Mark Myers's Blog, page 39

2013 in Review by a Cat with No Name

At the end of 2012, Kitty came into our “house of creative naming” as a timid little barn cat whose family had all been killed by coyotes.  At first, she hid under everything and full days went by when we wouldn’t see her.  That all changed when she realized that the humans around her were just vassals in need of a lord, and she has ruled contentedly ever since.  So, for a look back, I thought it would be nice to get her perspective on 2013.

Approach the throne.  

I understand you would like me to tell you about my year.  As you wish.

First of all, those two dog-things got into my food bowl twice – a punishable offense.  When I say, “Off with their heads!” I do not mean send them outside.  The two-legged folk are very weak on that point.

This place is nice overall.  I have six humans who fight each other to make a throne for me.  When I choose the lucky place, the winner taunts the others smugly.  They have yet to figure out that I chose by blanket, not by human.

They feed me adequately.  But I have decreed that my food shall be whole kibbles at all times and have turned my nose up at it several times when only crumbs were left.  I have high places to rule from, although there are still two places in the house I cannot reach.  I consider that high treason and expect ramps built in the coming year.  My chief complaint, however, is about the big one – the only man-person.  He wakes me up far too early in the morning by sitting down with the green thing with bright lights.  He calls it his “laptop”, a very name I deem offensive because if I chose to sit on his lap, I  expect it to be available.  I wonder if his woman knows that he can’t keep his hands off that thing.  For hours, he pecks and kneads at it like me fixing a blanket.

I’ve even heard him talking to it, the crazy sot.  Other than that, he only talks about his book and blog anymore, which I don’t understand because I have ordered that I should be the only topic of conversation in the house.  Nevertheless, he raves about any new country, like Mongolia or Kazakhstan, that reads his blog.  And on the rare occasion of a book sale or review, he shows excitement that should be reserved for my Halloween Kitty back stretches.  If this doesn’t stop, I will have to declare martial law here and dispose of the green laptop like the pink collar they tried to put on me.   Haha, yes doggies, I can see colors.

His first book focuses on a chase for a….  a dog –  YES, a dog!  Why a beast as silly as a dog would be the focus of any book is beyond me.  I understand from his morning ranting that the sequel centers around Virgil Creech’s desire to own a cat named Killer.  Good premise, I might read it.  I like the name, but someone should warn the lad that you can never own a cat.  Just like Aslan, we aren’t tame lions.

Oh, and one more thing.  It’s called feng shui, humans!  Stop cleaning the litter box every time I’m being artistic.

Happy New Year, humans.  I hope 2014 is just purrfect for you and most importantly, your felines.

Engagement & Dog Latin

Big excitement around here. My nephew asked his girlfriend to marry him.  And she said yes!  As Michael Bond said about Paddington, he never does things by halves.  Thanks to the good folks at North Point Community Church, his proposal will be hard to beat.  If you have a few minutes, check this out, it is spectacular.

His fiancée is a very sweet, beautiful young lady who also happens to be a Latin scholar.  The concept of studying a dead language intrigues me, so I am spending some time learning phrases in Dog Latin.  If you’re not familiar with the term, you’re not alone.  But after pulling some out, I figured out why they call it Dog Latin.  Here are some expressions you can learn to annoy any Latin scholar around you:

semper ubi sub ubi  (always where under where)

utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant  (may barbarians invade your personal space)

potential vobiscum  (may the force be with you)

mendax mendax tuum baccare flagare  (liar, liar, pants on fire)

I think the reason they call it Dog Latin is that when you reel off some of it, the phrases aren’t structured correctly, but contain enough Latin to pique a scholar’s interest.  So they tilt their heads like my lab, Winston when I’m holding out a treat.

I find it unfortunate that Lacey never experienced the “joy” of a little brother.  Since I was such a good one and my pal, Virgil Creech is a whiz at it too, we’ve decided to step in and harass her in little ways.  So while I’m studying more of these type of useless phrases simply to annoy her, I’ll offer Scott & Lacey a big congratulations and leave you with one last piece of advice:

Vir purdens non contraventum mingit  (a wise man doesn’t urinate against the wind)

Merry Christmas from Portsong

No assembly required this year.

Sadly, only one still in the Santa bubble.

I was told my fuzzy, scented socks are unisex.  Since they are the most comfortable things I have ever had on my feet, I’m going to choose to believe.

Much joy and laughter on this cold Georgia morning.

 

Merry Christmas to all!

 

For unto us a Child is born,

Unto us a Son is given;

And the government will be upon His shoulder.

And His name will be called

Wonderful, Counselor, Mighty God,

Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Of the increase of His government and peace

There will be no end

Isaiah 9:6-7

Waiting out Santa

“I’m going to bed, Ma. I promise,” Virgil called down the hall after his fifth warning.

Only he didn’t. He stayed outside his door until things quieted down and he was sure the den was empty. His mother banged away on empty dishes and pans in the kitchen while Virgil snuck back into the den among the Christmas decorations and wrapped presents. The smallish room was so cramped with furniture and pine branches that one could hardly navigate its few open spaces. But the boy had long scoped out its nuances to formulate his plan. This was the year he was going to catch Santa in the act! To do it, he had to stay out of sight and more importantly, stay awake until the first reindeer hoof hit the roof.

Virgil slid carefully past the couch and end table, dropped to his belly, and slithered between presents. His head grazed branches while he deftly avoided low hanging ornaments until he reached the corner of the room where he sat up, wedged between tree and wall with a good view of the hearth. Perfect! He congratulated himself on the effort and steeled his nerves for his stakeout. Then the boy waited….and waited…and waited some more.

After fifteen minutes he was sure he’d been there for two hours and after thirty, he looked to the window thinking the sun must be ready to rise and Santa had passed them by. Never a patient soul, Virgil nearly gave up in just under an hour until he heard music coming from next door where their daffy neighbor, Ms. Jerlene must have switched on her porch radio. Virgil grumbled to himself at the misfortune that distracted him. He tried to shut out the slow-paced lull of the orchestra and focus all his mental might on the fireplace, but it gradually sucked him in.

Virgil shook his head violently and pushed the cellos and violas away for a few seconds. He slapped himself (a little harder than he would have liked) to regain his concentration. He had to do this! His eight older brothers ridiculed him for his belief in Santa, but he didn’t care. Virgil didn’t care one bit. When Santa emerged from the chimney and went for the cookies, Virgil planned on knocking the tree down to seal off his escape! The commotion alone would rouse the family and prove the fat man was real.

“I’ll show them!” he said quietly with determination.

Another five minutes of boredom and the gentle sway of Percy McIntyre and his Band of Renown softened the sleepy boy’s resolve. His heavy eyelids closed and his head slouched against the wall. The next thing Virgil saw was ten sets of eyes looking down on him with gestures of dismay and surprise.

“You gotta bow on your head,” laughed Lomas, the eldest brother.

Soft light from the window told Virgil morning had come and his hope of catching Santa had gone. He found himself snuggling a long present with his back against the wall. He reached up and snatched the bow from his head to the delight of all his brothers.  Webster handed him a piece of paper that he took and read:

Virgil,

You’ve walked a fine line between the nice and naughty list all year, and this stunt nearly finished you off.  I think I know what you were up to, my friend.  You need to mind your mama better this year if you want me to come back.

Merry Christmas,

Santa

     “He left this for you, too,” said his mother as she handed him his very own ball glove with another red bow, which he quickly ripped off.

He looked around at the disbelievers, wondering how they could possibly doubt the man who left him this wonderful hunk of rawhide leather. But their focus rested on Virgil no longer. They had moved on to their own things. Oh how he wished he could have just stayed awake to prove it to them.

“Oh well,” he thought as he pounded his glove. “There’s always next year.”

Merry Christmas from Virgil and the rest of us in Portsong!

Virgil Gives Back

Reblogged from Life in Portsong:

Virgil Creech Takes a Swipe at Redemption is on sale for only  .99 12/23 - 12/29

Beneath his rough exterior, Virgil Creech has a big heart.  To prove it, in the month of December, proceeds from the sale of his book, Virgil Creech Takes a Swipe at Redemption will go directly to benefit orphans in Africa through a wonderful ministry called Heart for Africa.

Read more… 225 more words

On Sale this week - wake the kids and phone the neighbors! Merry Christmas.

Down the Toilet

Just a typical conversation with a teenager yesterday.   Friday night, I heard running water and found I needed to replace the flapper in the bathroom my two oldest share.  I love to fix stuff and was ready after a quick trip to the store.   As I carried my toilet repair supplies down the hall, one of them emerged from said bathroom, which made me stop and wonder if the situation in the bathroom had suddenly changed.

Me: Did you take a big one in there?

Teenager: Huh?

Me: Did you stink up the bathroom?

Teenager: What?

Me: Did you take a big dump in the toilet I’m about to fix?

I raised up my supplies in a futile effort to show her what my mission was.  I think I even smiled in the hopes of reaching out to the gentler side.

Teenager: I don’t know.

Me:  You don’t know if you took a dump or you don’t know if it stinks?

Teenager:   I DON’T KNOW… BLAHHHH!!!!

At which point she stormed off to her room while I stood in the hall wondering what to do.

THE LESSON – let 30 minutes pass.  Let 30 minutes pass between the time a teenager wakes up and the time you choose to ask them a typically easy question AND let 30 minutes pass between the time someone emerges from the bathroom and time you choose to repair it.  You see, I can learn stuff.

Virgil’s Big Check

Since we started the Virgil Gives Back campaign, Virgil has been itching to hand one of those huge checks over to Heart for Africa.  I’ve tried to explain to him that we will be making our donation in private, but he’s a kid so what does he know?  It’s all glitz and bright lights to a boy.  His heart is in the right place, though.  We even found this catalog place online where for $79.95 (+ shipping & handling), you can buy a dry erase big check for all your charity needs.

That’s a great idea if you’re more into being in pictures than giving.  Sorry, off my soapbox now.  In reality, if we bought the big check, we wouldn’t have much left to give to the babies.  Anyone else reminded of Michael Scott’s Run for Rabies on The Office?

December sales have been going okay.  If any of you readers don’t know what we are up to, you can read about it here:   Virgil Gives Back .  In a month-ending effort to raise more money, I’m going to use my KDP countdown time next week so that I can sell the book for 0.99 and still get 70% royalty to donate.  Less profit, but hopefully more sales.  It will run from Dec 23rd - Dec 29th.  I’ve got it being publicized at all the outlets I could find.  Any suggestions, please feel free to offer them – I am admittedly a novice at this.

Below are links to the book and the charity.

 Merry Christmas and God Bless

Snow and the Southern Boy

When winter comes to the south, there are few things more glorious for a boy than waking up to dusting of snow, no matter how deep.  Its infrequency makes it uniquely wonderful.  If there is enough to scrape up one snowball, it is a joyous affair and a school cancellation – well, that upgrades it to heaven on earth.  Typically, we southerners get short bursts of freezing temperature with nothing to show for it but a little sleet and ice.  But, on occasion…it snows!

It snowed last night in Portsong.  When the townspeople awoke, they found a thin blanket of white rarely seen in this part of the country.  In fact, there hasn’t been a flake here since the blizzard of 1909 – far too long ago for Virgil and Henry to remember.  They had both read about the arctic and Polar Regions, but nothing compared to the oddity of snow covering their own bushes, lawns, and bicycles.  With the little town shut down, they woke to a carnival-like atmosphere among the youngsters.  Virgil grabbed an old shovel from the cellar while Henry nearly escaped out of the house with his mother’s best baking pan, but had to settle for a scrap of tin under her watchful eye.   They met up on Chestnut Street and joined a seemingly endless line of boys headed toward the highest point in town: Curaban Point.  It’s a long walk up, but a thrilling ride down!  No brakes, just speed.  Bumps, bruises, and frozen blood outweighed by giggles, shrieks, and ear to ear smiles.

Having seen his share of cold weather, Colonel Birdwhistle covered his head and ventured out with Oscar on leash as he did every other day.   He got a hearty laugh at the typically adventurous dog who gingerly and slowly placed one paw in front of the other, testing and retesting the strange new ground covering before moving.  Even the dogs of the south have no way to be prepared for the stuff.

By ten o’clock, little Sally Lee had the beginnings of her first snowman rolled up.  With a some help from her daddy, she got its middle up onto the base and began work on his head.  Up and down every street in town, the scene was the same:  children played, fathers looked skyward wondering if the weather would break, and mothers busied themselves over the stove preparing for their frozen children to come inside.  Clothing, cars, and hairstyles change, but from generation to generation, we Southerners still react the same way to the white stuff.

For those of you living in colder regions, I hope your winter is mild and your hearth is warm.  But for us in the South, I pray we get a taste of snow this season.  You Yanks can laugh all you want when large cities down here come to a grinding halt with a mere six inches.  We southern boys will take your ridicule in exchange for a few inches of snow. 

Smaug & the Old Man

I’m so tired!  I have only myself to blame.  At 46, I really shouldn’t go to a midnight premier.  I don’t like to do much of anything past about 10 o’clock.  But it’s The Hobbit, my all-time favorite book.  More importantly, a couple of my daughters begged me to take them.  Now, I have to backtrack slightly on that statement because I realized this week that I’ve been replaced.

My oldest and I started a little tradition of going to these things a few years ago even though they wreak havoc on an old man’s body.  My standing policy is that when one of the teenagers actually wants to be seen with the old man in public, I pretty much drop everything and go.  I’ve been told these times won’t last forever…and now I know.

A few days ago, daughter #2 reminded me to buy tickets to The Desolation of Smaug so they wouldn’t sell out.  Naturally, I went to the eldest to see if it was worth the extra cost to view it in 3D and she very courteously informed me that her boyfriend had already bought tickets for the two of them.  Oh, how I wished I could have been hobbit-sized right then so I could slink out of the room unnoticed.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect her to stay a little girl forever and D-boy is a really good kid.  But that moment felt like a giant pair of scissors severed some cord that she’s more prepared to cut than I am.  It’s good though.  It’s good.  Really, it’s good.

Her sister and I got excited, bought tickets and had a great time.  Turns out, the four of us were in the same theater and all sat together.  The movie was excellent.  I highly recommend it, even though it seemed surprisingly short to the guy who snored through a few scenes.   They punched me awake a couple of times – but didn’t need to when Smaug came on screen.  The animation detail, demonic voice, and movement of the dragon is amazing.  It’s one of those movie-going moments when I scratch my head and wonder how in the world they made him.  He’s almost as frightening as the line of boyfriends soon to come in and out of my home and take my four little girls away.

I’d better brush up on my fire-breathing…

Gift Advice for Men

Timeless advice from George Lee’s monthly feature in the Portsong Guardian, circa 1926
.

I shouldn’t assume that all you men realize Christmas is upon us.  It is hunting season in some places and we tend to be a distracted group.  Therefore, I will begin by making two statements to you men who have wives, fiancées, or girlfriends:

First:  Christmas is in two weeks.

Second:  You are expected to get something for her.

Now that we’ve passed the obvious, let’s talk a little about the word “something”.  It can be a tricky word.  Do not substitute “anything” for it, anything won’t do.  She is expecting something special, something that says you know her, her dreams, and her desires better than anyone else on the planet.  Are you scared yet?  If not, hand her a can of motor oil or a pack of playing cards on Christmas morn and watch the sparks fly!  Here are some friendly reminders of things that will NOT promise satisfaction and smooth sailing on Christmas morning:

1.         Anything that is for “us”.  If it is for “us”, it is really for you.  Rule of thumb:  if you will touch, watch, listen to, or carry it more than 15% of the time, it is for you not her.

2.         Anything automobile related.  Give her car wax or leather cleaner and get ready to sleep in the back seat of your beloved motorcar for a few days.

3.         Things intended to make her homemaking job easier.  This includes kitchen and cleaning items.  Again, see point 1, these things are for you – to make you more food or a tidier home.  Either that or they say she isn’t doing a good job and needs help.

4.         Items of clothing that are not her style, but looked good on a model or advertisement.  In fact, unless you are absolutely, 100% sure of the size, stay away from clothing altogether.  I’ve heard horror stories about men who gave their size 4 wives a size 8 dress and left the hospital sometime after New Year’s Day.

5.         Gag gifts.  Jokes are funny on April first, but not on Christmas.  I made this mistake with Harriet once early in our marriage.  When they wired our house for electricity, I found she often left lights on.  So I thought it would be humorous to give her a light switch with a chain for a necklace.  It didn’t work as a present or a reminder.  Needless to say, I never ventured down that path again.

6.         Anything found near the register at the store.  She goes there, she’ll know.  Those are called impulse items and she won’t have an impulse to kiss you any time soon.

7.         Be wary of things that plug in.  I’m from a bygone generation, but I thought a new radio was a stellar gift for Harriet one year.  I listened to it alone until June and she still curls her nose up a little every time I click on the The J.W. Terwiliger Hour of Talent.

I suppose the best way to decide on a gift for her is to watch and listen to her, not to that inner voice that says you can finish this shopping thing quickly and be before kick-off.  Games will always be there, will she?

George Lee is the resident Sage of Portsong, husband to Harriet and father of Dorothy, Henry, and Sally.  Folks from all over town stop by Greynote Insurance to get his advice.  If you’re in need of a word of wisdom, or term life coverage, feel free to stop by his office at the corner of Maple & Harvey Street for whichever type of quote suits you.