The Gift

California weather differs from the rest of the world's climates. When you live here you realize only two seasons, summer and winter, reside in this state. March and October serve as bridge months cycling in the new and phasing out the old.

I walked the American River's south side a week ago and felt the change in the air, just east of Gristmill. It was not the first time I had ventured into and along the nature paths since my move back to the region. I share it frequently with one of my best friends here in Northern California, Kathy. The experience of the walk along the trails with the crisp morning air, the sounds of scurrying wildlife and the fresh scents of the river trails after a recent rain shook me a week ago. I felt a presence, and a longing, gentle-powerful and bittersweet enveloping me.   

This spot on the map will always hold a special place in my mind and heart.This was the domain of King Putt, my beloved feline companion for 17 years. He went by a lot of names, most were very affectionate. Baudelaire was his given name, Bo Kitty, the most common. Bo, Putter, Turd, The Gift, The Big Guy, Bad Kitty Bo and That Cat all had their moments on any given day over the years. They all fit at any given time and place.

On Saturday morning I found out in an e-mail Bo Kitty had died. I guess it happened fairly quickly. So quickly that a call to me on the Thursday he passed was out of the question given the circumstances. The housemaid had come for the day, and Bo Kitty would normally vacate the interior for backyard calm at the maid service arrival. I learned The Big Guy was sprawled on the slate entry way when my ex got home. She tried moving him but he was in acute distress crying and growling in pain when touched or moved. He never growled the entire time I knew him, so I understood this was a terrible sign. The emergency vet gave the grim diagnosis and Vicky ended his acute agony.

So quickly life can change, or end.

The very toughest part of my moving back to the Sacramento area after ten years exiled in Bakersfield was not taking Putter back with me. I could not bear to force another move on my old warrior comrade into the totally inside quarters of condo life after he finally found happiness in a Bo Kitty friendly neighborhood at a house on Wood Lane in Bakersfield. And so, he stayed behind, and I cried when I hugged and kissed him for the last time in mid-March of this year.

He was 17 and deaf. He still looked good, except his inner eyelids were beginning to creep up and stick causing vision problems and disorientation for some lengthy moments during many days this past winter. He still had his appetite. He still cruised the grounds and slept in his favorite spots inside and out. He and I slept together on the couch and guest bed the last six months I lived there. 

I know everyone has, or has had, The Best Pet ever in their lifetime. And I'm sure they were the best pet ever for all of you, but they were not, and could never be Bo Kitty, The King Putt of the American River.

He was a gift to a young bride back in the day when love was still in bloom and life offered just the promises of happy days in soft blankets of wedded bliss. She wanted a pure bred kitten, a Maine Coon. She had done her research, as she always did, and found a highly reputable breeder. I can still visualize the house in unincorporated Sacramento near the Yolo County-Sacramento County border where we went on our search. The huge cages where the stunning 20-plus pound stud cats were housed, the cacophony of howls and barks from the many dogs and cats also on the property, and the quiet bedrooms where mommy cats of the breed looked after their recently born kittens.  It was in a small bedroom with three adorable little fur-balls and their mom we spied The Gift. My young lady conferred with me, but it was her choice, and he would be hers in a few weeks time. The breeder allowed us to see the kitten's father, Ice Man, in a closed off room. This was no cat to mess with, all balls and one of the most visually stunning silver mackerel marked cats I had ever seen.

I can't remember how much I spent to obtain Baudelaire, which is the name Vicky chose for her kitten. Maybe it was $500 to acquire this little pure bred Maine Coon, the only pure cat breed (by the way) originating in North America. It was a terribly small price when all is said and done. Since it was early April, The Gift, she assured me, would take care of both her birthday and wedding anniversary gifts for that year. A thoughtful gesture, and one I would remember over all these years.

He arrived with papers and restrictions from the breeder. He had to be neutered, which was no problem. He should be only a house cat and could not be let outside without a carrier or leash. Sure thing. He met our wonderful Sheltie,  Bosco, and they became fast friends from their first moment together when they rubbed noses. Bo lasted as an indoor cat for about two weeks. I made the mistake of carrying him out to our side lawn in the back yard away from the pool, and plunked him on the grass where he joyfully explored strange new sights and smells and was immediately stung by a hornet hovering near some clover.

Well, that did not go so swell. I was in the doghouse for a spell and the little kitty (unfazed by the sting after a short bit) no longer would ever be satisfied with staying inside. His will was indomitable. And so we put in a pet door, and Bo Kitty went to claim his kingdom.

As it turned out, he conquered me first. He chose me as his cat servant extraordinaire. He played me like a virtuoso plays the instrument of his choosing, and I loved every moment- even through all the worry, guilt, anxiety, and prolonged separations life dishes out to creatures both large and small when they find themselves inextricably bound together by the fates of choices made. And so it was after a time Bo Kitty had become my cat. It was not what I intended, but so much of life turns out to be a series of unintended consequences as I think about it. Choices made and outcomes result, and seldom do they go as planned. I think a Scottish poet a long time ago said it better.

Bo lived his first 6 years on a street right along the American River with Vicky and I and my two sons (hers  as well for a goodly period of time). He grew along with a few little orphan kitties Vicky nurtured and adopted and our precious Bosco pup. The houses across the street abutted the trails and levies coursing the river banks. The river and those banks became Putt's kingdom. Our home his castle.

I won't bore you with long stories of Bo's prowess I will only state a few facts. I've seen him jump off rooftops at nearly 30mph and jump over a seven foot fence like it was nothing while heading home when he was being chased. I've seen him leap off a couch cushion to land 12feet high on a living room window sill. I've seen him carrying on a small fence ledge a large jack-rabbit in his mouth while two rottweilers jumped, growled and barked at him below trying to knock him off his wooden perch path position. I've seen him carry in his mouth while crossing our street a live rattle snake, and kill it with one bite in my front yard. My neighbor at the time, Don, had come running over with his shovel to kill the snake and just looked at me in disbelief as he witnessed the end of the rattler's life. "Won't need this shovel after all', Don said. I can't count the number of rats, voles, birds and other game who all wandered into his kingdom and never made it out again. I have discovered on my old coffee table two fresh rabbit feet left as my gift. He was an amazing specimen of all that is feline.

But more than physical feats, the cat had a regal and serene quality to him that nearly every person who he encountered marveled at. Don and Taiko, Jake and Melissa, Howard and Mary Lee, Dean and Linda, Merle, Jerry and other passersby all paid homage to King Putt as he would sprawl on the top of any of our vehicles parked in our driveway as they walked past our home. "That is some cat." For those who came into our home for some parties, poker or a quiet get together and got to see him up close and personal on his cat tree or sprawled on his couches the refrain was the same. "That is some cat."

Yes, he was. He was still some cat after living in hell for six years on University Avenue. Events of family and business had forced a move from our home in Sacramento. Homes in Bakersfield were selling in seconds, (remember the boom before the eventual bust?) and I got the best one I could find at the time. But, it was no prize. Much busier through street, alleys, intense heat, very few trees and a not very cat friendly town conspired against us as daily reminders of this new opposite lifestyle we now all shared. But time skipped on by to its peculiar cadence, and Bo finally got a reprieve from the indoor prison.  He moved with us all to a place where his old frame and curiosity could enjoy. His last five years were spent examining nearly a third of an acre in cat friendly surroundings with his personal water tank, the pool again, too quench his thirst. It wasn't the river, but it would serve.    

As I sit and churn these memories for you on this evening, I am reminded of a November night some 15 years ago when it was pouring rain and Bo Kitty had been absent for a full day. I had been out  calling his name for hours. Some of the less complimentary names Bo has acquired over the years were certainly uttered. I'd gone through the river access walkway (a path Bo never took) looking for him several times. No luck. I told myself this last attempt would be the final time to check on him. And who do I see turning along the curb drenched to a point he was hardly recognizable? The Putt, looking like a shriveled dish rag trotting into my outstretched arms. He looked pathetic, a scrawny bony mass of hair matted tightly against his skin. I took him inside. Vicky and I toweling him off and tucking him onto our bed. Finding my side a little soggy through the comforter when we turned in for the night, I put a throw on the bed and placed the cat tucked behind my legs at just below the knee after I squirmed inside the covers.

 I felt his back pressed against my legs wriggling and tensed for quite awhile before I dozed into a decent sleep. I woke up, and miraculously Bo had transformed back into his regal self. He was there through the night like he had been on the couch for all these years. Calm, contented and quietly urging that I move quickly to the food station for treats and a meal. He was tweaking my big toe with the edge of his nails in that playful but insistent way only he possessed.

I miss you greatly, my dear old friend. Vicky promised me a thoughtful reminder of you with your paw imprint to go with my memories of our lives together. You remain always, The Gift.

      

      

    




  

Wine Country and a dysfunctional family functioning

Mozart's ghost, and the Maestro's 24th piano concerto, floats above the carpet here in early May. The sun shines on my little hummingbird and her nest outside my patio. She became super mommy recently and now has two hungry mouths to feed while fending off the evil scrub jay in the neighborhood. I love hummingbirds, and more so now than ever with no fur-balls to attend to these days. To see such a small frail being attack so much larger birds in the hood with the ferocity of a lioness while protecting her little nest and babies brings a sense of  joy and wonderment to me this spring. Dr. Evil Jay poses no threat to Ms. Austin Powerful Humming Bird in her green winged costume of streaked magenta plumes. She too fast, he too low and slow. Hooray!

I've also got a pair of little finches busy nest building, and getting things ready for a few more sparkling finches singing to me the day through. Almost feels like zippity-do-dah around these parts this month. The days have been unusually warm, which I quite like by the way, and the evenings cooling down to nice sleeping temps, which I love by the way. Climate quality makes Northern California the best place on earth. Period. It certainly helps to have good friends and fine family around to enjoy it.

I have two sons, Patrick and Winston, who both have aided their old dad immeasurably this past year. But, I remember what being in the early 30s and late 20s was all about a few decades ago. "See ya soon!" "Gotta run." "Busy, busy, busy." "Love you, but can't spend much time with you." All natural, all normal, all the time for all time. We get together at times convenient for their very busy schedules.

I had, however, forgotten April among all the above exposition of current reality. April is birthday month and a major holiday month for Thrashers. Maybe for you, too? The old family could get together for the first time in over 20 years to celebrate a birthday, which we did. We also all got together on the 20th of April to celebrate Easter. Gadzooks! Two sons and mom and dad all together for two meals with no drinking, no arguments and no fuss. Just two fabulous days in April where for a few hours years rolled away and smiles filled the spaces.

After all this family harmony, I had to ask the mom, even if it broke the good-vibe spell, if she would care to take a trip with the dad to the wine country for a day in the not too distant future.

I could take the rejection. I had a lunch date the following week with a dear friend back in NorCal from his arduous Florida years, and there were birds on the patio to watch, but blow me over with a hummingbird feather, she said yes.

I cannot thank her enough. We both had a wonderful time just touring Napa Valley for a day. We had good eats at really terrific restaurants and talked seamlessly about past and present. She bought a lunch and I bought the wine. She says she's saving her bottles of Chardonnay for Thanksgiving. I know I'll drink my blend, or Meritage "pronounced like heritage" said our young tour guide, well before Thanksgiving. But, I'll bring a fine bottle for the event, guaranteed.

The week ended with a little shower, and my little hummingbird friend sitting patiently on her pine cone nest protecting her youngsters. No sight of scrub jays to be seen as the sun warmed trees and grounds after the modest rainfall. I'll miss them when she and hers take flight and leave the nest for good, but maybe a little bird will pay a visit down time's road during a special month when the sun shines and a dysfunctional family that functions every once in awhile gets together for something special.

Thanks for the visit. Until the next chapter, peace in our lifetime.  

They Ain't Heavy They're My Albums

Of The Girl glides through the room. Eddie and the Jam sounds good tonight. I'm busy re-alphabetizing all the LPs in the orange crates that made the final cut to Antelope, CA. Getting the place acoustically Thrasherized has been a longer task than I first thought it would be. When I think about it, about everything I do these days takes a lot longer than my brain registers initially.

 Just a little over a month ago, getting off the U-Haul truck and seeing my two sons easily haul the various book cases, boxes of dishes-books-art-memorabilia and the other various sundry items destined to reside in Condo-land until they came to the orange crated record albums made me smile. Yes, boys, they're heavy and they're fragile. Easy does it.

In many respects, the crates and their contents are the barnacles I carry with me like an old whale does with his necessary parasites. This year, and maybe by another circle around the sun, I might finally get them all transferred into my little pc with the itunes signature. I'm not sure what I'll do with most of them when I complete the task, but the goal is to transfer all the songs worth preserving on the discs to the current pc format in this era of of all-things-digital.

I started this journey back in 1975 when I felt after my first quarter at Cal I was staying up north and I needed my records with me to keep me sane during the long hours of school work and party work, or networking old style. Anyway, I hauled a pair of massive speakers, my tube amplifier, reel-to-reel tape deck, cassette deck and turntable with over 500 records to Berkeley to start this lifelong tune-travel adventure in America's first hatchback, the all powerful AMC Gremlin. I remember the tape decks and turntable riding shotgun with me up I-5 and being a bit worried about the weight in the car, but made the trek without a hitch.

Funny, remembering so vividly now a trip 39 years ago as the first of what has just become the 14th move for many of the albums still in my little collection. Each move brought me to new places meeting new faces along this twisted life journey of mine.

Each stop on the route was an easy set up of uniform RCA plugs, antennas and grounding wire into the jacks on the back of the trusty amplifier to get the sounds going. Not this last one. Call it the law of averages catching up to me, or just time marking decrepitude on the calendar for Johnny in 2014, but this latest audio/video hook up gave me fits from the outset.

I never lost a piece of electronic gear during a move. Lost several this time around. I always pack my electronics with great care . Did the same this time, making a separate trip strictly to bring computer and sound equipment in the comfy almost-new Hyundai sedan. The key equipment rides inside the cab, the more durable goods in the trunk on top of the clothes packed in big 45 gallon plastic bags to keep them clean and tidy, if a bit wrinkled at the end of the line. Makes a great shock absorber, or so the thinking goes, riding on all that cotton, wool and synthetic fiber.  

First night trying to get the internet going was cake, or so I assumed after making the very modest and easy hook-up of coax and telephone (ethernet) cables to the router. All was in the correct place, even took out the instructions and followed them to the letter. No connectivity. Hmmmm. Had to call my son. Came by checked the work, and then asked if I had contacted Comcast to activate the account. Hmmmm? In all my years of doing this the cable or phone was on after you established an account and you just plugged in using the jacks installed in the building. Not here. Dialed Comcast and set up the account and, voila, internet connectivity. Thanks, Winston!

Several days later after box unpacking, washing dishes forever, setting up/taking down wall art, rearranging furniture and generally nesting the place I was ready to watch some television and hooking up monitor, a/v receiver, speakers and dvd player was the order of the day.  No worries, even mixed a vodka cranberry cocktail to kick off the festivities in the early afternoon

PC Monitor will not work with either the amplifier or the cable box. Wrong pin socket size. Ooops. Have to stop at number one on the vodka-cran. Hmmm. Shopping now becomes the order of the day for a new monitor and cables. Head to Best Buy and get a friendly sales guy who I explain what is needed and he gets me a nice Samsung 32 inch television. Lots of connectivity in back. I also purchase a new Samsung Blue Ray DVD player to match my new tv.

While wandering the Best Buy aisles I run across a Sony turntable clearance priced that will plug directly into a pc via a USB connection. I decide this will be a great benefit in my new smaller space, which will allow me to directly record my vinyl right onto my hard drive. My old method required two pcs. One to upload the records and burn the CDRs and the second to upload the newly burned discs as MP3/MP4A digital files for pc and apple itunes play. I back the songs up on a terrabite unit in case my computer has a stroke. I'm a genius, and very lucky to have stumbled onto such a bargain.

Get home, and my genius status gets immediately revoked. The new television will produce no sound through my receiver and speakers. The only sound is through tinny sounding speakers built into the television.The cables the sales guy at Best Buy sold me are mostly worthless, because as I find out through the Samsung website the model television I was sold has only input jacks, no output jacks. Grrrr.

I decide to check my receiver before going back to Best Buy to swap for a different model, which of course, will cost a bit more. I plug in my fm antenna and dial up the tuner with headphones plugged in. No sound. I discover a loose bit of plastic on the floor and note my headphone 1/4" adapter plug has broken. I'm not having much luck, and decide to go to Fry's Electronics to look for a receiver, and will swap the television following this purchase back at Best Buy. I'll shelve the old receiver until I can figure out if it's actually kaput, or just riddled with demented guy bad juju.

Find the perfect solution for around $400 with a Bose unit that will serve as both sound system for television and DVD player, and act as the monitor stand to boot. The best part- it fits perfectly into my little wood entertainment center that came with my condo unit. I swap the television the following day at Best Buy. Thank the fates these new monitors are very light. If this was 10 years ago I would have herniated to death lifting all this electronic shit around for two days running. I'm now in gear with my video part of the home entertainment equation. Or so I thought. Beautiful DVD Blue Ray pictures and sound, but no cable signal coming through. Argggh. Call Winston to come and check. "Have you called Comcast?" "We did that last week."  "You might want to call and see if your cable has been activated."

Called and that was the ticket. Apparently you have to call to activate both sides of your Comcast package. Who thought that great idea up? A fucking marketing asshole, that's who. Oh well. Finally have the full audio/video meal ticket in place in John's Condo Hideaway. Thanks, Winston, for your patience and good sense. You did not get it from me.

So I now have two beautiful nightstands in my boudoir on either side of my bed. They are soundless Infinity 100 speakers from High Fidelity's golden age. A night lamp sits on one and my ancient Chinese Gong sits on the other. My receiver was toast. Still can't figure out what happened, but sometimes shit just happens. I have a new turntable that does work perfectly, but it took me a few days to figure the software out, and I did not have to bother my youngest son. The LPs sound great through my Sticks speakers driven by my pc.

The whole process took two weeks, and cost me about a grand. In every other move it would have taken two hours and cost me a neck ache. But, that's progress for you with competing electronic companies utilizing every weird type of connecter device for every new fangled gizmo that comes into our lives to make life easier.    

Thanks for stopping by for a read. Until next time, put Patsy Cline's Sweet Dreams on the turntable.





     

New Daze

All the unpacked boxes left my condo this week. The photos and memorabilia sit and hang in their new spots on different furniture and walls. The dishes, glasses, cutlery and kitchen aid utensils nestle in new cupboards and drawers. As I look at them in their new surroundings I find nearly all come from the area I've moved back to, just a 10 year void of lost to find the right place to show themselves off. Most of them were made to feel uncomfortable in the houses I occupied in Bakersfield, even the few old family photos of the dearly departed DNA providers.

I meant to write quite a bit about the process of Splitsville as it was unfolding in December and January. However, my ex voiced her discomfort at seeing my thought process in print at the time, and I was busy collecting my shit and getting new a place many miles away from the location where my immediate familial woes haunted me daily. And, maybe that was a good thing. Gives a guy a little perspective on matters, which helps avoid those instantaneous outbursts that always seem to come back and bite with ferocity.

Now, nearly 300 miles removed from the old homestead and the sentient beings I cared for during a lost 10 years in the southern San Joaquin Valley, nestled in my new modern facility here in Sacramento County with all the requisite appointments I dust off the old blog today.

I got lucky. In early January a chance hook-up at a mobile park facility in Rocklin, very close to my oldest son's apartment where I was crashing at night after spending the days searching for a new place to live, provided me a fabulous real estate agent.  I thought the sign in front of the mobile home was an office sign for a Century 21 real estate agent. The sign was much larger than most of the others planted before the properties in the park that were for sale, and I was finding trying out various agents by phone to meet up with at the many locations I had scouted was becoming more problematic and less fruitful by the day. I was getting low on patience, and decided to drive over to that office and meet this agent to handle my buyer's side of this business.

As I got out of the car and walked up to the mobile home a grey haired gentleman greeted me and put away his rake. He asked if I had come to see the place. I immediately realized my mistake in thinking this was an office, and that this was just another older mobile home on the market. Quandary. What to do now? I decided to go with the flow and take the tour.

Charlie showed me his landscaped yard with very large granite stones planted surrounding mature and well trimmed trees with the view of the park's community pool and the lush vegetation highlighting the western view from his porch. The porch was sturdy and level, constructed of solid wood planking. Charlie had done the work by himself, was good with tools and justifiably proud of getting the porch right. It was pleasant.

We went inside and took a look at his kitchen work and a large room right off the porch he always wanted as a bedroom with windows that offered just the right amount of breeze to cool off the hot summer days the valley is known for. That bedroom was never going to happen, he mentioned, now that he had to move to Wyoming and care for an ailing family member where his wife was currently doing the duty.  That was my cue to let him know that caring for an aged father was what probably helped bring my marriage to an inglorious end and why I was here searching for a new spot in the sun. Charlie commiserated. He'd been through divorce.

As we kicked around the problems of being responsible we entered a very large living room. You could tell a lot of the furniture had already been moved out by the imprints left in the carpet from where they sat for years. No amount of vacuum cleaner bristles motoring over that carpet was going to bring the spring back in those fibers. In the corner of the room I spied a banjo and a small amplifier, and offered up how difficult a stringed instrument the banjo was for me to play when I tried many years ago. All of a sudden we were discussing our guitars, old places and faces we both knew.

Charlie was a pro player, skilled in every Chet Atkins lick and then some. I've played for most of my life with a few friends and on my lonesome, but always stuck with it and always felt great whenever I played. He showed me his pride and joy, two top-of-the-line Gretsch Chet Atkins models from the 1950s that looked brand new and yet has obviously been played thoroughly over the years. His hands, rough from wood and mason work over the years still glided over the frets and strings as he showed off some fine chops. He let me play the two for a bit, and I fumbled and stumbled showing my little pulls, hammers and modest understanding of the Mel Bay chord book.

Had a great time in the little over an hour I spent with Charlie in his place, but had to go. He told me to contact his agent, DJ, and that the price on the place was flexible. Sometimes you don't want to think too hard on things. When the fates show you clear signals you just follow those signposts and you'll be alright. Here was a musician (house-flipper when a money crunch appeared on the scene) with an agent named DJ talking to a lost soul from Tower Records who had been a deejay in a galaxy far away now trying to find a new home.

I made the call to DJ, who offered to meet me on the following day at the mobile home park in Rocklin. One of the best calls I've ever made. We hit it off in the park. She's a few years older than I am, and has been in the real estate biz for over 20 years, which says something given the tremendous ups and downs the industry has seen over the past two decades. She clued me in, and most fortunately for me she actually sold houses, unlike about 75% of the agents who have their pictures on the various properties scattered throughout the vast real estate world of the US and have yet to close a deal. 

She told me to forget the mobile home parks and concentrate on something that will actually give a return on the investment I make. The mobile homes are like buying used cars. Once you've spent the money they depreciate faster than VHS tapes. You're a slave to the park's rents and can have the park sold and forced to move at a moment's notice. We now concentrated on condominiums and select single family homes in specific zip codes, which she felt had the best current value with an eye toward future appreciation.

I finally felt after two full months of trekking up the valley 300 miles to then drive all over the greater Sacramento area I was beginning to see something positive happen, and that my new place was right around the corner.  DJ put me in touch with Karl at Alpine Mortgage. He is a very bright and wonderful loan professional who covered all the mortgage aspects of my prospective move, and made me feel like human being throughout the long, and many times tedious road.

I mention this because I had gone to my bank in Bakersfield to get a pre-approval letter done in very early January, and the guy I talked with, who seemed very nice, never got back to me until the day I closed escrow on my new little home in mid-March. Sums up my time in Bakersfield quite well. Really, about the only thing I got out of my 10 years in Bakersfield was the money I got for selling my half of my parents old home to my ex after doing all the estate work and making sure my dad's ashes ended up in the niche next to my mom's. 

And so, this weekend marks 3 weeks in my new location here nestled north of Highway 80 and right next to Roseville. Not where I expected to be when I found out that living with me was such a hardship for the person I loved these past 20 years, but a big improvement on living in a mobile home on the grounds of a trailer-park paying rent on a space that is as high as my current fixed mortgage payment and HOA dues combined.

In days, weeks and months going forward I'll be be back at this blog outpost more frequently than the past couple of years have allowed me. Writing helps unwind a lot of the knots that I've been carrying around with me for awhile. Guitars help, too. If you're curious I'll share here. If not, there are lots of other spaces and places for good souls to seek out on the vast web.

As I close this small chapter, I sure miss my cats and dog, who were such loyal and devoted friends for all the turbulent years spent at the bottom of the Central Valley. Love you always, Bo Kitty, Darby, Weebs, Musette, Bob and Brin-Brin.