Sanctimonius," moaned the man.

"Sanctimonious about what?"

"No, my name is Sanctimonius."

"Ooo-kay. What are you doing out here, in that?

"Someone hid all my clothes." The man's eyes were rheumy, and his face was blotchy beneath all the makeup.

Trooper Brody sighed, then stifled an impulse to giggle. The day was turning out to be more interesting than she'd anticipated. She was definitely going to the pub tonight. She'd have a great story to tell.



Sanctimonius sat in the interview room at the state police station. Someone had given him an orange jumpsuit to replace the pink thing. He felt dull. Lethargic. He sat at the table, staring off into space.

The door opened. A tall, blond man walked in.

"Sherman," he said.

Sanctimonius lifted his head slightly to look at the man.

"Sherman," the man repeated, pulling out a chair and sitting next to Sanctimonius.

"My name is Sanctimonius."

"Sherman," repeated the man softly. "My Lord sent me to you. God Almighty has been talking to you, but you haven't been listening.

"God wants you to know that you are loved. God loves you, Sherman, and wants to bring you healing. Your mother loved you, too, although you didn't see that.

"Sherman, can you turn to God? Can you ask for mercy and forgiveness?"

The man's eyes bored into Sherman. Sherman wondered if he were about to die.

"God help me," Sherman suddenly cried out. He could see the script of his life played out. He could see the bitterness, the anger, the hatred that had controlled him. "God have mercy on my soul."

The blond man's eyes were moist and filled with compassion. His face and hair were vibrant. The vibrancy seemed to spill off, like a solid substance, all around the man.

"Sherman, I bring you God's healing," the man spoke, as he put his hands on Sherman's head.

Sherman felt himself disappear somewhere. It felt as if he were gliding over deep-blue water with a bright-blue sky above. He gulped in great mouthfuls of cool, clean, energizing air, then dove into the water, amazed at his own gracefulness. The water was cool enough to be refreshing, but not cold. This water had a different consistency than any other -- it was slightly syrupy, just enough to make it feel as though it were clinging to him, enveloping him in a way that sea water never had. It felt so good.

Sherman swam to the surface and took another gulp of air. To his surprise, he was back in the interview room. The blond man was just pulling his hands away from Sherman's head, and he was smiling.

"Who are you?" asked Sherman.

"I think you know. It will sink in after a bit." The man stood and placed his hand on Sherman's shoulder.

"Sherman, you will proclaim the word."

A few minutes later, Trooper Brody entered the room. She had a slightly dazed look on her face.

"The examiner said it's okay to release you. He suggested I take you on home. So I will." Brody cocked her head to one side, as if trying to figure out something.

A half-hour later, the cruiser pulled up to Sanctimonius' little house. Trooper Brody looked at Sanctimonius, who had ridden silently in the back seat all the way.

"I'll come in with you and check out the house," the trooper decided.

Sherman slunk in behind her, looking around warily. Trooper Brody checked the closets and drawers, all of which stood open. They were filled with men's shirts, slacks, suits, briefs and socks. Brody made a walk-through of the house, hand on holster. Everything looked normal.

"Well, I'm going to leave you now," she said. "Everything seems in order. I'd suggest you get some sleep."

She headed toward the door. Something made her say, "And you take care, now. God bless."

Sherman removed the orange jump suit and threw it on the floor, then collapsed on the bed. He fell into a deep sleep.

Hours later, he awoke, refreshed, though he had had a very strange dream.

It was a dream, wasn't it? Sherman frowned. He looked around the bedroom, at the open closet, where his clothes hung as they were supposed to. Sherman's eyes scanned the room.

He spied the orange jumpsuit on the floor. Around it, here and there, were bits of pink feathers.