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Monday, October 23, 2023

Cats, Part II

For those of you who read my last post, you might be asking why Doug and I (obvious cat lovers), didn't save Carl-Gus-Bob ourselves and bring him into our home. The answer is Quinn. I don't think our "house" cat has received much publicity in this blog. I'm pretty sure that's how he'd prefer it. But here goes.

Quinn came to us as a kitten twelve years ago when Alex was a freshman in high school. Mrs. Nelson, her Spanish teacher, had a brood of tabbies that needed homes. What young high schooler can resist cute kittens? Alex took two. We didn't argue. (It would good for our puppy to have company!) Alex named the little tabbies Quinn and Ollie. We all quickly fell in love, as any normal human would. Unfortunately, Ollie became a quick victim of his curious nature after crawling into Doug's truck. Needless to say, he didn't live the nine lives he was meant to live. Strangely, Quinn had also crawled into Doug's truck, but somehow survived. (We're not sure if Ollie was actually pushed by his brother. Quinn does does carry a certain "Scar" swagger.)

Quinn has outlived his brother and two other Kramer dogs. Maybe even some hamsters along the way. We're thinking he's got 99 lives. Not only is Quinn a survivor, he's a beast. We've seen him tell other feral cats to "take a hike" with his mean-cat growl. I suspect he's had to give the same scolding to skunks, raccoons and opossums. We don't even see coyotes around here. A friend of mine told me we should be careful that the eagles don't get him. I'm not sure an eagle to take the twenty-pounder. He's our little lion who doesn't hesitate to take severe measures when it comes to mice, birds and ground squirrels. Evidence shows up at our front door. Despite spending an abundance of time outside, he never shows any evidence of getting into a fight. His coat is smooth, his face, flawless. We call him a house cat. He looks like a house cat. But he's very selective about his time inside – usually only wanting inside for on occasional cheek-scratching or potato chip. (He would never lower himself to eat leftovers like the hoodlums back at the farm, but he'll come running at the crackle of a chip bag.)

Needless to say, Quinn is a one-cat show. We didn't even consider introducing him to Carl-Gus-Bob. Quinn might've broken his spirit, or convinced him to take a ride in Doug's truck. But no matter his sadistic, killer instincts, we love the fat, little furball. He doles out his measured affection to both of us, per his schedule, which of course warms our hearts and makes us laugh. Here's to Quinn and another 99 lives.

Tuesday, October 17, 2023

The Cat Whisperer

My husband runs a cat house. 

Feral cats come from far and wide to take shelter in Doug's machine shed at the old home place. We don't mind. Unlike most people, we admit to liking cats. We find them funny. We appreciate their killer instincts when it comes to rats and snakes. And while I adore dogs, we've had some tough luck in the last couple of years. It's the type of tough luck that rips your heart out and vow never to get another dog.

So our attention has turned to cats. (Empty nest syndrome? Maybe.)

Anyway, we just completed our first formal adoption. 

In July, Doug came across a small litter of kittens in the shed. One particular kitten, the scrawniest of them, had a certain intrepid sense about him. Rather than hide from the humans, he'd come jaunting out of the weeds to say, "Well hello there!" The rest of the litter stayed more aloof, only inching out whenever Doug dumped out some cat food he lovingly purchased (and still purchases) at the feed store.  As you'd guess, this seemed to solidify our new friendship with scrawny cat. But Doug gave me very specific warning. "Don't you go picking it up. We want them all to stay wild."

I nodded my head. But wondered how I long I could hold out. This kitten was so freaking cute! But I obliged. A week later I learned that someone whom I live with was being a hypocrite. He had done the deed. Doug had picked him up. And he named him. Bob, the Cat.

Bob became increasingly curious as harvest began. He had a keen interest in learning all about the workings of the combine. And apparently, Doug's machinery had some real nice places to nap. Well, you could see where this story might end.

Bob's future was beginning to look precarious. So, we made a simple plea to my parents–– always the bleeding hearts when it comes to saving an animal. Suffice to say, it didn't take any arm-twisting before Mom said, "Okay. Bring him over Sunday." 

After some critical analysis, my parents decided to give Bob a new home and a new identity. Bob became Carl and gained two sisters: June (the dog) and May (the other cat). Mom had argued to name the kitty Gus to stay with the calendar theme (Augustus), but my father is the master of naming pets. So, Carl it was.  (The kids call him Carl-Gus-Bob, which also has a nice ring.)

Carl now lives a life of luxury, no longer having to fight off skunks or other animals for food. He doesn't even need to fight off June or May, because, honestly, they haven't quite taken a liking to the little devil just yet. (Don't worry, he doesn't even recognize this fact.) So, what's the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Except it's a happy ending for an adorable kitten whose future was endangered.

And if the mood happens to strike, and you find yourself wanting to make prey out of yarn, and tell stories of the cute things your new cat did like crawl into a basket, you now know who to call.

Carl Gus Bob!


Thursday, September 14, 2023

Yay for Sports!

Mom's love for the Iowa Hawkeyes is likely the reason I wanted to go to Iowa City. She was a fan! I was always impressed and amused how much my mother knew about sports when I was young. She was passionate about watching football and basketball –– of the collegiate variety. I was more of a "what's the score" type of gal as I walked to the kitchen to get a snack.

Fast forward to the present. As everyone does, I eventually became my mother. I'd like to say I became a true sports fan as a freshman in college when I went to my first football game. I did become a fan. A fan of tailgating. It was a rarity for me to make it through an entire game in my college years. I even had class with football and basketball players. They were pleasant and normal students, just like me. I certainly didn't feel starstruck. I certainly didn't feel a need to ask them about their upcoming games or talk to them about a great play they made. I was nothing like a certain middle-aged woman who met Caitlyn Clark in a bathroom in Iowa City last winter and didn't want to let her leave. (That woman was me.)

I know so much about sports now, it's almost ridiculous. Ask me what a Nickleback is. I'll tell you that it's not just a popular band from the 2000s. Let me explain to you the pick and roll. I can! So sure, my husband has tutored me on these things, but not only do I understand a few  positions and plays, I enjoy watching them! As long as the team we're watching is executing and winning. And by team, I mean the Hawkeyes.

Has there always been a sports fan within me? Lying dormant through my formative years?

My sister-in-law and I have discussed this phenomenon, because something similar happened to her at a certain point in her life. This phenomenon being a sudden and sincere interest in that world of sports in which our husbands have long been a part of.

Here's the sweet and simple explanation:

Kids.

Once you have kids, you become a cheerleader –– no matter if they love sports or dance or drumming or singing or drawing. When your kid enters a competition, you're all in. Your heart is a pitter-patter, and you want nothing more than for them to succeed. To win! And of course, you're heartbroken if they don't. Probably more heartbroken than they are. But it's a mother's job to cheer on her kids no matter what. I would argue it's a father's job as well. From my experience, however, a father prefers coaching over cheerleading. Whether cheering or coaching on your children, it all seems to come to a halt when they graduate high school. The calendar frees up. Laundry is done in, like, one evening. And you can only watch the same movies over and over again so many times.

So, what better way to fill that newly-drilled hole in your heart? Sports! Not only does it seem to give you purpose by cheering on a team that needs you, but it gives you a compelling reason to shop for fan gear. And if you're lucky? Your team will never graduate.

Go Sports!



Thursday, August 31, 2023

The List that Keeps Giving

I'm on a stay-at-home vacation this week, so lists rule! There's nothing quite like the feeling of crossing something off your to-do list. My intention this week was to get some stuff done: organize, weed the flower beds, edit my novel! It's Thursday, so time to take inventory of my accomplishments:

  1. Weeded flower beds. Pretty easy job in a drought.
  2. Organized one junk drawer. The main junk drawer that is. Found four sharpies. Score!
  3. Finished Season 4 of Stranger Things. Whew. Time-consuming. Emotionally draining. But completely awesome!
  4. Started Season 4 of Modern Family. Laughing should always be on a to-do list.
So, the week is running out and here I am, blogging instead tackling the furnace room or a closet I had my sights on. Truthfully, my purpose in organizing those areas was to find our wedding video to get it transferred to digital before our thirtieth anniversary (next August). When Mom told me she has a copy, my drive to organize areas drifted a bit.

I truly do believe in the power of lists though. Anyone remember Phil Dunphy mentioning how his wife, Claire, can create to-do lists that last for days? I'm with Claire. The only problem is my hubby doesn't usually see the need to do these pesky household tasks unless it has a monetary value associated. "If it doesn't make us money, why do it?"  I should say that to him the next time he feels amorous.

I can be a bit sneaky in my approach in getting Doug to do something. Sometimes it's appealing to his need to be challenged. "Think you can mix me up a cocktail of weed killer?" He's on it.  Sometimes it's appealing to his sense of fun. "We should refresh the basement. Maybe add a bar." We conquered that in a few months. Sometimes it's appealing to his sense of adventure. "How many limestones do you think we can dig up in the cattle yard?" My Indiana Jones found so many we were able to recreate Stonehenge. And sometimes, if it's possible, I find a way to make it a smart financial decision. "Couldn't we write-off a new garage if you use it for agricultural purposes?" 


Our son figured out how to manipulate the list process at a young age. I usually left a list of chores for each of the kids in the summer. One day, when I was cleaning out a drawer, I found an old "list" notebook and came across something interesting – and just a bit off. It was the kids' lists with a few normal chores like filling the dishwasher, vacuuming and cleaning the toilets. But Alex had more on hers. And she had a special task in her column: Play video games with Cole. It even really resembled my handwriting. I'm not sure it worked, but I liked the thought behind it – integrating normal chores with the thing he really wanted done. And having Mom sign off on it.

I have just a few hours left of this stay-cation to get things done. (Tomorrow we leave for Iowa City to perform the critical job of cheering on our Hawks at the season opener.) So, there's still a furnace room and closet to conquer. But there's also a cat that needs petting. And it's almost lunchtime. And I wouldn't mind playing a little piano. And hey, when I return to work next week, I'll be armed to discuss my main accomplishment for the week: Finishing Stranger Things. Kidding. Sort of. Truly, and not kidding one bit, the best thing I did this week was spending time with my best friend: Doug. I'll never cross that task off the list.

Monday, August 14, 2023

A Little Place Called Napa

We went. We drank. And unfortunately, we left. But the experience was unforgettable – except for those times when we imbibed too much, of course.

Doug and I have never been huge wine drinkers. Blame youthful experiences with Mad Dog and Night Train. But some time ago, after watching Sideways, we became fascinated with the idea of visiting the California wine country. Since we like to take our kids on vacation, we decided to wait until they turned of age. They were seven and three when that movie came out, so we had a few years to wait.

Finally, the time had come! Four Seasons Travel gave us some amazing guidance and set us up on a Top Five trip. Doug, me, Alex, Cole and his sweet girlfriend Anna. The weather was perfect. The people were welcoming. The towns were quaint. The food was spectacular. The vineyards were bucolic. And the wine? Well, the wine was not Night Train to say the very least.

We all came with agendas to learn more about wine and in the process increase our sophistication index. (Alex and Anna didn't really need this, but the rest of us sure did.) Cole had other agendas though. As a matter of fact on the way to Napa, he let it slip that he couldn't leave California without eating and In-N-Out burger. Ironically, "in-n-out" was how Cole took his wine on our first full day of touring. Not that the wine wasn't perfection, but he couldn't bear to watch his sister let her portions go un-drank. It had always been an important lesson in the Kramer household, not to let anything go to waste. Especially alcohol. Luckily, Cole's unleashing of the Cabernet's on our first full day didn't slow him down the rest of the week.

A day trip to Calistoga provided quite a memorable experience for Doug and I. The kids shopped while we made appointments for a "Mudslinger" at Dr. Wilkenson's Backyard Resort and Mineral Springs. This treatment involves slipping into a large tub of warm, bubbling mud (think Shrek's jacuzzi). Completely naked. Mind you, I don't even like my husband to see me naked, so I can't deny I was a little self-conscious. But there was only the attendant, Doug and me. So, I got comfortable in a hurry. Amazingly comfortable. The mudbath was followed by a natural spring bath with special soothing salts. Our old bodies were as loose as a goose, if goose are indeed loose. After this little slice of heaven, we wrapped up in a towel and were directed to the sauna which was a staggering 300 degrees. I only managed to remain in there for about thirty seconds. Doug lasted longer. He had been training in 300 degree grain bins. Nonetheless, the spa was amazing. 

We did lots of great things. We joined a wine club, of course. We drove an hour north of Calistoga to visit a redwood forest that wasn't THE Redwood forest. But we snapped a few nice and weird photos there. We went on an e-biking tour to more vineyards. We drank delicious olive oil. We saw Barbie. We did more wine tastings. We ate In-N-Out burgers. I bought the book Sideways that I'm ashamed to admit I didn't know was a book before the movie. And on our last full day, we picnicked all afternoon in a picture-perfect winery eating charcuterie and blasting through five bottles of vino. As we chatted about the wonderful vacation, I admitted that I learned an important lesson that week. If we want the hubby to try new things, bring the girlfriend. While I can hardly bring up an idea without it being dismissed within the first five seconds, Anna's ideas were met with "Sure -– that sounds fun." (Thus the ebiking and Barbie outings.) 

I loved almost everything about Napa. And one of things that struck me most was the agricultural identity, like our community. Maybe not exactly like ours. Grapes are a little more charming than corn. Just a little. Nonetheless, the residents of wine country carries a great love for their land and what it produces. Now, that's something we Iowa folk can relate to.

Cheers! Salute! Prost!

The mythical Poseidon Winery!

Tuesday, August 9, 2022

Hello Neighbor

We live on a dead-end road, the only inhabited house on our stretch of 1800th Street. There's not much traffic this time of year. The postman. UPS. Fed Ex. An occasional farmer crop-checking. An occasional kid coming home to visit.  Needless to say, I've become quite accustomed to our privacy. Maybe a little too comfortable.

Almost every morning, I get up as soon as there's just a bit of sunlight to go for a jog or a walk. When I get back home, I love to soak up every bit of morning outside. The slight cool breeze. The chirping birds. The sunrise over Earling's steeple. So, with my ear buds on, I lay on our driveway and stretch and stare at the blue skies above. Sometimes I twist into some yoga moves to crack my back. Sometimes I grab my cat and set him on my stomach to give him love. Sometimes I pray. And sometimes, I get into the mood to do dead bug abdominal moves. You know the kind where your legs are raised and you tap your feet to the ground? It's also known as a dance move which can be a high point at a wedding, for guests who like to laugh at the weirdos laying in the middle of the floor.

Well, imagine my surprise when I sat up the other morning after some dead bugs to see Larry, one of our neighboring farmers, doing an early morning check of his crops. Hi Larry. Don't mind me. I'm just laying on the driveway. Like an idiot, dead-bugging it.

Last night I went out for a walk because it wasn't 105 degrees outside. I slipped on my ear buds to 10,000 Maniacs. (After a weekend of seeing college pals, I was in the mood for some alternative classics to relive my youth.) And there's just something about Natalie Merchant that makes me want to wail along and dance. So, on my walk, in which no one in the world would see me, I sang and danced to These Are The Days. It's a song you HAVE to sing and dance to.  I mean, Natalie sings about about shafts of light hitting your face! What can you do? So, I'm skipping along, swaying my hands when I hear the sound of Doug's ATV coming from behind. I turn around, hand on hip, trying to be cutesy for my hubby, still swaying to the song.

But it's not my hubby. It's Phil, another neighboring farmer, on his four-wheeler. He waves politely, as if I'm not a fruitcake.

So, here's my confession and apology to my neighbors. I am not crazy. I just forgot that we're not completely isolated here. So please, please don't send our freaky neighborhood turkey vultures my way.

You know what's funny? This past weekend, as we attended a college friend's wedding, even after a few cocktails, I didn't dare show off my dance skills. Too embarrassing! And these are people who saw me do some pretty stupid stuff in the day. Like practice my auditions for an MTV VJ. Or strike a pose to Madonna's Vogue. Almost every weekend.

Apparently, I needed the neighbors at the dance. THEN, I could've shown off my wonderful dead bug...while others killed it with their Humpty moves.

With Preacher/DJ John & the Ultimate Usher Dom.

Monday, July 4, 2022

A Short Story on Independence Day

 Last week Doug and I traveled to Denver to attend Pride with our daughter, Alex. It was fascinating, fun and a wonderful celebration of people of all identities. Not everyone has the luxury of having a space where you feel safe and loved. But love and kindness abounded, at least for that weekend in Denver.

Beyond Pride, we had another interesting interaction last weekend as our Uber driver, Mahad, took us out to eat. He was a young man from Sudan. He had a soccer shirt on, so we obviously had a lot in common. Like the clueless, American binge watcher soccer mom I am, I asked him if he ever watched Ted Lasso. Of course, he didn't know what I was talking about.  Then I switched gears and asked him what brought him to the United States. "This!" he explained––the money and opportunity. He had a little girl and a pregnant wife in Africa. And he could support them so much better with the money he made here. He talked about how he missed them and couldn't wait until they came and visited him. Then I asked a question in which I was a little nervous to hear the response. I asked him how he liked the United States. And his answer? "100% love it." The answer shocked both Doug and I a bit, as we constantly hear the depressing news of racism and divisiveness in our country, which I have no doubt is real. But it was small breath of fresh air to hear this young African man talk about how safe he felt and how much opportunity he had here.

As we celebrate the 4th of July, I hope we can remember we're still a young country trying to sort out the ideals of democracy and equality for all. We have our challenges, for sure. But it's stories like Mahad's, a grateful man looking to build a good life for his family, that should remind us what we stand for and give us hope––for individuals of all kind.

Happy 4th Everyone!