I have to apologize for not posting very much lately. I’ve been so overwhelmed by my deadlines that it’s been impossible to fit in any extras into my schedule. But this is something I wanted to tell anyone who cares….

I got a call late last week from a friend named Gelenora. She is a part time vet-tech who used to take care of my late lamented cat Butch when I would go on trips out of town. She is skilled in giving shots to animals, so she could easily give Butch the insulin injections she needed for her diabetes– as well as feed her and take care of any other needs. Glenora’s a wonderful person with one of the kindest hearts and love for animals I’ve ever met. She was calling to tell me about a little kitten they had at the clinic where she works. A man brought this kitten in to drop off because he “didn’t want it anymore…”. It was malnourished and sickly– and when the folks at the clinic told the man that they weren’t a shelter, and that he’d need to get treatment for the kitten to get him healthy before he dropped it off at ANY shelter (which they would have been happy to do– but he’d have to pay for it, natch), he promptly left and tossed the kitten into the wooded area behind the clinic and drove away. Fortunately, one of the clinic staff saw this, and Gelenora rushed outside– and after about 5 minutes of calling, the little kitten made his way to Gelnora’s arms. She called ME when they had gotten him nursed back to health. She really wanted me to meet this kitten. Glenora knew how attached I had been to Butch and how crushed I was when I had to put her to sleep back in April. And she knew that now that Butch was gone that I wanted to take some time and concentrate on work, travel and leisure for a while before I even THOUGHT about getting another pet. But she also thought that this little kitten was something special and she knew he needed a really good home. She couldn’t take him home herself because she’s already got 11 animals– and she couldn’t find anywhere else that she thought would make an appropriate home for the kitten that came to be named “Charlie” by the attending Veterinarian at the clinic.

That’s when she called me.

I reluctantly agreed to go in to meet Charlie– even though I still felt that I wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of another companion animal. But meeting Charlie changed my mind immediately. He’s such a warm, friendly and goofy little guy that he melted my heart at once. He loves to be held for as long as you’ll hold him. He’s not afraid of anything and he’s as sweet as can be– as well as being a bit clumsy and silly. He’s into being held upside down and he lays upside down in his little cat bed and looks out at you with an upside down head. I couldn’t take him right away and asked the folks at the clinic if they could hold onto him until after this coming weekend. I had to go out of town last weekend, and am visiting my folks THIS weekend– so they agreed. Unfortunately, Charlie was let out to have the run of the clinic one day and got into the cage of a dog that was in for treatment who had just been fed. The dog chomped down on Charlie and broke his shoulder as well as puncturing him to two places. Fortunately, he’s healing nicely– but it means I might not get to take him home this coming Monday– not until the Vets are sure he’s healed enough to leave the clinic.

This little fella’s already used up two of his nine lives. I hope I’ll be able to help him conserve the last seven. I can’t wait to get him here. I’ve been in a great mood ever since I agreed to adopt him– although I also have feelings of guilt about taking on a new friend so soon after losing Butch. It’s dredged up a lot of buried grief that I’ve been feeling about the terrible deterioration of her health the last year of her life. Even after 6 months, I’m still torn up over how bad she had gotten with her arthritis, kidney disease and diabetes. But I’m also looking forward to this young, vital little guy named Charlie– who is really the opposite of what Butch was in age, temperment and appearance. It’s going to be great– I’m sure of it.

And just so there’s actually art to go with this blog entry– here’s something under the catagory of “probably never seen before”. It’s a prize piece I did for a WIZARD MAGAZINE contest several years ago. I used to do free prize material for them all the time. This is just one example.

OK– it’s back to work.

My brother and I had a couple of hamsters as pets when we lived in Germany. They were our first mammalian pets up to that point. Like most kids, I had owned a few goldfish earlier in life– but they always died soon after I acquired them. I guess maybe I’m not a fish person… I dunno. But LIKE most kids, we wanted some furry, warm blooded pets. Our own little friends that would be there for us to say “GOOD MORNING!” to first thing each day. And so, first came ARCHIE– who soon had the longer name ARCHIE BULGY BEAR (’cause he had really fat cheeks). And I’ve always had a penchant for screwing up words and names into stupid nicknames– so he was soon called “ARCHIE BARGY BEAR”. Maybe one hamster wasn’t enough for us– or maybe we each had to have our own little guy– but soon another another addition was made to the hamster clan– this one named FRISKY… because he was particularly wiggly and interested in moving and getting out of his cage. The hamster duo was a lot of fun to play with and brought many hours of enjoyment to my brother and me each day. They lived in separate cages and never met, however. At least not at first. That was a good thing, as it turned out.

I had the brilliant idea that it would be great to take them outside and give them a taste of fresh air and sunshine. I thought it would be fun to see them frolic in the grass out in front of the apartment building. My parents were rather dubious about this– fearing that what eventually came to pass was a distinct possibility– but I was very persuasive, and so they relented. So, one fine bright morning, we took ARCHIE and FRISKY out front, put them down in the grass on either side of the walk leading to the street– and let them go. They immediately spun toward each other, glowered, and charged to meet on the walk for a good old fashioned knock down, drag-out throw-down. I was completely shocked that these little cuddly, (seemingly) innocuous, furry creatures would go at each other like a couple of diminutive buzz saws. There was much growling and biting– and in my stunned disbelief, I instinctively put my hand in between them to break up the melee.

That was a mistake.

They had thick fur to help deflect the gnashing, gnarling teeth they were utilizing and so didn’t really do too much damage to each other– but all I had was my tender little 9 year old flesh. I got a huge gash on my thumb from ONE of them… I’m not sure who did it…. but it was a good, deep cut. It immediately started to bleed profusely, which alarmed my parents. They snatched each combatant up by their respective tails and hustled us all back inside. ARCHIE and FRISKY went back to the safety of their cages, and my folks tended to my wound. We NEVER let the two little rodents get anywhere near each other after that.

Hamsters don’t have very long lives, and ARCHIE BARGY BEAR died several months later. Don’t know why– maybe it was just his time. But FRISKY…. he managed to escape from his cage for a while after ARCHIE had passed on and make his way into the walls of the apartment– and eventually down to the basement storage area where we eventually recaptured him. I think I had a hand in his escape– but that’s kind of fuzzy in my memory. FRISKY died, I think, of a broken heart not long after being caught. I guess he tasted freedom and couldn’t stomach that little cage anymore. Running on the wheel couldn’t compare to running free in our building.

I still thing about those two little hamsters from time to time, so I thought I’d share.

Mike

My family was stationed at a base in Goeppingen, Germany in the early 70’s when my father was in the Army, as I’ve said before. Germany is a very beautiful country. Yesterday’s blog entry spoke about the incredible forested areas that dot the country side. There’s a reason that so many of the old fairy tales are set in Germany– it’s full of so many giant, gnarled trees full of character and history– it’s a perfect setting. And all the seasons in Germany seemed to be at extremes to my young eyes. Maybe it was because of my youth. Maybe it’s because my jaded view of the world has dulled my appreciation of the differences in the seasons– but I don’t really think that’s the case. Germany just seemed to be so naturally beautiful.

The winters in the area of Germany we lived were just amazing. Winter would bring lots of thick blanketing snow that would stay around mostly until the spring warmth would cast it out. It was very cold in Germany in the winter and the bitter cold would harden the snow to a terrific thick shell that made for some of the best sledding that I’d ever experienced. The base we lived on was also an amazing arena for sledding when snow conditions were right because it was set up in a series of descending steps that led downward from the apartment building I lived in, to the school we attended at the bottom– upward to the barracks and base military buildings at the other height. With this lay of the land, the speed we could build up heading downward over each “step” over the frozen, hardened snow was dizzying.

One particular clear day, with the neighborhood kids all out indulging in flying down the hill on their sleds, my little brother and I went out to join in. The conditions were perfect– and I lay down flat on the sled, facing forward to guide the sled with my hands with my brother sitting on the backs of my legs. I was around 9, and he was around 4, so he felt very light (and when you’re a kid, having a youngster sitting on the backs of your legs is nothing. Now, at 41, I can’t even squat down and sit on my own heels for more than 10 seconds or so without my joints screaming at me). We took off, and immediately built up a fantastic head of steam. We were moving incredibly fast and shrieking with delight. We headed down, down, down the stepped levels of each successive cluster of apartment buildings– down toward the school. When we neared the school, I decided to jump one particular drop that looked not quite so steep. It wasn’t so much one of the large “steps” that served as the base for buildings as it was just an isolated drop that was next to a sidewalk leading to the school. As we headed over that drop at breakneck speed, I saw with horror that there was a manhole cover at the bottom. I don’t know what made me react so quickly, but I managed to kick my brother off the back of the sled before I went fully over my self. I hit the manhole cover with a sickening thud as I was driven into it face-first. This was the first time I came close to being knocked out. I remember turning over, dazed and numb– and seeing a crowd of kids standing over me. The were gasping with shock and horror– and I realized why when I reached up to feel the left side of my face (which took the brunt of the impact). It felt oddly warm and sticky, and when I pulled my hand back, my palm was covered in blood. That’s when I started to howl.

I howled all the way back home, as my tiny brother and a couple of other kids pulled me back on the sled to be tended by my shocked but nurturing mother. Rather than chide me for the stupidity of my injury– which was what I was afraid would greet me– she was very comforting and caring. She thought that the side of my face had been torn off and that I would need some sort of surgery– but I guess the healing powers of youth took care of things, because I came through it with little or no scarring. I think that was the first time I came to realize that there existed the possibility that something horrible could happen to me at any given time– that I wasn’t invulnerable. I don’t know if I kicked my brother off the sled before hurtling into that manhole cover as a way of protecting him, or if something deep down in me knew that if I didn’t, he may have landed on me and made the coming damage even worse. Either way, I’m glad I did.

And I don’t think I did much sledding after that.

Mike

Germany has a reputation for hosting many beautiful, lush forests… and I can attest to that being true. At least it was when I lived there for a few years some three plus decades ago. My family and I roamed much of Germany taking in the sites during that time (well, my brother and I were of course captive to my parents’ whims in that– but I’m glad they took us along) — castles, restaurants, amusement parks, and the forests. And there were some wonderful forested areas that surrounded the Army base that we lived on– and one particular area that was very near the apartment complex that my family lived in. This wooded area was liberally populated by huge majestic oak trees– and these oaks yielded TONS of acorns. I was fascinated by these big, shiny nuts. I was convinced at the time that by grinding them up and adding water and yeast that I could make some wonderful acorn pancakes. I would beg my mother to let me undertake the experiment that I was sure would result in the world’s tastiest pancakes– but her response was always “Don’t you know how horrible that would taste? You can’t make pancakes out of acorns!” I’ve never, to this day, tried to follow through on that youthful impulse. I suppose that’s because I’m sure my mother was right.

Those big, shiny acorns also served another purpose for the base kids (at least those in my neighborhood): ammunition. Being surrounded by local towns, it was only natural that we would be “invaded” from time to time by local German kids, curious to see what we Americans were like. I think there was a mix of curiosity and some residual resentment (passed on to the kids by their parents) left over from WORLD WAR II, even though this was around 30 years after the end of that conflict. My father tells me of an incident at a parade he took my younger brother to in which he asked a German man with his son on his shoulders if he could move aside slightly so that my brother could see the parade, and the man turned on him and said “Just because you Americans won the war doesn’t mean you own this country or our people…!” So there was a bit of that going on– and when we would get word that there were German kids in the woods in our neighborhood, the call would go out to meet them on the “field of battle”. We had tons of acorns stashed in various locations for just such contingencies. So, I would grab the 7th Cavalry flag I had made with my budding artistic abilities (I was at the time enamored of General George Armstrong Custer and his mounted Cavalry, having just learned of them in my history books), and meet my fellow “soldiers” to repel the dread invaders. It was really more of a game, though– because we would meet the German kids and make sure there were ground rules (the German kids could speak English, whereas we ourselves could not speak a word of German. That’s the norm for so many Americans– we don’t feel the need to learn foreign languages, while most of the rest of the world is multi-lingual), chief among them that there would be no hurling acorns at each others faces. Even as little kids, we knew we didn’t want anyone’s eye’s knocked out by a high-velocity nut. Inevitably, because of our stashed arsenal, we would win the day, driving back the local kids with overwhelming force of acorn. And fun was had by all, I think– although there were some shouts from the German kids such as “Americans go home!” at such times. Maybe it was the heat of battle.

I drew a Civil War era cap on the head of the lead kid (my idealized version of myself as a child, natch). Now whether I actually had such a hat, or it’s just my mind’s eye creating that for my memories I don’t know. I’ll have to ask my mother about that.

And if she remembers me begging her to let me make acorn pancakes.

Mike

Yesterday’s thoughts about the arrival of Autumn set my mind back to something from my early childhood that I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I don’t know why I’ve been in such a reflective mood recently… maybe it’s the onset of a mid-life crisis. I’m not a very materialistic person, so I’m not prone to go out and buy some expensive little sports convertible. So maybe my mind is drifting back to times when I was a kid to compensate.

My father was in the Army– and he and my family were stationed in Germany where we lived for three years. Germany was not a fun place to live for me– and there are tons of stories that maybe I’ll go into at some later date to illustrate why I ended up hating being there so badly…. but I want to concentrate on something positive here. One of the coolest things that my father, my brother and I ever did in Germany was when we would frequently head out to fly kites. There was one particularly incredible spot that my dad discovered that was amazingly conducive to flying kites as high as the eye could see. Dad got so caught up in this activity that he did something absolutely wonderous. He constructed a gigantic kite that was the biggest thing I’d ever seen. It was made of strong but lightweight wood for the frame, and several layers of very strong cellophane that could withstand high winds– and an enormous tail that was impressive all by itself! Each time we went out, he’d fly this monster higher and higher. As huge as it was, he would get it so high, it looked like a little dot. Then he went one step further– he built an elaborate motorized crank for the string release/rewind so he could handle it even better when the high winds threatened to yank it away from him. He started getting the thing so high, that the local authorities had to stop him, because they were afraid it would interfere with low-flying planes (mostly the small commuter types. I don’t want to give the impression that he got it high enough to interfere with the big jets). My brother and I had our own kites to fly, and it was great to take them to that spot, because the wind would just lift them out instantly. There was no need to run and try to get lift– the wind took care of that itself. But it was more fun for me and Matt to just watch my dad and his amazing monster kite soaring higher and higher.

I hadn’t thought about that in a long time and I’m glad that for whatever reason– mid-life crisis or not– it’s a memory that surfaced. It’s a wonderful one.

Later.

Mike