tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195836932024-03-15T11:28:43.148-07:00Erica Kain's Stories and ReviewsErica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.comBlogger1873125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-33024406906904444562024-03-11T17:34:00.000-07:002024-03-11T17:34:48.432-07:00Seven Things I Love About Sewickley #1: The BLOW HORN Sign<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAqVOFSjl0UksmGFC-mdOGDHOIQm6u_Pe1PV3tNDZZySNv-2wrRPGRmyYwpj7vNkOwaGb-IFy4FCEIJzIyj3F9NIqPfQgbH2ZfFmqPmdC43-FU9HL8W1z3oRyJrmWUIFwUE_GRXJXKAOHAARx_IkvhizN3w2NMN6o7UXmNUwdZUwKLpSVfhtYD" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAqVOFSjl0UksmGFC-mdOGDHOIQm6u_Pe1PV3tNDZZySNv-2wrRPGRmyYwpj7vNkOwaGb-IFy4FCEIJzIyj3F9NIqPfQgbH2ZfFmqPmdC43-FU9HL8W1z3oRyJrmWUIFwUE_GRXJXKAOHAARx_IkvhizN3w2NMN6o7UXmNUwdZUwKLpSVfhtYD=w302-h400" width="302" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>There is nothing in all of Sewickley that fills me with as much joy as the Blow Horn sign.</p><p>It's got everything: an air of mystery, an obscure placement, and hand-painted letters from another era.</p><p>There is the sentiment: "Hey, this hill is a little tricky. Give us a little toot-toot to let us know you're cresting it."</p><p>And finally the words: BLOW HORN. What a marvelous command: Just blow that thing! Lay on the horn and BLOW.</p><p>This sign is exactly two miles from my house, so I've used it to do four-mile runs. As a result, it's got my fingerprints ALL over it. Even when I'm just running past, I like to give it a little tap, or even a high five.</p><p>One thing is certain -- every time I see it, I have to sing "Blow, Gabriel, Blow" from "Anything Goes," Because them's the rules.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpA11pUJfc8Mma6wTc9PHtH-xiSyVqX2vB2cHZRK_6P5HPl9ppPoQk4sZ0JX-SB1K75A6_XGfP7oDPKIJCQgXgxHU5gHTRQQuxuNBuBRgrFuTFvf815pQIM0nNC0JJ4iAhDgiahi9Edv1CgDLbAf6nrV9p92cWzBkGWkVmdVbr4rZVMBfQ_vuB" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="735" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpA11pUJfc8Mma6wTc9PHtH-xiSyVqX2vB2cHZRK_6P5HPl9ppPoQk4sZ0JX-SB1K75A6_XGfP7oDPKIJCQgXgxHU5gHTRQQuxuNBuBRgrFuTFvf815pQIM0nNC0JJ4iAhDgiahi9Edv1CgDLbAf6nrV9p92cWzBkGWkVmdVbr4rZVMBfQ_vuB" width="269" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sing it, Sutton! "Blow, Gabriel, Blow!"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></p><p>If you need to see this specimen for yourself, it's tucked behind the Allegheny Country Club, on Lane's End Road. Enjoy! And don't forget to BLOW!<br /><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-20470373134673503332024-03-10T17:48:00.000-07:002024-03-10T17:48:51.886-07:00Seven Things I Love About Sewickley #2: The former entrance to our library<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyn_bWavV2vHq3GGV2GG8DAHcRdFj80wff9Oo5hogvET8T_zvCm-V3Uwg1zuQiSZYi1GLf_2XD_RBKYqMEEIYiNA0363yfhfutcOx-5pKlopidqUmSThkjEHkAcExoUlRPOS1i7BqKNyztlJeRlzW80cC_UaxhVVzodeiu863XbxemL5SPXAIv" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1804" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyn_bWavV2vHq3GGV2GG8DAHcRdFj80wff9Oo5hogvET8T_zvCm-V3Uwg1zuQiSZYi1GLf_2XD_RBKYqMEEIYiNA0363yfhfutcOx-5pKlopidqUmSThkjEHkAcExoUlRPOS1i7BqKNyztlJeRlzW80cC_UaxhVVzodeiu863XbxemL5SPXAIv=w400-h301" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>When we arrived eight years ago, we wanted to find a home walking distance to the library. From our homes in California, walking to the library was ~kind of~ possible, but long and treacherous too. </p><p>We were lucky to find the perfect spot two blocks from this place, and we have spent many, many hours there. My youngest daughter and I have recently enjoyed writing together in this pretty building, sitting near each other in the quiet.</p><p>Whenever a family member cannot be found, a quick sweep of the library (and sometimes Starbucks) usually unearths them. They have nice computers, color printers, shelves filled with our pre-ordered books, a teen room, a children's library, art exhibits, miniature rooms (what <i>is</i> it with Pittsburgh and the miniature rooms?) We usually see people we know and/or we see what people we know have ordered on the hold shelves.</p><p>But what I really love about the library is this former entrance. Look at this majestic old stone entrance to the library! When they expanded the library in 1999, they converted this entrance to a patio, and it's such a lovely little spot. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit61jxwxddVz0DiksOWqhqZ5pAkwubSGZY-VLV-HE4fFbAWWv7sDO33nDDAeX0LeB_zKktHENOu6_QkCsbACaKogx1dMZPc_PoM4MwPjUzlMNJYvQTVbT-8ibDNKvTW2Eej6AGg7HdVSbjEkGlFdSyXbq4N_RRrsGWv4AXXJBTqCORFTCyeEbY" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="772" data-original-width="840" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit61jxwxddVz0DiksOWqhqZ5pAkwubSGZY-VLV-HE4fFbAWWv7sDO33nDDAeX0LeB_zKktHENOu6_QkCsbACaKogx1dMZPc_PoM4MwPjUzlMNJYvQTVbT-8ibDNKvTW2Eej6AGg7HdVSbjEkGlFdSyXbq4N_RRrsGWv4AXXJBTqCORFTCyeEbY=w400-h368" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The library as it looked in 1923. This was the entrance.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>From inside the library, I love staring at the vaulted ceilings and thinking about the generations of people who walked through those original doors.</p><p>Now, during fundraisers at the library, it is loud and a little crazy, with people weaving in and out of the stacks, exploring and socializing. But I can stroll out of that original entrance, and find the coolers of beer and people sitting at tables enjoying the quiet and fresh air.</p><p>And I can feel the last 100 years of this library, the history and the buzz of activity, all at the same time from that little perch.</p><p><br /><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-59991874682439791262024-03-10T17:13:00.000-07:002024-03-10T17:13:11.107-07:00Seven Things I Love About Sewickley #3: View from the Top of the High Maintenance Trail<p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkxviMaTTxKjOTK55LtH3J3_oHDxV-NHu_L70ZgUikn2PWOSKzx5_ltntyhVlsAguecCi-E0SWix1XxqXTxBPUpjFgmGhTxIaR7JSNAdOg91GO6yeuueC4sSO7Z9Xzw7C8Xbsq5tW_gRdvq_yJ5xS60O8R9ryti1TnOOU_IMF_NDrHr-mjwBd8" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1798" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkxviMaTTxKjOTK55LtH3J3_oHDxV-NHu_L70ZgUikn2PWOSKzx5_ltntyhVlsAguecCi-E0SWix1XxqXTxBPUpjFgmGhTxIaR7JSNAdOg91GO6yeuueC4sSO7Z9Xzw7C8Xbsq5tW_gRdvq_yJ5xS60O8R9ryti1TnOOU_IMF_NDrHr-mjwBd8=w400-h302" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Larry and my favorite trail segment</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Soon after I arrived in Sewickley, I met a mountain biker who, at risk of life and limb, shared The Map with me. </p><p>You see, The Map is the confidential creation of a group of mountain bikers, and includes all the trails -- public and less public -- in the area. In all, there are 35–40 miles of woodsy trails surrounding Sewickley, and I still haven't found them all. The Map has proven very helpful in my adventuring around the woods. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg65-T0FkElB5_wZ5QTZP5PoHY483qlMSwdp_ZDruxlGYYUeTlz9Zf3P_kL-29po8SLgcFKsfWpfvBJaHp-01bJODTm_gzzs8oSSRuwGsBsgEgLJMqVDIdT0ASyeG3lQ126aULS7hcVsDcfHn84JafoeCtLWkTK2DVPiL1E8nHaZhHpW2ImzQNr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg65-T0FkElB5_wZ5QTZP5PoHY483qlMSwdp_ZDruxlGYYUeTlz9Zf3P_kL-29po8SLgcFKsfWpfvBJaHp-01bJODTm_gzzs8oSSRuwGsBsgEgLJMqVDIdT0ASyeG3lQ126aULS7hcVsDcfHn84JafoeCtLWkTK2DVPiL1E8nHaZhHpW2ImzQNr=w241-h320" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Map (muddy trail shoes for scale)<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The Map has changed a lot since I first printed it out at the library and taped it together. Most notably, <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2016/06/ben-and-me.html?q=roethlisberger">Ben Roethlisberger blocked off a section of trail, which resulted in my having to be saved by an equestrian</a>. Yes, that was the day I danced for his security cameras. Ah, memories. <div><p></p><p>I have marked up The Map with highlighters, to denote trails I've travailed.* Some of the paths seem to fritter into nothing, and I've gotten lost more times than I've successfully navigated a new trail. I've found so many deer bones and very few other people along the way. Once in a while I'll meet an actual mountain biker -- someone who must have The Map -- but I'm usually on my own.</p><p>One time, while trying to connect a trail up behind Sewickley Heights Golf Club, my daughter and I stumbled into a garden party. They were quite welcoming before they realized we had, in fact, emerged from the woods, and had no idea what was going on.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir_33XJ4qr1YZ8ncEqV_iIGgqTeZ_on5RfagXdd_m5Heb0bA-RIuldFyywVCvpazh1rTn9PO4Oonpc5I-W747Jvg9FBGIJuc4jjOg10xuavXP5IBukYG2D_bRBwiZhgE1uHSZ43AZtooLRs2SqDkCmqDgWMB2-GL5LUlOFfB-nuzk7JP5JPqO5" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir_33XJ4qr1YZ8ncEqV_iIGgqTeZ_on5RfagXdd_m5Heb0bA-RIuldFyywVCvpazh1rTn9PO4Oonpc5I-W747Jvg9FBGIJuc4jjOg10xuavXP5IBukYG2D_bRBwiZhgE1uHSZ43AZtooLRs2SqDkCmqDgWMB2-GL5LUlOFfB-nuzk7JP5JPqO5" width="181" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The climb to the top</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>But of all the places I have explored using The Map, High Maintenance has become my best buddy. High Maintenance is an old trail that currently traverses through several private properties on the steep hill behind the Woodland Pool. </p><p>The spot in the photo above is at the top of a long climb, and I just feel like the queen of the world up there. It is quiet, and after the leaves fall from the trees, I can see all the surrounding hills. The birds are inevitably singing their heads off, and the dog usually finds something horrible to roll in. So we're all just happy up there.</p><p>It's at the top of the hill, and I love to stand there and just breathe. I feel like a simple receptacle, like Emerson's absurd "transparent eyeball," by the time I've gotten up there, ready to soak in the beauty of these woods.</p><p><br /></p><p>* I debated about the word "<a href="https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/travail">travailed</a>" there, since it's relatively antiquated. But it does best describe the sweaty, usually-lost, exhaustive labors I have experienced here.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /><br /></p></div>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-43822271629151010692024-03-09T05:33:00.000-08:002024-03-09T05:33:11.958-08:00Seven Things I Love About Sewickley #4: The Sewickley Academy Cupola<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimiJ-dyaBiuiDrJYZCCFEb2Wn2VbfeXghhF-w-aQCF-LABf8M9OXo9StA44SbibiksGkxdnQjGd-up0agOFkFR1LyKgeK732LWapwgkzRN1PUjoiNjuuzdG2APC_DCpI75L5Y7RSbYZF3OLdlnmvQkkDaljEbjOkfAo-5Sm_n8UCkbco-cJ0I6" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1758" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimiJ-dyaBiuiDrJYZCCFEb2Wn2VbfeXghhF-w-aQCF-LABf8M9OXo9StA44SbibiksGkxdnQjGd-up0agOFkFR1LyKgeK732LWapwgkzRN1PUjoiNjuuzdG2APC_DCpI75L5Y7RSbYZF3OLdlnmvQkkDaljEbjOkfAo-5Sm_n8UCkbco-cJ0I6" width="311" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The cupola atop Sewickley Academy brings me joy in all seasons. Even on this rainy winter day, when the town and the woods are brown and gray, the little glint of this cupola is one of my favorite sights. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I moved here eight years ago, <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2024/02/the-moment-i-discovered-i-wanted-to.html?q=substitute+teacher">I knew I wanted to continue substitute teaching</a>. I edited and printed my resume, and sheepishly mailed it to Sewickley Academy, which was two blocks away. I was too scared to deliver it in person.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Within a few days, the head of the Lower School called me and asked me to interview. In short order, I was a day-to-day substitute there. I was fascinated by the buildings, and commonly got lost when I tried to find a photocopier, let alone the mysterious underground business office. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As I left to walk home, I would admire the cupola on top of the Lower School. I was thrilled to work in such a fancy building! (Note: I had most recently been teaching in a California public school where the windows didn't shut, 31 kids were jammed into my classroom, and coyotes stalked the playground. Don't get me wrong: I <i>loved</i> it there. But it lacked glamour, not to mention cupolas.) </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">As a day-to-day sub, I would spend a week with the adorable preschool kids, then a few days diving into "Maus" with middle schoolers. I taught computers and fourth grade and kindergarten. It was a teaching flibbertigibbet, and enjoyed every minute.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">One day, the head of the Lower School called me again. Certain I was in trouble for something I had done, I skittered nervously into her office.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"Would you like to take over one class from January until June?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I don't know. Did I? I walked home and mulled it over -- I would have to shed my flibbertigibbet ways, and take over responsibility for an actual class. I hadn't done that since I'd left California, and I'd enjoyed the freedom of day-to-day subbing.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Within an hour, I called her back. "YES, I MOST CERTAINLY WOULD."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What followed was a wonderful season of my life. I taught twelve wonderful fourth graders, and I was mentored by some of the best educators I have met in my entire life. My students gamely memorized The New Colossus and other ridiculous ideas of mine, and I engineered lesson plans to challenge them and simultaneously allow me to complete my Pennsylvania teaching certificate. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But never mind all of that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Never mind that two of my children are now relishing their time at that same school.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">No, just look at that cupola. It's so pretty. I love it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2R5kkWMj0x19qRS1O2A268ydCBVLfQjBssrQJcd-zV3xRmFUECcJ1hU2IEUFNGuFy0N61hZhC0caLRYiSzadVc6f4liKubF177P9zY4kDbxcajw_Ki-wt_P2tlC_7H61tfqwFnXm0fdrL2VUs96w5m9GsZIvCQV7hUkWjyg-bVKLvQuF_kQ3x" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="718" data-original-width="782" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2R5kkWMj0x19qRS1O2A268ydCBVLfQjBssrQJcd-zV3xRmFUECcJ1hU2IEUFNGuFy0N61hZhC0caLRYiSzadVc6f4liKubF177P9zY4kDbxcajw_Ki-wt_P2tlC_7H61tfqwFnXm0fdrL2VUs96w5m9GsZIvCQV7hUkWjyg-bVKLvQuF_kQ3x" width="261" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-43060771566827936772024-03-06T15:40:00.000-08:002024-03-06T15:50:10.402-08:00Seven Things I Love About Sewickley: #5 Shields Spring<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlFXanJ845lNEnV5qKIrauh7fBBhuwCk5TkuQo_bOy1JIoB7bO5ddzaMPwmPp1ETG00Jwf6gr66XkRPGNC8eIJQIV-VMZ5-S7gm9SrToDagnJW2XDupEO11tuY3sBKsSuq_x8wfxwfipzHU9cTpkH3Ygs3X0SxM9aC2nSl9Q4MZsaevYoFF_QB" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1882" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjlFXanJ845lNEnV5qKIrauh7fBBhuwCk5TkuQo_bOy1JIoB7bO5ddzaMPwmPp1ETG00Jwf6gr66XkRPGNC8eIJQIV-VMZ5-S7gm9SrToDagnJW2XDupEO11tuY3sBKsSuq_x8wfxwfipzHU9cTpkH3Ygs3X0SxM9aC2nSl9Q4MZsaevYoFF_QB=w400-h289" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>I love that this 1909 horse watering trough is simply <i>there</i> by the side of the road, trickling along, fascinating me every time I drive down to Giant Eagle. In a pretty alcove that has stood the test of time, defunct <a href="https://archive.triblive.com/news/shields-spring-in-edgeworth-a-relic-that-could-use-a-facelift/">Shields Spring</a> captures my imagination. (That link includes a story that explains its provenance.)</p><p>I love that it continues to exist, being irrelevant and beautiful, and stands as a testament to a much deeper history in these hills. The native people of this area once had a "Great Path or Great Trail" that ran from Delaware to the Allegheny River, and Beaver Road was once part of this route.</p><p>If you care to fall into this rabbit hole, I encourage you to read historian <a href="http://bellacresborough.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/Beaver-Road.pdf">Debby Rabold's history of the Pittsburgh-Beaver Road</a>. She has also written about the local watering trough phenomenon on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/permalink.php?story_fbid=174915431531926&id=108498378173632&paipv=0&eav=AfZN4y66IAx1Rc1gjVLHepNIzwxyKffr1TFetIXjKsfjZCkQH0WrS10RQ-_DYXO52is&_rdr">this Facebook page</a>.</p><p>Along with this vestigial watering trough, I obsess over the caves in our hillsides. I poke around the root balls of new fallen trees in the woods, looking for arrowheads or -- I don't know -- treasure? This entire area was filled with the native people who gave the town its name, and I am so curious about what it all may have looked like back then, and what it was like for them to live here, and walk these same paths? </p><p>Oh, and the caves? The Sewickley caves remain quite mysterious. One man wrote <a href="https://ingest-digitalarchives.powerlibrary.org/papd/islandora/object/papd%3Apsepl-hiad2_840?overlay_query=RELS_EXT_isMemberOfCollection_uri_ms%3A%22info%3Afedora/papd%3Apsepl-hiad2%22">this first-hand account of the Bellrock Caves of Sewickley</a>. I've also read The Caves of Sewickley, a book that can only be read in the library, but a fascinating account of the "Jazz Babies" who were reputed to have hung out in the Sewickley Caves.</p><p>Shield Spring gives me a thrill every time I see it, embedded into the side of this road that is still busy -- not with flocks of turkeys, or British troops, but people like me, heading to Giant Eagle.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-67562226095686323862024-03-04T17:44:00.000-08:002024-03-04T17:52:50.079-08:00Seven Things I Love About Sewickley: #6 The Village Clock Tower<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwLsVaptfZ5CGdvxe_xjtQunZiOhTqaQbd6-MMLR6pdYVVWRnroB1mIyqXWfGaC4yPJvq0gj7ytdoXAkxEKJwvPG474wwu5QqI1bmpaov_2K6Ljlo1F4tITaZpcY6iXZqRI4XW4jI2iLkVL6EXwZFD7UXaUdV5cTMNSNd4Wq-443Y1boJPzIG/s4080/PXL_20240304_230118740.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFwLsVaptfZ5CGdvxe_xjtQunZiOhTqaQbd6-MMLR6pdYVVWRnroB1mIyqXWfGaC4yPJvq0gj7ytdoXAkxEKJwvPG474wwu5QqI1bmpaov_2K6Ljlo1F4tITaZpcY6iXZqRI4XW4jI2iLkVL6EXwZFD7UXaUdV5cTMNSNd4Wq-443Y1boJPzIG/s320/PXL_20240304_230118740.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">My third grade teacher, Mrs. McCloskey, taught us "Afternoon on a Hill" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #343434; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #343434; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;">I will be the gladdest thing</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"> Under the sun!</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;">I will touch a hundred flowers</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"> And not pick one.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #343434; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;">I will look at cliffs and clouds</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"> With quiet eyes,</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;">Watch the wind bow down the grass,</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"> And the grass rise.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #343434; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;">And when lights begin to show</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"> Up from the town,</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;">I will mark which must be mine,</span><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" /><span class="long-line" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline-block; margin-left: 32px; text-indent: -32px;"> And then start down!</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"> </span></p></blockquote><blockquote><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #343434; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">(Text retrieved from </span><a href="https://poets.org/poem/afternoon-hill" style="background-color: transparent; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">Poets.org</a><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: georgia; font-size: small;">.)</span></p></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It is <a href="https://www.sewickleyumc.org/our-churchs-history/2021/11/6/village-clock-tower-facts">The Village Clock Tower</a>, two blocks from our home, that I use to "mark which must be mine, and then start down" when I am up in the cemetery, in the hills behind War Memorial Park, or any of the wild places the dog and I go.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />It is this tower that I spot from airplanes as we get close to the airport, and I know that home is within reach.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If I peep out my bedroom window, that beautiful tower is always there. At night its clock is illuminated, so when clouds cover the moon, I always have a guidepost.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And the church bell! When we first arrived in town, I noticed the bell all the time, along with the trains rumbling and whistling along the Ohio River, and the airplanes overhead.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Eight years later, I no longer "hear" the trains or the airplanes -- they have faded into my sense, just like the vague smell of burning coal that mists along the river some mornings.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The bell, however, is still how I mark my day. As I'm closing my eyes, I can hear the rich "bong" emanating from the tower, just as it has since 1884, and I drift off to sleep. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9HgRlWeH3IE" width="320" youtube-src-id="9HgRlWeH3IE"></iframe></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">During one Light Up Night, the church gen</span><span style="font-size: medium;">erously led tours up to the top of the tower. What a thrill it was! And it shook our very bones when that bell rang. We heard about the time that the church considered removing the spire, and the campaign in the 1990's to save it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So when I think of the visual touchstones that I deeply love in this world, this church spire has become one for me. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How else could I mark which must be mine, and then start down?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-52981351787809356972024-03-03T14:46:00.000-08:002024-03-04T17:04:40.103-08:00Seven Things I Love about Sewickley: #7 Devil's Hollow Four Way Intersection<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioDsOVdjIr3-4T5UlmHjFvOYgArhtCRhaD8DdbO1VTif0kJtb5aHi8UsaQKVkg_l8-2l78e7vmPHVUtpTJ6Oo8B4S8635W3RABcEVUNo9EbyTygF2EnB7wCBp8YijbDXmkOJBoU3F1OZHkmmcMLvPjUrTAN4UY4F6-zLL8qmhfROKA7E9Pg60j" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1804" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEioDsOVdjIr3-4T5UlmHjFvOYgArhtCRhaD8DdbO1VTif0kJtb5aHi8UsaQKVkg_l8-2l78e7vmPHVUtpTJ6Oo8B4S8635W3RABcEVUNo9EbyTygF2EnB7wCBp8YijbDXmkOJBoU3F1OZHkmmcMLvPjUrTAN4UY4F6-zLL8qmhfROKA7E9Pg60j=w400-h301" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This exact spot on this precise trail</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">There are seven places I love most of all in Sewickley so far. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">#7 is this seemingly plain trail intersection.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You see, this is the top of the trail that starts along Sevin Road. There is a little pull-out halfway up the road, and a rock that reads "Ann Boocock Coburn Memorial Hiking Trail." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI7QKfcFhgjjFlPLbXVxcwcjVf4Cn6XuIXLQjuaDmiOEZL0irwaWhmLygHzJg5ngfKip4nT7c2ExZOaTkYCVFY8b_aCvIK412Wsb1olRZ7Bc_pcHeq3x35RNVaRLx9glWMElK9QtiIurUma3_P9wXxaMkMBkDbxLlNvBBhjoF9URmS7A1KMIQN" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI7QKfcFhgjjFlPLbXVxcwcjVf4Cn6XuIXLQjuaDmiOEZL0irwaWhmLygHzJg5ngfKip4nT7c2ExZOaTkYCVFY8b_aCvIK412Wsb1olRZ7Bc_pcHeq3x35RNVaRLx9glWMElK9QtiIurUma3_P9wXxaMkMBkDbxLlNvBBhjoF9URmS7A1KMIQN" width="181" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The trailhead</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you go up that trail and through the creek (you 100% need boots), you will find a little wonderland: Tulip trees and birds of prey, a rocky creek that epitomizes Pennsylvania, and a hillside filled with pretty greenery. Just keep going up the trail, then make a left when it comes to a "T."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A little beyond that, you will find this magical four-way intersection. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you head left, you'll discover the actual Devil's Hollow trail, and cross another creek into a mysterious canyon. You can also take a turn up to Sewickley Heights Golf Course, and admire their pretty little pond.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">If you head right, you'll be on a trail called "Christian" that loops back to your original trail, or into some strange private property, or onto a hillside I haven't yet explored. There are lean-to's made by fallen trees and pretty sights everywhere you look.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But if you head straight, onto the trail that barely looks like a trail (but totally IS one), you'll be on Bobcat. Bobcat is a small, steep trail where I get lost about 50% of the time. Bobcat also features my children's favorite mossy rock.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgafYZoVG19tVzs5sEnCwaCXWQKAt0Wk7HaYfqA-eTjdG9f4aD4mGNsZCPbjiir0Wt-EdM6a0J9jivqJvQ8C2ante8apbGuKVzfj80x9Nupswk0f8K0yXa_1Oet01EtUz1dOZt1KATLPOkZktDDNLE7pa7-RIzyTtDwTFnjjjpi3DUSz3XnHHX_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgafYZoVG19tVzs5sEnCwaCXWQKAt0Wk7HaYfqA-eTjdG9f4aD4mGNsZCPbjiir0Wt-EdM6a0J9jivqJvQ8C2ante8apbGuKVzfj80x9Nupswk0f8K0yXa_1Oet01EtUz1dOZt1KATLPOkZktDDNLE7pa7-RIzyTtDwTFnjjjpi3DUSz3XnHHX_" width="181" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div>This trail was our salvation during Covid. We spent a silly amount of time clambering around on and around Bobcat and The Mossy Rock. We just kept gravitating to it, so much that we set up a Geocache near that Bobcat trailhead, to help lure other people to this spot. <a href="https://www.geocaching.com/geocache/GC8N9KG">This is the link to the geocache, in case you would also like to trade treasures with us</a>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But that four-way intersection fills my heart every time I see it. It's early March now, so that photo doesn't look particularly special, but I love the <i>possibilities </i>there. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can get lost, get in trouble, and generally enjoy every single visit I make to this intersection.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I can go down Christian, and loop back to the car -- I can head up to the Devil's Hollow trail, and see if there are any tadpoles in the pond. Or we could stumble down old Bobcat, with its hidden treasures and that wonderful mossy rock.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It's a fulcrum of adventure, and I never regret a trip.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzX8-V1_I7OPV1Q0nyk54CeMWyKQCfK8oH5KmhTrVRq5eROmwjhigiBSvRx9HgKPUGBIcJh1EXJrdbHQJ6DQIn8gy2jb83ef--SxxTJk5M0hO0MxBLuFW41ftGjWTmHZAr76XKbeBFZiiL3yVecyFNcFWSXJkubNwofY9_l2sGl3jGD7amCgs9" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzX8-V1_I7OPV1Q0nyk54CeMWyKQCfK8oH5KmhTrVRq5eROmwjhigiBSvRx9HgKPUGBIcJh1EXJrdbHQJ6DQIn8gy2jb83ef--SxxTJk5M0hO0MxBLuFW41ftGjWTmHZAr76XKbeBFZiiL3yVecyFNcFWSXJkubNwofY9_l2sGl3jGD7amCgs9=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 2020</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-12682644510888829872024-03-02T17:39:00.000-08:002024-03-02T17:39:02.680-08:00Cat #8: Minerva<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitxNl7RkWUTU4KRlcSkyofWKdGwSxhuGm81BNufd66ipHlp2NOuoriYiZ6UXdHggQ_oHlgmRiMF9DAYnK48voygwMygy2WB0K1wKMn7mCbgV_UtqEVo6Qm3Gv0iG8lLINaIZk3PaPvM9fwPvOvxpKWK3vvNKo-NqfPVwzEb-jgF_AfyPRpP93c" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1226" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitxNl7RkWUTU4KRlcSkyofWKdGwSxhuGm81BNufd66ipHlp2NOuoriYiZ6UXdHggQ_oHlgmRiMF9DAYnK48voygwMygy2WB0K1wKMn7mCbgV_UtqEVo6Qm3Gv0iG8lLINaIZk3PaPvM9fwPvOvxpKWK3vvNKo-NqfPVwzEb-jgF_AfyPRpP93c=w362-h400" width="362" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minerva: The Boss</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After reading about Cats #1-#7, you would be forgiven if you thought that cats didn't like us. </p><p>Between early departures (Mega-T and Rehnquist), standoffish dudes (Prince and Otto), and cats who frittered off to other homes (Diamond and Magnus), that theory holds some merit.</p><p>But wait! I haven't introduced you to Minerva McGonagall (AKA Minnie) yet. </p><p>Not to jinx it, but Minerva likes living in our home, with this particular set of people, plus her dog.</p><p>Wait, Erica, did you mean to write "her dog?" </p><p>I did. But allow me to back up, though, to Minerva's beginnings... </p><p>You see, when I first asked my fellow cat foster for a photo of her neighbor's kittens, THIS is what she sent:</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOaUNnM5rGQrkp-9jTlcQEmH39JFGqwyagmRCMebNruFUcnHiC0PpH_ajSGRQZMkG0XosNt-MfWoeGwnoy0D5P9t2nBZUCBgToMeM8Kc5uGT4zoHvZgjhpsy95vMeXnPNK5lhqV3jcx60xvoo2Hqj55J1HRReOAMxGW7XouLVI4L0HA-gx2QDV" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1908" data-original-width="4032" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgOaUNnM5rGQrkp-9jTlcQEmH39JFGqwyagmRCMebNruFUcnHiC0PpH_ajSGRQZMkG0XosNt-MfWoeGwnoy0D5P9t2nBZUCBgToMeM8Kc5uGT4zoHvZgjhpsy95vMeXnPNK5lhqV3jcx60xvoo2Hqj55J1HRReOAMxGW7XouLVI4L0HA-gx2QDV=w640-h302" width="640" /></a></div><br />I immediately texted this photo to <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2006/09/im-psychic.html?q=psychic">my friend K.</a>, a fellow cat expert, and she knew EXACTLY what we were looking at here: An amazing new <a href="https://www.goodhousekeeping.com/life/pets/g27570035/tortoiseshell-cat/">tortoiseshell cat</a> ("tortie") had come into this world, and she was already full of sass. <p></p><p>Look at that face, peeping over the edge of the basket!</p><p>Sure, the black and white one (Magnus) was the handsome looker of the bunch. But with those wide eyes, that precocious gleam in her eye, the tortie was *the one* as far as K. and I were concerned. </p><p>Luckily, I successfully used my time-worn two-kitten negotiation tactic: "We don't want the black and white one to be lonely, do we?"</p><p>So, when we saw these two play with each other, then snuggle down for a nap, I was able to sell my family members on the tortie, in addition to her brother.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUrqURppxCsPA8iR34Rc-94PNRPh0ow0ortgn2aG922Wbf3a2omcy0gF-XtHuyjcZY_B_mYQw3M2boFSKAeHXuQ2YWrOpfIGswFyz_aefr07pL4WXTXdiD2ncEK4NfPh4H5qdferYQuQWEGojY420BIux8fVVcp0MMPgLEE76Yqwz17Be5-FKJ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhUrqURppxCsPA8iR34Rc-94PNRPh0ow0ortgn2aG922Wbf3a2omcy0gF-XtHuyjcZY_B_mYQw3M2boFSKAeHXuQ2YWrOpfIGswFyz_aefr07pL4WXTXdiD2ncEK4NfPh4H5qdferYQuQWEGojY420BIux8fVVcp0MMPgLEE76Yqwz17Be5-FKJ=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>And so it was that a few weeks later, we brought Minerva home together with Magnus.<div><br /></div><div>Her name just kind of "happened." She just seemed like a "Minnie" to us, and we extended it to Minerva McGonagall, after our favorite teacher in Harry Potter.</div><div><br /></div><div>We later discovered that her original family also called her Minnie. She resembled her mama, so they called her "Mini-Me" or just "Minnie." So her name was the same from the day she was born!</div><div><br /></div><div>Where Magnus grew up to be a wanderer, following Diamond on her daily rounds (she reluctantly tolerated him), and ending up in other people's homes more than once, Minerva stayed at home.</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaf4d1Ap98VTBseYk-T1qxhQUiFe70iGdvuxNEoqtCBi1l52u1ONQo97Z9Eex5piGQ-jEheZAlKvVlU9rZ5qBH28dLtO5OveJOnchLDJj2l-bflFVtHxrDq8RUMX3Er3xbqGdgpdz5zIuxk5pVhO4VtK2vHPfsV1Wy7ZHA6wI9gyR2fCfqOJFK" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaf4d1Ap98VTBseYk-T1qxhQUiFe70iGdvuxNEoqtCBi1l52u1ONQo97Z9Eex5piGQ-jEheZAlKvVlU9rZ5qBH28dLtO5OveJOnchLDJj2l-bflFVtHxrDq8RUMX3Er3xbqGdgpdz5zIuxk5pVhO4VtK2vHPfsV1Wy7ZHA6wI9gyR2fCfqOJFK=w241-h320" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast with Minerva</td></tr></tbody></table>Minerva loves our front garden, and our comfy beds, and -- it seems -- us. She loves so many things about our house: stair landings to judge people and dogs from, plastic garbage can liners to shred at five o'clock in the morning, and the dog's food.</div><div><br /></div><div>As mentioned in my post about Minnie's brother, we got a dog when the kittens were about eight months old. Both cats taught him how to clean his face, how to hunt rodents, and how to fight by slapping his opponents.</div><div><br /></div><div>Both cats also followed us whenever we took Larry on walks. Larry was initially quite afraid of walking around the block, but we noticed that he was much braver when the cats accompanied us. He would just chase his cat buddies around the block, and his confidence grew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unlike her brother, Minerva was quite firm with Larry from the get-go. If he tried to pull some kind of dog BS on her (nipping at her, barking, etc.), she would hiss at him, then slap him straight in the face. He learned quickly that she was the boss, and gives her space when she asks for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Minerva remains the absolute queen of the household. For example, when I put food down for Larry, Minerva always takes the first few bites before he is allowed to. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Minerva makes sure that all the trains run on time in our household. She is always up at the crack of dawn, leaping on Caroline in particular, making sure that everyone is up and at 'em.</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbdVkrr6nHwjgCYqWC-b-N2WMgxnPmaQASNGpaqPvdmmi_qN9h10GEtPdLJaUVW7TWX50l3aZioxPFDd_L0kQ_lnlSS-l-MUW-p1QymPvj9fYkJ-nHuRPioN1TEsr5Tgsj23L47ItZJEsM8S1Spgg_9s7OGZTrluMcWt2cIjJw-p49weR0XdcD" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbdVkrr6nHwjgCYqWC-b-N2WMgxnPmaQASNGpaqPvdmmi_qN9h10GEtPdLJaUVW7TWX50l3aZioxPFDd_L0kQ_lnlSS-l-MUW-p1QymPvj9fYkJ-nHuRPioN1TEsr5Tgsj23L47ItZJEsM8S1Spgg_9s7OGZTrluMcWt2cIjJw-p49weR0XdcD=w241-h320" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning friend</td></tr></tbody></table>Although she has access to food at all times (witness her growing girth...), she prefers to be chased to her food to add a little drama to the situation.</div><br /><div>When she gets frisky, she likes to engage the dog in elaborate chasing games up and down the stairs. She stops and furiously scratches at the base of a stairs, which is apparently his cue to give chase. They have some wild times. </div><div><br /></div><div>But Minerva's most wonderful trait is that she might be the friendliest tortoiseshell cat I've ever met. She's nothing like her outgoing brother or Diamond, and won't approach new people just willy-nilly, but she's not crabby and out-of-sorts. She really likes to settle down on people's laps and make herself at home.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Minerva likes to check in with each of us, and be involved with whatever is going on. Yes, she is judging us a lot of the time, but she seems to, well, <i>like us</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I came home from a haircut today, she was waiting on the front porch. She immediately started squirming around, needing to be admired for a while, then she waited for me to open the door, so she could come in. To her home.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju9l5HWhTfRD91nB2Oy1FYE-d1BZ0EZ84WhNyxscjf5mhOtCJLG-vbeHS2hRE2XWqZn7o4LH5b8dxppUzUQHtDAFfGfHvGJj5bS0tzWCl8KLomN1dgPOMI70CzaC5155c8ryR0kyNIVUM4zQVJe-astLPemEWyKVlfKQd-jVxdNsyahNXTA87q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju9l5HWhTfRD91nB2Oy1FYE-d1BZ0EZ84WhNyxscjf5mhOtCJLG-vbeHS2hRE2XWqZn7o4LH5b8dxppUzUQHtDAFfGfHvGJj5bS0tzWCl8KLomN1dgPOMI70CzaC5155c8ryR0kyNIVUM4zQVJe-astLPemEWyKVlfKQd-jVxdNsyahNXTA87q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRZ5OB1QVm60CxNg0X401JfBtXSI1K9aLiozOyxsVOI8M1rB_Si8TAVgokLVLyFOetzRSIGAjX6CynS3uGwF2k6jrwFjKu1NqcksV5R-C0eU1bHwLSwTQrutFbUKi3j8l57TmL9SjyqgEbFz6SR5y2QcV1M5y3pH2hUDfKdXj-WGsSJlCpe8T_" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1022" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiRZ5OB1QVm60CxNg0X401JfBtXSI1K9aLiozOyxsVOI8M1rB_Si8TAVgokLVLyFOetzRSIGAjX6CynS3uGwF2k6jrwFjKu1NqcksV5R-C0eU1bHwLSwTQrutFbUKi3j8l57TmL9SjyqgEbFz6SR5y2QcV1M5y3pH2hUDfKdXj-WGsSJlCpe8T_=w302-h400" width="302" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-87928282519339099272024-03-02T12:59:00.000-08:002024-03-02T12:59:32.766-08:00The day I found out I was going to be a mom, or why I cry when I hear "She's Always a Woman."<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvOZBgNkxPX1CXARXtQ2pfCjYHgPUq8wuQkn3IkQnu02omlGNpcNMzueVutk00x5HDq2pWvWL_M9u-P1zPp8tgds4goT-DrbKZwCe9VvSj-MyBo9i5Sjv2HcaFYTSpps_Q5zUIfZfA6_cu0kDEypFUZ0gTw3jn_ASCTR2ZW0uUl50hPui7SrRC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhvOZBgNkxPX1CXARXtQ2pfCjYHgPUq8wuQkn3IkQnu02omlGNpcNMzueVutk00x5HDq2pWvWL_M9u-P1zPp8tgds4goT-DrbKZwCe9VvSj-MyBo9i5Sjv2HcaFYTSpps_Q5zUIfZfA6_cu0kDEypFUZ0gTw3jn_ASCTR2ZW0uUl50hPui7SrRC" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"She's ahead of her time."</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>It had been a big year. </p><p>We'd gotten engaged in January, married in June, and moved out to a house in the suburbs in October. Our PR agency was two years old, and our cats <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2024/02/cat-1-stanley.html">Stanley</a> and <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2024/02/cat-2-megathumos.html">Megathumos</a> were happily exploring the backyard of our home, complete with fruit trees and roses, and all sorts of domesticity we didn't yet understand.</p><p>Every day I took BART into The City, and climbed three flights of stairs up to our office, the one with my name on the door, where we worked our butts off. I had barely taken a breath as we'd gotten it off the ground, and as a group, we were proud of all we had accomplished. </p><p>But in the middle of December 2004, I was slow to climb those stairs.</p><p>I was also heading to the bathroom more than usual.</p><p>When I realized my period was a week late, I bought a pregnancy test, and dutifully waited, as per the instructions, to test my first morning urine. At five o'clock the next morning, my eyes flew open, and I darted to the bathroom, test in hand. I was pretty excited.</p><p>I peed on the test, and within a minute, I saw the two pink lines I had hoped for.</p><p>In retrospect, I am so grateful for my innocence during that era of my life. We only had to try for a few months to get pregnant, and I took it for granted that the pregnancy was here to stay. I could idealize the pregnancy experience from start to finish, and I was safe in doing so.</p><p>That morning in our new house, motherhood stretched in front of me like an inevitable destination, and my heart simply soared. It worked! We worked! </p><p>I raced out of the bathroom and immediately told our cat, Megathumos, who was happy to hang out and chat. But I soon needed a human audience.</p><p>This is the glory of living on the West Coast: you can call people on the East Coast before the sun even rises, and they're already up.</p><p>So I called Oma.</p><p>"Ach, Erica!" she admonished me, when I shared the news. "Don't tell ANYONE ELSE. It's so early!"</p><p>"Oh, Oma, I'm just so excited."</p><p>I paced around and waited a few hours in vain for my husband to wake up.</p><p>Finally, I jumped into the car, turned on the radio, and drove over to the Walnut Creek Barnes & Noble to brashly purchase the only book I knew on the topic: What to Expect When You're Expecting. </p><p>When I heard the opening strains of "She's Always a Woman"* come on the radio, I turned it up, and started singing along. </p><p>A moment later, at a red light, and I looked at the radio in a stunned way and said, "I'm having a girl."</p><p>I felt transported by the lyrics, and knew that we would soon be parents to a daughter.</p><p>No one in the bookstore was as impressed with my purchase as they should have been, and when I got back home, some of our friends had arrived to play board games. So it would be awhile before I'd have a chance to tell our daughter's father of her existence.</p><p>But in those hours, she was all mine. Mine, and Oma's, tiny baby girl.</p><p>And to this day, when I hear that song come on, I still cry. I feel the full weight of my deep love for this daughter that started that morning, and my certainty that we were having a daughter, and that we would name her after my sister, and she would be amazing.</p><p><br /></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq-7w_BzZiPIpyoomccU1j4MthUkr7qpEKmR_XVowxrLMMImPyqDVtcXnBagyuvsdaKCqyt--9OKZVIXZr6912qmWLOs6ywsrxsdPeSRTRm4I4esAEPBZpWWoZsI5agVjg6mCRqXqzffyrE19eI3UtxM3gOzsdoDFAtE6KBTBlDPtGJrOToNTL" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiq-7w_BzZiPIpyoomccU1j4MthUkr7qpEKmR_XVowxrLMMImPyqDVtcXnBagyuvsdaKCqyt--9OKZVIXZr6912qmWLOs6ywsrxsdPeSRTRm4I4esAEPBZpWWoZsI5agVjg6mCRqXqzffyrE19eI3UtxM3gOzsdoDFAtE6KBTBlDPtGJrOToNTL" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">September 2005<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>* I could not testify <i>under oath</i> that the song I heard wasn't Billy Joel's "She's Got a Way" instead of "She's Always a Woman." I am <i>pretty sure </i>it was "She's Always a Woman" but I was in a fugue state, and definitely shouldn't have been driving, so I'm not sure. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-52328696784685317612024-02-28T18:20:00.000-08:002024-02-28T18:20:09.952-08:00Cat #7: Magnus<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu88ggeM3L8S1KpMczuT4MGp0ClDkkm5FqKId-_HhdyRHt3NcgJsl-WxqDdWPiQQal6BOlA1JSD4msZsAOd6Ukpetn-riJimL8HUI_OA3j7f_nfhYV6j3DSMVxqF1BPS56GEr98qaaRHjVbuhbpgUfFWtDCFNndfY_wX3y4ByTsJVRspqW4gmd" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhu88ggeM3L8S1KpMczuT4MGp0ClDkkm5FqKId-_HhdyRHt3NcgJsl-WxqDdWPiQQal6BOlA1JSD4msZsAOd6Ukpetn-riJimL8HUI_OA3j7f_nfhYV6j3DSMVxqF1BPS56GEr98qaaRHjVbuhbpgUfFWtDCFNndfY_wX3y4ByTsJVRspqW4gmd=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnus at three months old</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Soon after Rehnquist died, I couldn't stand it anymore. The house was so empty. Diamond came in sometimes, and would swat at our legs and yell at us occasionally -- but we were missing Rehnquist's constant presence.</p><p>I posted on the Humane Animal Rescue foster page, wondering if anyone had some kittens to recommend, and that's how we found Magnus, and his sister Minerva.</p><p>Since their stories take dramatically different turns, I am writing about them one at a time.</p><p>A fellow cat foster wrote that her neighbor's cat had just had kittens, and she was working to help find them homes. She sent us a few very convincing photos, including this one: </p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiui0fARII36OAdLBD23mS0-FGoOuW7-7e4heNC7AHyBrh-orMZoCCFhytDMnlpm6aUkxSX8J9QVfvKfoucAQVI3W_jd_hMPz-KR45uWPzD6oBf168heXsxFs521iN6O6Ng9uaYXj2cZKmA8655FZNkFOdcixDBGoTn0bFc2bFX_F86KSAtR4Wl" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1908" data-original-width="4032" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiui0fARII36OAdLBD23mS0-FGoOuW7-7e4heNC7AHyBrh-orMZoCCFhytDMnlpm6aUkxSX8J9QVfvKfoucAQVI3W_jd_hMPz-KR45uWPzD6oBf168heXsxFs521iN6O6Ng9uaYXj2cZKmA8655FZNkFOdcixDBGoTn0bFc2bFX_F86KSAtR4Wl=w400-h189" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnus (left) at four weeks (with another littermate, not Minerva)</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We went to go meet the kittens and make some decisions. Within a few minutes, it was clear that the black and white one would eventually be part of our family.<p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFNnq9HAQiUhdREOiA1UIVKiT4U0EuhTtjl_lU3DvGrAVys_sDUPFPtrnIzx2zYZUue8b_a3mctO9qlGuOj3Iie-AsEOzfPnvacV3153uot3xXT11OjN-3w4m1xTmkAdHjuXMkjlfnSUymD6hgFgV8U0TvTBjZmZvWbhCpnKgtfiytflLaQa_w" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjFNnq9HAQiUhdREOiA1UIVKiT4U0EuhTtjl_lU3DvGrAVys_sDUPFPtrnIzx2zYZUue8b_a3mctO9qlGuOj3Iie-AsEOzfPnvacV3153uot3xXT11OjN-3w4m1xTmkAdHjuXMkjlfnSUymD6hgFgV8U0TvTBjZmZvWbhCpnKgtfiytflLaQa_w" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magnus at six weeks</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Magnus is an incredibly sweet cat, and he loves everyone. He is passive and curious, with an unfortunate penchant for "visiting" neighbors' bird feeders (he is no longer menacing birds, don't worry!). He and his sister, Minerva, really enjoyed gamboling around our house, and around our yard.<p></p><p>When the kittens were about eight months old, we brought home our first puppy: Larry. </p><p>Magnus and Minerva immediately took the new dog under their collective wing. They both took the puppy on walks, and they taught him to fight by smacking in the face (it took a while for him to stop "grooming" himself and batting other dogs in the face, in a very cat-like manner).</p><p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1q2LranGbkTHeLuMUOypVJq6795e1vWWHwOF8GDFs0qzR2RXvHZCbuBaa1PIDThPc49PU8iy1oc6oE1APWHtxwORA2zOF6-qUm4JZTyAxKHTnxqyN1_GfTlzmH8UcG1qApX1peupZtdR5a548wCdetyly1kPLR64yC1p3-6yiYpLyduEfPE59" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1q2LranGbkTHeLuMUOypVJq6795e1vWWHwOF8GDFs0qzR2RXvHZCbuBaa1PIDThPc49PU8iy1oc6oE1APWHtxwORA2zOF6-qUm4JZTyAxKHTnxqyN1_GfTlzmH8UcG1qApX1peupZtdR5a548wCdetyly1kPLR64yC1p3-6yiYpLyduEfPE59" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kittens take the puppy out for a walk, Fall 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>As Larry grew, however, he became more boisterous when he played with the cats. Minerva enjoyed roughhousing with the dog. Magnus, however, would go limp when Larry tried to play with him, and just kind of hated it over time.</p><p>Minerva and Larry would happily wrestle up and down the stairs, but Magnus would just kind of submit to Larry's attempts at play. I really wished that Magnus would at least swipe at Larry, and tell him to go away, rather than lying there so passively while the dog pestered him. I felt like I needed to come to Magnus's aid, and distract the dog in these situations.</p><p>Magnus started sleeping over at a neighbor's house around this time. The neighbors were very nice about it, and happily accepted Magnus as another member of their household. They bought some cat supplies, and started posting some of his best naps on Instagram.</p><p>It was hard to deny that Magnus was living a much more peaceful life with the people down the street. Magnus's sister Minerva and the dog had formed a happy alliance, but Magnus and Larry just hadn't. It was a stressful situation for everyone.</p><p>Then came the news that the neighbors were moving away. They asked if they could take Magnus with them, and I initially scoffed at the idea. Separate him from his sister? Send him to their home in Finland? It sounded preposterous.</p><p>Then, Magnus got sick. He had some kind of puncture wound (from a woodland creature? Larry?), and it became infected. I took him to the emergency vet, and they cleaned it and administered antibiotics. Moments after we arrived home, while he was still weak from his retreating fever, Magnus walked a half block away and curled up in our neighbor's lap.</p><p>I couldn't deny it anymore: He was her cat. He had chosen her. It felt terrible -- I had failed this cat. If I hadn't gotten the dog, he wouldn't have been intimidated out of his home, away from his littermate. But this was the situation we were in, and this neighbor loved my cat dearly.</p><p>So I called her to let her know we'd changed our minds, and Magnus became HER cat. She was overjoyed. After a flurry of paperwork, Magnus flew to Finland with her a week later, living his new indoor life in Helsinki (<a href="https://www.hel.fi/en/urban-environment-and-traffic/protection-of-the-environment-and-nature/animals/pets-and-domestic-animals#:~:text=Cats%20are%20recommended%20to%20be,enclosures%20or%20on%20a%20harness.">where outdoor cats are illegal</a>).</p><p>She has continued to chronicle Magnus's adventures and his lovely spirit on her <a href="https://www.instagram.com/mmatleenalaakso/">Instagram</a> account.</p><p>Magnus flies with her from Helsinki to St. Louis for part of the year, as well, as her boyfriend is a hockey player. </p><p>So if you, like me, would like to keep up on the goings-on of this incredibly sweet kitten and his very loving family, she generously posts videos and photos of him!</p><p>I particularly enjoyed <a href="https://www.tiktok.com/@mmatleenal/video/7329529600969772334">this TikTok from last month</a>, with Mags in the bathtub, as is his wont.</p><p>So this was the unexpected twist in Magnus's tale. He knows he's always welcome back with us in Pennsylvania, but I don't see one reason why he'd give up the beautiful life he created for himself!</p> <script async="" src="https://www.tiktok.com/embed.js"></script>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-41320435122244544302024-02-26T15:07:00.000-08:002024-02-26T15:07:17.790-08:00Cat #6: Diamond<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAya9qeqtWLNE1E6HSc07tgL_dHd9YJVLsMPvrMpm4OjGCm1RNtGpELiJnm0hqGDAVJmmRjANf2IZZ2K7zthMgDlsm0XvEFqCzy99OjkeeXNEUFwa_k9o98Z4Sa18PqEqRGn-9XAHdOteaxiNIpIGOk3_kuyEPsh3pYUScFuddErROZ-UBrgcX" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhAya9qeqtWLNE1E6HSc07tgL_dHd9YJVLsMPvrMpm4OjGCm1RNtGpELiJnm0hqGDAVJmmRjANf2IZZ2K7zthMgDlsm0XvEFqCzy99OjkeeXNEUFwa_k9o98Z4Sa18PqEqRGn-9XAHdOteaxiNIpIGOk3_kuyEPsh3pYUScFuddErROZ-UBrgcX=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I've got news for you." </td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>I've got news about Diamond!</p><p>First, a review: Diamond is our sixth cat. At the time of her adoption in the spring of 2012, we had <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2024/02/cats-3-4-prince-and-otto.html?q=prince+and+otto">Prince and Otto</a>, who remained somewhat reclusive, and we had the gregarious <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2024/02/cat-5-rehnquist.html">Rehnquist</a>. </p><p>We had recently moved away from Rehnquist's pack of cat friends in Pleasant Hill, so I figured I'd get him a new friend to pal around with. The result was an abject failure in that way: Diamond is no fan of other cats.</p><p>However, we did get an absolute LEGEND of a cat. <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2021/02/diamond-living-her-best-life.html?q=diamond">I wrote about her major exploits here</a>.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimftpfSjrQC36w87wsjDL-WSDMqNUKKHmkojg8XkA9y8OTbvLHXPaD185xHfWYKLEWmAg8pJ0sPnNMLmCAvSmX1cOwkBm1mskIaBhpnkxnGn-gdCXSSCtTq2-e_Uy_mLL4pixLHgv5i2Yn7mDupT5qzKxlzrqTUUDclQK2GcNXIL1XfdHEI2R3" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1154" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEimftpfSjrQC36w87wsjDL-WSDMqNUKKHmkojg8XkA9y8OTbvLHXPaD185xHfWYKLEWmAg8pJ0sPnNMLmCAvSmX1cOwkBm1mskIaBhpnkxnGn-gdCXSSCtTq2-e_Uy_mLL4pixLHgv5i2Yn7mDupT5qzKxlzrqTUUDclQK2GcNXIL1XfdHEI2R3=w225-h400" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table>Diamond is an incredibly social (with <i>humans</i>) cat. When we came to adopt her from the Pet Food Express in Walnut Creek, she was perched on the shoulders of the man who had been fostering her.</p><p>"She likes to do this," he explained.</p><p>Well, THAT was an understatement. She leapt from shoulder to shoulder throughout the time she lived with us -- it was her favorite place to roost. The plumber? Check. The real estate agent. Absolutely. Any man over 5'5" who walked in the house: his shoulders were HERS.</p><p>Diamond is 12 years old now, and she has made an epic decision: she's settling down.</p><p>She opted to move out of our home permanently last year. She hated the (not objectionable to anyone else) kittens we adopted. Then, when we got Larry the dog, she wrote us off forever. She would still follow us around town, and happily sit on our porch and eat any food we put out there. But otherwise, nope.</p><br /><p>Her big news: Diamond found another family, and they have made the decision permanent, and officially adopted her from us! </p><p>You see, Diamond moved into their home, and shows no sign of wanting to move on. They have unlocked an epic achievement: they created a home so wonderful, that even our rolling stone, Diamond, does not want to leave.</p><p>This has been a confusing time for her legions of fans, of course. Why hasn't she shown up at church? Or at the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting she went to every week for a year? What about "her" preschool, where she had made herself at home? She's apparently done with all that. Or taking a break. Or who knows.</p><p>As usual, it's Diamond's world -- we just live in it. If she decides to vacate her current, loving home, we will cross that bridge when we come to it.</p><p>In the meantime, our girl is happily snuggled down for the winter with her new family, who have been overjoyed by their good fortune.</p><p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitGrz4mK89xFta1m1wRdMSdc7QwC-8zNLAXuThcxU8pCRLGjvo1Atv2o0zzyTsP4LBB6eIdjETHU-PnKv8JUAnhxTl_QY68nzU_O1mmFuA8dD772_VwdnlAHF1fbJO-zFUzU5F0hZVzXy4LmEEUlHLccqXcbuE1gBCzyyG7GQKjRDp1lwl6Ldc" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitGrz4mK89xFta1m1wRdMSdc7QwC-8zNLAXuThcxU8pCRLGjvo1Atv2o0zzyTsP4LBB6eIdjETHU-PnKv8JUAnhxTl_QY68nzU_O1mmFuA8dD772_VwdnlAHF1fbJO-zFUzU5F0hZVzXy4LmEEUlHLccqXcbuE1gBCzyyG7GQKjRDp1lwl6Ldc=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This rolling stone has found a sweet pad!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-32393564993321773502024-02-25T05:56:00.000-08:002024-02-25T05:56:00.659-08:00Cat #5: Rehnquist<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaDFo5uYThujoionsg8NFmyEn2t_cSMiE1nZG8hd5km06L6HxMBDGXbxpBxk5D2cVjJ2aQoef_QtKN_j_6xG6bJ4rZCG4l6M0s-uAU0j8UAHLEH415poUGEzhHC2P4BtUDju8tx22fwym4LvANAr_E_Tik-i95Z-QqPHdIsd7uJSKAppyLPM6N" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjaDFo5uYThujoionsg8NFmyEn2t_cSMiE1nZG8hd5km06L6HxMBDGXbxpBxk5D2cVjJ2aQoef_QtKN_j_6xG6bJ4rZCG4l6M0s-uAU0j8UAHLEH415poUGEzhHC2P4BtUDju8tx22fwym4LvANAr_E_Tik-i95Z-QqPHdIsd7uJSKAppyLPM6N" width="320" /></a></div><p>When Rehnquist died of thyroid cancer in 2021, <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2021/04/rehnquist-2011-2021.html?q=rehnquist">I memorialized him with a post about his ridiculous and fluffy life</a>.</p><p>Rehnquist* had been such a boon to our family for the ten years he lived with us -- a souvenir from the 2011 Moraga Pear Festival -- that it felt impossible for our lives to go on without him.</p><p>But here is the thing: Rehnquist was deathly afraid of dogs. He had been chased by a dog when he was a kitten, and he never stopped being terrified of them. What Rehnquist loved was OTHER CATS.</p><p>I'd never had a cat who was so social with other cats before. Even our crusty old Otto could find an excuse to snuggle up with the good old Fluffbuster. It was because of his tutelage that generations of foster kittens were well socialized and ready for adoption after living in our house.</p><p>Although foster kittens are supposed to stay away from household cats, Rehnquist was insistent that he spend time with any kitten who came through our doors. Once, we fostered a black kitten whom we nicknamed "Silencio" because he never made a sound, and what's more -- we never <i>saw him</i>. He hid under furniture all day long, and we'd have to use a flashlight just to make sure we knew where he was.</p><p>However, around midnight each night, Rehnquist would somehow coax Silencio out of his hiding places, and those two would paint the town red! We heard so much mischief taking place between them -- it was wonderful to know that both the kitten and Rehnquist were getting their yayas out.</p><p>After our foster kittens returned to the shelter for adoption, "Uncle Rehnquist" would mourn right along with us, missing our little buddies as soon as they were out the door.</p><p>I tried adopting a permanent friend for Rehnquist, but that was a bust. Unfortunately, that cat was <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2021/02/diamond-living-her-best-life.html?q=rehnquist">Diamond</a>, who does not believe that she is a cat, and has no patience for anyone who does believe they are a cat. </p><p>Rehnquist's fear of dogs kept us from even considering owning a dog. <a href="https://www.tuxedo-cat.co.uk/do-cats-release-a-scent-when-scared/">He would emit a smell like a frightened skunk</a> when a dog came near.</p><p>After his death, I picked up his ashes from the local pet crematorium, and bawled in the car. But over the next few months, an idea began to take hold: could we get a.... dog now? </p><p>Could there actually be a silver lining to the death of this precious boy? </p><p>But first: there are three other cats to discuss!</p><p><br /></p><p>* A note: Our first child was born on the exact day that Justice William Rehnquist passed away of thyroid cancer. I find it a little odd that that's how his namesake cat died too.</p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-873687576970356332024-02-23T14:33:00.000-08:002024-02-24T11:59:43.975-08:00Cats #3 & #4: Prince and Otto<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZA3BfSWoCkACDi7Zd4QozdGnzpJboJnkOV9GWftTPgAcUgr0IuDM-ugJeoyjR3WfZZu49iu6mSWf6J8BLyxFgFvQJ5jDa-cbsCI58mO0zP75F4A6xhXaW3KodGITOB_UFHHspG0C1UEmKvGrY-JBnptlV4OI-I4t5rrs6pltzZBhgsJ0UfsxD" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1818" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZA3BfSWoCkACDi7Zd4QozdGnzpJboJnkOV9GWftTPgAcUgr0IuDM-ugJeoyjR3WfZZu49iu6mSWf6J8BLyxFgFvQJ5jDa-cbsCI58mO0zP75F4A6xhXaW3KodGITOB_UFHHspG0C1UEmKvGrY-JBnptlV4OI-I4t5rrs6pltzZBhgsJ0UfsxD=w400-h299" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prince and Otto at their second house in Orinda</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After Megathumos died in the fall of 2005, we were in shambles. Although he'd been sick most of his life, his death came as a shock to us. I felt a desperate need to fill the hole in our hearts with a new kitten, immediately.</p><p>I wrote to our local cat rescue group, <a href="https://www.communityconcernforcats.org/">Community Concern for Cats</a>, and I asked if they knew any young kittens who were *very, very healthy*.</p><p>I asked for young kittens, since Stanley he didn't care for other full-grown cats. He'd accepted, and protected, our Mega-T, since he was such a scrawny little thing. I was hoping to find another kitten whom Stanley would accept.</p><p>The rescue coordinator sent this message: <span class="il" face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: small;"></span></p><blockquote><span class="il" face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: small;">Tyler</span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"> </span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">and</span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"> </span><span class="il" face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: small;">Tyson</span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"> are </span><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">the Tuxedo Twins. They are six months old but worth meeting. They are the best cats ever and really want a home. If they are too old for you, they would probably just appreciate you saying hi to them because they are SUCH good boys. (I guess these guys is who I would match you with because at this age they have REAL personalities... and I love them!)</span></blockquote><span face="Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"></span><p></p><div>After reading that, I was hooked. I packed up baby Chebbles and headed to the adoption site to meet these boys. Regardless of how they acted at the site, I knew that I would be adopting these little buggers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had to nurse Chebbles in the dog food aisle of the pet store, since she was in a cluster-feeding-era, but I managed to spend some time at their cage and ascertain that Tyler and Tyson, these identical twins, were indeed SUCH good boys. This is what they looked like at the time:</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Br7FFqrpUem9AyN29AzVWkuH2SKeG_9oh98w9ltSt5o6K94jFYoEyBWCAkoECebdcxFi6N7s-1P78dZJWIloApu1S_RzNDNzdOBadaSHPFPk81tgydeqMXBDiTlqRiZWt2amaKeR7-Gsm5Jv8lerk8_znNUPinV1-1Hb_JZKwG7V8FZnVoOi/s2272/Tyler.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Br7FFqrpUem9AyN29AzVWkuH2SKeG_9oh98w9ltSt5o6K94jFYoEyBWCAkoECebdcxFi6N7s-1P78dZJWIloApu1S_RzNDNzdOBadaSHPFPk81tgydeqMXBDiTlqRiZWt2amaKeR7-Gsm5Jv8lerk8_znNUPinV1-1Hb_JZKwG7V8FZnVoOi/s320/Tyler.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tyler, who would become Prince</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxU3iyo3xMHFF9fax7NSpjD0AGZCxSHkgwcG01wClDOOnGutU4olctTL-mHHYbnuATE2fbTxh2E61EulMIVnsnGLt184ZkqWasg2FMa3MzNLxLKPE7FtEFu5ZqJzoyTX5QvGN3SM3qa2of9O9x7pPbsn7FnX0Do-TcnS62YA8pMoLAvzXEV_2/s2272/Tyson.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnxU3iyo3xMHFF9fax7NSpjD0AGZCxSHkgwcG01wClDOOnGutU4olctTL-mHHYbnuATE2fbTxh2E61EulMIVnsnGLt184ZkqWasg2FMa3MzNLxLKPE7FtEFu5ZqJzoyTX5QvGN3SM3qa2of9O9x7pPbsn7FnX0Do-TcnS62YA8pMoLAvzXEV_2/s320/Tyson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tyson, who would become Otto</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>I mean, honestly, was I going to leave them there? I signed the papers on the spot.</div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZmi_vcL_DTankywlqkNw8Ct4vRyARYwiSRKK4CzjG5xB_HD1Jakyj6hQBoMTlmrlV8hbpumBrEh88M3h03mwkh803RWIISnhej7T9UsPPxyRoHm-zME3CQqH4hZTUcDBYthXqC8fePjaq8uvXIfsScXtgPW_Y3GhptDlO4m9o7jDjMmSFjTQM" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="906" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZmi_vcL_DTankywlqkNw8Ct4vRyARYwiSRKK4CzjG5xB_HD1Jakyj6hQBoMTlmrlV8hbpumBrEh88M3h03mwkh803RWIISnhej7T9UsPPxyRoHm-zME3CQqH4hZTUcDBYthXqC8fePjaq8uvXIfsScXtgPW_Y3GhptDlO4m9o7jDjMmSFjTQM" width="160" /></a></div><br /></div><div>Their foster mama, Gemma, dropped them off at our home soon thereafter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd like to say that they were a perfect match in our household, but that would be stretching the truth. They were both a little skittish -- and how were we to know that we would go on to have two more boisterous children?</div><div><br /></div><div>That said, we loved them from the start. We renamed them Prinzregententorte AKA Prince (the smaller one who loved to wander far afield), and Otto von Gluteus aka Dodds aka Squeaky McGee (my constant, big-boned companion). </div><div><br /></div><div>Prince, in particular, was a spectacular hunter. I know that cats and wildlife are not a good combination in general, but Prince was a ratter, and no one can argue with a ratter.</div><div><br /></div><div>(OK, I confess, Prince also took out one of our neighbor's bantam roosters who had gotten out of his enclosure. He took that rooster over two fences and dismantled it in front of a crowd of neighbor children. No one's finest hour, that one.)</div><div><br /></div><div>But it was the big Norway rats that Prince specialized in, and, most notably, he would somehow kill them without a mark on them, and line them up on the front porch for our admiration. It should be noted that he was barely bigger than these rats. We still don't know how he did it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stanley did accept Prince and Otto, to our relief, and the three of them collectively rolled their eyes at all the baby energy in our house.</div><div><br /></div><div>Prince loved to wander far from home. I remember driving home from Date Night, more than a mile from the house, when Prince trotted right in front of our car. I rolled down the window, for some reason, and said something like, "What in the WORLD, Prince?" and he disappeared into the streets, pretending he hadn't heard.</div><div><br /></div><div>Prince loved rolling around in the sunshine, and he specialized in an activity we called the "Porrrrrch Parrrrty," where he would happily squirm all over the back porch while we admired him and called out encouragement.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, Prince died when he was nine years old. We aren't sure why. He was tested for everything under the sun, but clearly some kind of virus just... got him. Maybe it was the Rooster's Revenge.</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkPhAeKE1WclTo28g4nJjn-YGvTBEal_XGsGoX-LJpfbaoeZAsKuVCA5ac2YYpMqUZ054nwWpr6YxQV8MNdOi8MfMVaoOpFrxHNVxOTNJTG2cU4bIrYrf4c0bE8DKktHj4Nqpee9__oOQ5X8yqHw4PO6UnSDuGg914tIAkrO7eGKtHql1X8MCx" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkPhAeKE1WclTo28g4nJjn-YGvTBEal_XGsGoX-LJpfbaoeZAsKuVCA5ac2YYpMqUZ054nwWpr6YxQV8MNdOi8MfMVaoOpFrxHNVxOTNJTG2cU4bIrYrf4c0bE8DKktHj4Nqpee9__oOQ5X8yqHw4PO6UnSDuGg914tIAkrO7eGKtHql1X8MCx" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Otto's insurance fraud era</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Otto, however, lived to the ripe old age of 15. He was a terribly handsome cat who followed me everywhere. He gave the most excellent side eye, and had a gorgeous pelt until the day he died.</div><div><br /></div><div>Otto lived so long that he experienced dementia in his final two years. He would "sundown," get agitated in the evenings, and get lost inside the house in the middle of the night. There was something almost charming about his dementia. He spent long hours sitting on either my lap or Caroline's lap -- and our family rule became *DDO* -- Don't Disturb Otto. If Otto sat on someone before dinner, we would deliver food to that person, because you weren't getting up.</div><div><br /></div><div>We learned to cover the house with nightlights for him. Some of them are still in place, a kind of memorial to that time. When the nightlights came on, he was less likely to cry out for help at 2am. We had heated beds peppered throughout the house, too, in case he couldn't locate a warm lap. He looked so peaceful and handsome, curled up in this heated beds.</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVPt0ifUP21yHBiW5JF-ADjmReM_YvuanyEn-WL8rI0crY07zD8EA9slNEc6hcIHZLs1ROjqajEjVaIT_ZYnNvDxH9LbFtXD608t8V_sbvgbvLZTXVcpOva-7W2gJNXpyOpx2Nho64kXVU_UmM7KvxlIQFqAXVgJ8SEfUbasMdCJhPjuQeyXnS" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjVPt0ifUP21yHBiW5JF-ADjmReM_YvuanyEn-WL8rI0crY07zD8EA9slNEc6hcIHZLs1ROjqajEjVaIT_ZYnNvDxH9LbFtXD608t8V_sbvgbvLZTXVcpOva-7W2gJNXpyOpx2Nho64kXVU_UmM7KvxlIQFqAXVgJ8SEfUbasMdCJhPjuQeyXnS" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't Disturb Otto</td></tr></tbody></table>I discovered a deep well of patience during Otto's last few months. I would have thought that being awoken repeatedly throughout the night would have made me irritable. When the girls were toddlers, I would sometimes just growl in aggravation, I felt so put-upon by repeated nighttime awakenings. But with Otto? I never felt that way. It felt like an honor to be with him in his last months, that I was entrusted to care for this increasingly fragile creature.</div><br /><div><br /></div><div>When he cried out in the night, I had to go find him, wherever he might be lost -- the stairs, the living room, it could be anywhere -- and bring him to bed with me, and hold him tight until he calmed down again. Sometimes I could just call out to him, "Ottooooo" and he would calm down. But more often than not, he needed to be held.</div><div><br /></div><div>The day that we got our first Covid shots, in February 2021, I was away from the house for the long afternoon (we had to drive a long way to get to the pharmacist who offered to vaccinate teachers and their spouses). When we returned, we found Otto had died while we were away. The amazing part is that Otto looked beautiful in death. He had stretched out on the bathroom floor, and passed away. The sun glinted on his still-perfect black and white fur, and he did not look dead -- other than the fact that he was.</div><div>And so concludes the story of our tuxedo twins. Both SUCH good boys until the end.<br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-49406265209238437662024-02-23T14:28:00.000-08:002024-02-23T14:28:47.903-08:00Cat #2: Megathumos<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRu96j-j5oul7fIcqAXOWMYQIamJvbBxX1-KEvZ6G9cHXBgaFxu1v4v2CHFgDAaBysH8ZYSla_9A3N-ie4OmRaWuxvtmFszTHEZ19xzugXCo85Jl82ao7nm8umXih_vSckUtnTgSPXil1paFdtUzGxygp9drbh-uc61XeOoPIVVd7UzPrhMbnP/s2693/PXL_20240223_020205559.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1738" data-original-width="2693" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRu96j-j5oul7fIcqAXOWMYQIamJvbBxX1-KEvZ6G9cHXBgaFxu1v4v2CHFgDAaBysH8ZYSla_9A3N-ie4OmRaWuxvtmFszTHEZ19xzugXCo85Jl82ao7nm8umXih_vSckUtnTgSPXil1paFdtUzGxygp9drbh-uc61XeOoPIVVd7UzPrhMbnP/s320/PXL_20240223_020205559.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Megathumos was our great first love.<p></p><p>Mega-T was the filthy kitten I plucked out of the San Francisco ASPCA in 2001. He was "getting over a cold," according to the adoption coordinator. </p><p>It turns out that he would always be "getting over a cold."</p><p>When I picked up the scrawny guy we would eventually name Megathumos, I thought he was a dusky brown and white cat. It was only after the bath I gave him (<a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2024/02/cat-1-stanley.html">mightily protested by the three-legged Stanley</a>) that I discovered he was a true black and white tuxedo cat.</p><p>Megathumos was pure love in a cat. When I went to work for the day, I missed his smell, his little face, and the sweetness of this boy. He had dozens of nicknames, including "Beezus, the Busy Little Man."</p><p>I think he might have been, well, genetically unsound. His face never really seemed to knit together right, and the dude was always sick. He was tired, had trouble sleeping, and had absolutely epic sneezes.</p><p>I toted Mega-T all over San Francisco, in various buses, looking for veterinary solutions for our little guy. One doctor suggested nasal reconstruction surgery, another recommended Chinese herbs, and yet another performed feline acupuncture, in an effort to bring this cat some relief.</p><p>He was allergic, perhaps, to everything? We started feeding him raw cat food patties, so that his constant draining eye and nose weren't rust-colored anymore. We had a humidifier going in our apartment 24/7 to bring him relief.</p><p>He was absolutely patient with everything, seeming to relish his bus trips around the city to meet new fans at various establishments. He also seemed to love the acupuncture, and slept quite soundly after each treatment.</p><p>Stanley and Mega-T happily shared our love and our couch, and they both moved with us from the apartment in San Francisco to our home in the suburbs. </p><p>Once settled in there, Mega-T helped us in many ways. For one, he figured out our mold problem! The mold remediation expert commented that he'd never seen a more helpful cat, as he pushed the moldy insulation out of the crawlspace with his little white paw.</p><p>This is the only video we have of Megathumos. It has no sound, but you can see his perpetually stained right eye, and his sweet personality:</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzIgp3FSR9krHPXrKaTltAUumrqfTkC5kkYLiliSjheBmtqmjMsMMYpg-Jd4wfCXPD-TLnsbBHkS-A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Once I became pregnant with Chebbles, Mega-T was in his glory. He curled up on my pregnant belly as much as possible:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRYiNHFf8BA5gmd-itfUsJ_z-ZTzP2Hz-4bxIu9XoUlmXtBAfvgQXZ3kbgT3mV5QAGFExOHTnlEz0hz5JsTt1If6ogPPTDV9aPBj5EXcwoJZbCrODm-FEkATR-UaC-LZHJgDv3B_yXmxxL2oPo6KBMn0JPX0pRmS4ZX9108C82FYEmwxvu_Ps/s960/2023-03-19%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="641" data-original-width="960" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRYiNHFf8BA5gmd-itfUsJ_z-ZTzP2Hz-4bxIu9XoUlmXtBAfvgQXZ3kbgT3mV5QAGFExOHTnlEz0hz5JsTt1If6ogPPTDV9aPBj5EXcwoJZbCrODm-FEkATR-UaC-LZHJgDv3B_yXmxxL2oPo6KBMn0JPX0pRmS4ZX9108C82FYEmwxvu_Ps/s320/2023-03-19%20(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">After she was born, Mega-T took his big brother duties seriously, cushioning Chebbles' head on her changing table.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-LTlP17T9CzLvQya9l79zOOxiLQFIggtDM-i6MnUAyS1V7teHUj-ck8DuE6NHTcgH8foM_j4PS4WNR7nHulnPlNHhEfe9Krfy_zJL-oA_CULOFSmzktpT4zCzsDU6wDTkmqA-tapobVqv73_HYHcvuqQSbAeuvGHQyCs1n2YJAIeK9rY1tis/s1600/PA160020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr-LTlP17T9CzLvQya9l79zOOxiLQFIggtDM-i6MnUAyS1V7teHUj-ck8DuE6NHTcgH8foM_j4PS4WNR7nHulnPlNHhEfe9Krfy_zJL-oA_CULOFSmzktpT4zCzsDU6wDTkmqA-tapobVqv73_HYHcvuqQSbAeuvGHQyCs1n2YJAIeK9rY1tis/s320/PA160020.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm sad and sorry to say that this is our last photo of Megathumos. Shortly after this was taken, he suddenly began internally bleeding. He'd been kind of sleepy over the past weeks, laying his head down on the carpet, chin down, in total exhaustion. But we were all exhausted from newborn duties, and we didn't think much of it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We called a neighbor to come watch the baby and sped Mega-T to the emergency vet in Concord. There, they took us to the "special room" and told us that they could *maybe* save him with multiple transfusions and surgeries. We hated having to make this decision... but his body was just tired.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This cat had been sick his entire life, and he was just done, even if we weren't done loving him. We held him in our arms as he was euthanized, and buried him under the redwoods in our backyard the next day, along with some of his favorite toys and a long list of his nicknames.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We were shocked and devastated by the death of this beautiful little soul. Megathumos will always be our "first child" in some ways, and we still speak of him reverentially with the girls, keeping his memory alive.</div>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-10476638134183759852024-02-20T17:40:00.000-08:002024-02-20T17:45:27.292-08:00This is me at Pokémon Go Level 45<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZS6zBgEN_86H-jBXEPiCh5X1m-b5CNRRepLh6JciiWLUnCNkEDwxLPHsViySZoiibbQrwNj6aZDbAuYFi3TGhFApIQhWWYhO5J5vO4k-Qf6KTWbqT_kqnoxZ7lDIJysdHOmhLn3jqsp-u4bDv7ODwqU5N3v3ayHeZ7To_TRxyg9e82mhu7W2z/s2340/Screenshot_20240220-195020.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2340" data-original-width="1080" height="534" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZS6zBgEN_86H-jBXEPiCh5X1m-b5CNRRepLh6JciiWLUnCNkEDwxLPHsViySZoiibbQrwNj6aZDbAuYFi3TGhFApIQhWWYhO5J5vO4k-Qf6KTWbqT_kqnoxZ7lDIJysdHOmhLn3jqsp-u4bDv7ODwqU5N3v3ayHeZ7To_TRxyg9e82mhu7W2z/w247-h534/Screenshot_20240220-195020.png" width="247" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, I've caught more than 73,000.</td></tr></tbody></table><div>I'll just be straight with you: I love Pokémon Go.</div><div><br /></div><div>The game was wildly popular in the summer of 2016. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unlike most players of that time, I have only grown to enjoy this game more since then. </div><div><br /></div><div>I love catching the little buggers while I travel. I caught my first Mr. Mime at the Berlin KaDeWe! And you wouldn't believe the Dragonite I found along the river in Cork!</div><div><br /></div><div>OK, there are some cons: it's distracting. I don't meditate along my walks when I'm busily quick-catching herds of Snubbulls. When my kids ask me to drive them somewhere, I've been known to toss my phone into their laps with a command: "Spin Pokestops!" as a kind of mama tax.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have also spent some money playing this game. I can rationalize this all day long: "Look how much *enjoyment* it brings me!" and "How can I be expected to use just one incubator for all these 10K eggs?" And don't get me started on the Remote Raid Pass price increase last year. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I've been sitting here writing about this, one of my Pokémon friends asked if I could help her with a Mega-Garchomp raid across town. "Why sure!"</div><div><br /></div><div>The best benefit of my obsession with these little cartoon creatures who pop up in every corner of the world has been the new buddies I've made along the way. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have a few friends in town who roll up to my house like "Get in, loser, we're going Pokémon hunting!" It's always a thrilling adventure! I also love when a Pokémon event happens, and thousands of us hunt through the streets, striking up conversations and comparing shiny counts.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was in the TSA line at JFK Airport last summer, I noticed another woman playing Pokémon Go while she waited. We squealed with excitement and traded friend codes. She sends me Pokémon gifts from London, and she will never run out of Pokémon gifts from me!</div><div><br /></div><div>I discovered a fellow teacher was also a Pokémon Go player, and it's wonderful to slip into our special game-speak to catch up on our weekend adventures. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's come to the point that when I walk the dog, he knows where I'll have to stop and fight a gym, or catch a particularly recalcitrant Pokémon. Speaking of which, I think it's time for a stroll... these field missions aren't going to finish themselves.</div>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-85537388213057499172024-02-19T17:50:00.000-08:002024-02-22T18:35:00.266-08:00Cat #1: Stanley<div class="separator"><br /></div><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSvh6Pgx0FrrrFe9Ab_HQ9ZQZH4-AxY2QwcEw2z3gZxlpNqlhNqk5OxYzZ94kMIcot1wK1d6ODs1X_Bh0WNMy-CF_sKzim_txNqN79Ewv9yRS_OkBSSP1NBX9CJv-SSXU818aFPpaJfZ_7u7qZCfEXSS7DE430Nme_nYW6m2W4jkFgybeCm8qi" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1804" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiSvh6Pgx0FrrrFe9Ab_HQ9ZQZH4-AxY2QwcEw2z3gZxlpNqlhNqk5OxYzZ94kMIcot1wK1d6ODs1X_Bh0WNMy-CF_sKzim_txNqN79Ewv9yRS_OkBSSP1NBX9CJv-SSXU818aFPpaJfZ_7u7qZCfEXSS7DE430Nme_nYW6m2W4jkFgybeCm8qi=w400-h301" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My first cat, as an adult, was Stanley AKA Stanislaus Nigborowicz.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It was early 2001, and I was living in an apartment in San Francisco. We had a mouse infestation in the walls around our kitchen, and I successfully pitched my roommates, and our German landlord, on the idea of a *cat*.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My friend J. was volunteering at the San Francisco Humane Society at the time, and she emailed me about Stanley. He was just a special guy, she said, and I should see if I could adopt him.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stanley, as it turned out, had three legs. He was friendly, opinionated, handsome, and snuggly. He smelled good too.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I adopted him from his foster home in Oakland, and brought him home to our apartment in San Francisco.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">"He's got three legs!" my roommate protested. "We needed a hunter, and you brought us a cat with THREE LEGS!"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLETw1gNqfyyI8QQg0fPFCV_TtaUDKvGk63MNiuXRZKP8pw-0g3CN-wxHZPJSRgbU3pfgB6PM1NmEfAuL4ZWKVrvVITtLEx5OJDooPalRfv_vXuv1YFBHFpPjHd9qwcKbdrcfQ6Jk4I5u7sGRTBF3bU8jsbaVKqH5CDPqiKvt9Tl_4OwP2jbSY" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1804" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiLETw1gNqfyyI8QQg0fPFCV_TtaUDKvGk63MNiuXRZKP8pw-0g3CN-wxHZPJSRgbU3pfgB6PM1NmEfAuL4ZWKVrvVITtLEx5OJDooPalRfv_vXuv1YFBHFpPjHd9qwcKbdrcfQ6Jk4I5u7sGRTBF3bU8jsbaVKqH5CDPqiKvt9Tl_4OwP2jbSY" width="319" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Within a week, Stanley had proved himself to be a killing machine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Not only was his presence enough to spook away most of the mice, but he had started *tossing mice up in the air with his one front leg and catching them in his mouth*. We all saw it happen, as incredible as it was, and he was an instant hit.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He also liked to snuggle with me at night, too. And if you've never snuggled with a tripod cat, you're really missing out. Most snuggles in this world are hampered by an extra limb here or there -- no problem there! He was a perfect spooning cat, protecting me from any foolhardy mice who might breach my bedroom door.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When a pet psychic came to San Francisco, I took the opportunity to ask her how Stanley had lost his front leg. The psychic told me he had blundered into a machine shop, but he was well cared for after his injury. Well, OK! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When I moved out to my own apartment, I got Stanley a companion kitten. (He just seemed a little lonely, and really, I'll use any excuse to add another pet to my life.) When I brought the kitten home, he was covered in filth. Stanley was vehemently against my bathing the kitten, and I had to shut Stan out of the bathroom so I could scrub down the little guy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Stanley was NOT having it. He used his mighty front paw to hammer down (?) the bathroom door, and burst in, yowling in protest. I hurriedly finished up the bath and handed him the kitten.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'll tell you more about Cat #2 another time. But as for our Stanley, he lived another seven years. He was there when Hub-D arrived. When we married and moved to the suburbs, he came along, still making sure I lived mouse-free. And he greeted two of our three children as they arrived, before shuffling off this mortal coil.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">He will always be a legend, my first cat. Stanley.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvW7GhdvTrXNNfcUbAWM-mjxBJtbuSGsP1p6oT6twsYa_a1Pk7XYw16aRZCNDpsoqx_eewhU02KIE4sHYmTPS1AKFFZ9XvZxqQ-Te2xRYE1HD4tryk_Y0zgNEcvlAKI6rWTzECwqT3YW_Dw93oKpPRu42HZ246cnh70CVcSAjY3aKQoDseNmrh" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvW7GhdvTrXNNfcUbAWM-mjxBJtbuSGsP1p6oT6twsYa_a1Pk7XYw16aRZCNDpsoqx_eewhU02KIE4sHYmTPS1AKFFZ9XvZxqQ-Te2xRYE1HD4tryk_Y0zgNEcvlAKI6rWTzECwqT3YW_Dw93oKpPRu42HZ246cnh70CVcSAjY3aKQoDseNmrh" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Rannie's lap, with baby Chebbles.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></div><br /><p></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-73434689968833720392024-02-18T15:22:00.000-08:002024-02-18T15:44:56.400-08:00The Books We Could Not Let Go<p><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpqFdVsbRx9ec4xlEYUlhG9fm3bnJ6fZ9M90u4CjcQIth0NXlYDeovMD72TE_zmbHrjROvXhfSBKtPzdQgayVIs9qpnfRWQUY-uY1-Eeerzs4q7uQtAO08m75u36KmyRzdy7K4QJBuTqORzIfW84I5cGXIXuIk5lRdBa-lLimJ6ecLZf9XAz2-" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="999" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpqFdVsbRx9ec4xlEYUlhG9fm3bnJ6fZ9M90u4CjcQIth0NXlYDeovMD72TE_zmbHrjROvXhfSBKtPzdQgayVIs9qpnfRWQUY-uY1-Eeerzs4q7uQtAO08m75u36KmyRzdy7K4QJBuTqORzIfW84I5cGXIXuIk5lRdBa-lLimJ6ecLZf9XAz2-" width="218" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babybug in action</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Fourteen years ago, <a href="http://www.shakenmama.com/2010/01/kps-amazing-list-of-great-childrens.html">I published a list of my friend KP's favorite children's books</a>. (Still a terrific list!)</p><p>As my friend K. prepares to welcome her first child, I am inspired to share The Books That We Could Not Let Go. </p><p>These are my children's favorites, and they have followed us on each move, as they have become beloved old friends.</p><p>Although I adore them all, they are not MY favorite children's books. (<a href="https://www.richardscarry.com/">Richard Scarry</a>! <a href="https://www.dahlovipcarart.com/buy-books">Dahlov Ipcar</a>! <a href="https://www.eloise.com/books/">Eloise</a>! You're the best!) </p><p>Instead, these books are the ones that stood the test of time for my own kids -- the ones they continue to mention as they reach toward adulthood. </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_B8REmJAZTTQ-4maezlyAj38I9dgpvZo35NYuaMyqy2lXGn2X73vP4nT6MTUtVszvTCvSBxisKstxKUSvqN8oPCCBbDDB5K_3FBr52NGsLzEB6zNEOOFObzuLr2AZocy14tko-NYdn-dEjg20ct14K11h9qkSJGEezBbePIpPyrx9Tr0GBxTe" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1369" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_B8REmJAZTTQ-4maezlyAj38I9dgpvZo35NYuaMyqy2lXGn2X73vP4nT6MTUtVszvTCvSBxisKstxKUSvqN8oPCCBbDDB5K_3FBr52NGsLzEB6zNEOOFObzuLr2AZocy14tko-NYdn-dEjg20ct14K11h9qkSJGEezBbePIpPyrx9Tr0GBxTe" width="219" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>I hope you find some new gems in this list to enjoy with your family...<p></p><p><b><span></span></b></p><b>First baby books</b><p></p><p><a href="https://shop.cricketmedia.com/babybug-magazine-special-offer?gad_source=1&gclid=CjwKCAiA8sauBhB3EiwAruTRJh2Z15eF55Rm74I7PSoO0XisF8vqNw7VLGRt4peX37diyOBeYLup5BoCSJEQAvD_BwE">Babybug Magazines</a>. I happened upon these little board book magazines when Chebbles was an infant. We LOVED these books. The photo above with Grandma demonstrates how captivating she found them. And they were also relatively fun for us to adults to read. I subscribed to them for two years, then kept them for each new infant. Chebbles liked to sit in her room and "read" these to herself.</p><p><a href="https://a.co/d/9ocwKrU">Lift the Flap</a> books -- Their favorites were the Elmo's Big Lift-and-Look, Little People Go to the Zoo, and Thomas the Tank Engine, but I don't think it matters. Lifting flaps is extremely fun.</p><p>One girl was so obsessed with that Elmo lift the flap book that she couldn't put it down while we were in stop-and-go traffic. She barfed all over our new minivan at the exit of the Caldecott Tunnel. Ah, memories.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuLPUpjpasAxLNA3MMvF3Y0YGBQhrBjebIaml0ZT-kgT0QnBxYnrirEnuSiorBSpEbOxkwcl5POhRmHoJMX8SLvdrpNRPSxv6A3DccirJGq-ymOdaRaD0ZwxUCxcp7k0Mb-rimpDgQpVdjhUNec0-dnhroFWl_4DXgGjBPua4Lqu3HLLQJbdNn" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuLPUpjpasAxLNA3MMvF3Y0YGBQhrBjebIaml0ZT-kgT0QnBxYnrirEnuSiorBSpEbOxkwcl5POhRmHoJMX8SLvdrpNRPSxv6A3DccirJGq-ymOdaRaD0ZwxUCxcp7k0Mb-rimpDgQpVdjhUNec0-dnhroFWl_4DXgGjBPua4Lqu3HLLQJbdNn" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Grover and the plane!"</td></tr></tbody></table><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sesame-Toddlers-Library-Stickers-Infants/dp/B0873VP5KC/ref=asc_df_B0873VP5KC/?tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=459700934310&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=8108468154271253105&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9005907&hvtargid=pla-933254252623&psc=1&mcid=133e5e61096b37408b6e20dd11c903b9&gclid=CjwKCAiA8sauBhB3EiwAruTRJoNPMoZ-3lVYa5FU1_mkElYQ7Xlh2yEqG_So73tf8_10D8gQx9D0pBoC7qcQAvD_BwE">The Sesame Street Board Books Bundle</a>. OMG, these books are burned into our brains, the girls loved them so much. Gigi would grip them in her little mitts, and crawl into anyone's lap if it meant they would read them. To this day, Hub-D and I could recite them in our sleep: "Grover and the plane! Go! Go! Go!"<p></p><p>We also subscribed to the <a href="https://try.hookedandcompany.com/">Dr. Seuss Book Club</a>, which built our little library along the way. Most of the books were relished upon arrival (I'm lookin' at you, <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/43137/ten-apples-up-on-top-by-dr-seuss-writing-as-theo-lesieg/">10 Apples Up on Top</a>). We passed along our collection when the girls outgrew them, since these classics are so ubiquitous. But they were enjoyed! </p><span></span><p><br /></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_an528eXnpcwGgXsfe24BDfyioxOV3LKwhpoMTXYC1wXHsHjb_GZbnwDcgNuML96wFsktrMgeWaIAXLcLAwe9bt_HsTpoyBe0hnkTf2NF9rsvQtQnT0knu6f40FG7XkRp_SL7s99fAVBFY6bDij0SMqfq0oVUP4HtbqawRkma6dHMLm3Be-g-" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_an528eXnpcwGgXsfe24BDfyioxOV3LKwhpoMTXYC1wXHsHjb_GZbnwDcgNuML96wFsktrMgeWaIAXLcLAwe9bt_HsTpoyBe0hnkTf2NF9rsvQtQnT0knu6f40FG7XkRp_SL7s99fAVBFY6bDij0SMqfq0oVUP4HtbqawRkma6dHMLm3Be-g-" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><b>Ages two and up</b><p></p><p><a href="https://www.mollybang.com/Pages/sophie.html">When Sophie Gets Angry -- Really, Really Angry... </a>by Molly Bang. This book is about how sometimes you get so PISSED at your horrible sister that you have to go climb a tree and hate everyone for a while. It's perfect.</p><p><a href="http://pdeastmanbooks.com/books/go-dog-go/">Go Dog Go</a> by P.D. Eastman. We probably read this book thousands of times. This photo shows our visiting cousin, gamely reading it to Gigi. The book is about dogs having a spectacular time, and it's about being honest: if you do not like someone's hat, just say you don't like it.</p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/When-Ruby-Tried-Grow-Candy/dp/037584015X">When Ruby Tried to Grow Candy</a> by Valorie Fisher. Older neighbors can be scary! They can also teach you magic. The suspense, and the art, in this book made it a crowd favorite. It might mess up a child's horticultural understanding, but who cares.</p><p><a href="https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Three-Little-Wolves-and-the-Big-Bad-Pig/Eugene-Trivizas/9780689815287">The Three Little Wolves and the Big, Bad Pig</a> by Eugene Trivizas. Like Sophie, this pig is PISSED. The wolves discover that not even the strongest materials can stop his porcine rampage. The twist ending is spectacular.</p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Worm-Family-Ribbon-Picture-Awards/dp/0152050116">The Worm Family</a> by Tony Johnston. If you feel like your family is weird, you're probably right. It's nothing to be embarrassed about, ultimately. Just find another weird family to hang out with.</p><p><a href="https://www.ejkf.org/ezras-books-whistle-for-willie/">Whistle for Willie</a> by Ezra Jack Keats. It is so wildly annoying when your friends can do something that you can't. Don't give up, though. Because the dog is incredibly cute.</p><p><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Brave-Potatoes-Toby-Speed/dp/0399231587?ref_=ast_author_dp&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.7RWstyck2o7oe9kErsZNq7qzPaAIJ17OxIVILOEtaA1dS-4qK_CR6kMSI1zfy3mE1WaYalfClUruQS2OQnTle5Lk8HllTOGx1rQBwwub5UHJThQMa_zU9g_qA_Ba2IEfGtNuh5SFo0r1D-gfpLWDdw.ecxi1IC_cAO4bocTGAHWLgPzxdMqC5vattXv6TleFZw&dib_tag=AUTHOR">Brave Potatoes</a> by Toby Speed. So many anthropomorphized vegetables at the state fair! It's terrifying and captivating, and everything (basically) turns out OK in the end. This one has the very best wordplay of any children's book we've read.</p><p><a href="http://peggy-rathmann.com/day.html">The Day the Babies Crawled Away</a> by Peggy Rathmann. I adore this gang of free range babies, and the intrepid hero sent to bring them home. The babies get up to all sorts of nonsense, and the art is just wonderful. This book was one I often brought when I substituted in elementary schools.</p><p><a href="https://shop.scholastic.com/parent-ecommerce/books/one-grain-of-rice-a-mathematical-folktale-9780590939980.html">One Grain of Rice</a> by Demi. The girls still refer to this book, whenever we're dealng with big numbers. This book is about exponential math, and it was another crowd favorite when I taught elementary school. It's fun to read it really slow and drag out the numerical suspense. The drawings are captivating, and very young children can get into it, without having to understand the mathematical aspect right away.</p><span></span><p><br /></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoSJ-jedPKIJn9QA51KnL1gbOw2rIst5GBWktiWr6HNpUFGscmoPAyevGWofMzmOpfxgyf8creq8maXt0SEsXltSY6YB7JHEMlz3Qdl24fo5rPmQHqs5P3Be_LgD7jGSDWtdKjGJU7ncgOXlJXojKnMUvh-qzUkefF8HF3MvBi_A19EH5i6Ag3" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="717" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoSJ-jedPKIJn9QA51KnL1gbOw2rIst5GBWktiWr6HNpUFGscmoPAyevGWofMzmOpfxgyf8creq8maXt0SEsXltSY6YB7JHEMlz3Qdl24fo5rPmQHqs5P3Be_LgD7jGSDWtdKjGJU7ncgOXlJXojKnMUvh-qzUkefF8HF3MvBi_A19EH5i6Ag3" width="179" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Calvin is captivating!</td></tr></tbody></table><b>Age five and up</b><p></p><p><a href="https://www.ludmilazeman.com/LZ/BOOKS.html">Gilgamesh the King Trilogy</a> by Ludmila Zeman. These are the books that inspired Chebbles to take up the harp. The story starts out with a selfish king who wants to fight a big strong beast-ish guy, but then they decide to be BBF's instead. It doesn't end well, but you won't care, it's such a good tale. Knowing Gilgamesh also helped Chebbles win a Quiz Bowl trivia competition.</p><div><a href="https://www.chestercomix.com/">Chester the Crab Comics</a> by Bentley Boyd. Do not question Chester. Multiple history teachers have remarked on the girls' preparedness for their classes -- and it's ALL CHESTER. This crab is incorrigible, and he shows up all over U.S. history, and in Europe sometimes. I don't quite get the appeal, but all of the girls remain Chester-obsessed. I am so glad I bought the full set of comics when they came up for sale on a homeschooling website 12 years ago.</div><p><a href="https://www.fborfw.com/">For Better or For Worse</a> by Lynn Johnston. I started collecting these for my dad and my Oma. We loved this series, and discussed it at length while it was going on. One day, the girls discovered my stash of For Better or For Worse compilations, and the rest is history. They like to make their mouths look like Lynn Johnston characters "laughing," and we almost feel like the Pattersons are our actual relatives. The comics are so relatable and sweet. </p><p><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/36027/daulaires-book-of-greek-myths-by-ingri-daulaire-and-edgar-parin-daulaire/">D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths</a>. This is <b>the one</b>, when it comes to Greek myths. Some of the sexier parts are glossed over, and the stories are beautifully told. When I taught fourth and fifth grade, reading D'Aulaire's was an essential part of our day. Even my most rascally students were immobilized by these stories of generous, jealous, and greedy Greek Gods. <a href="https://www.etclassics.org/Contests/National-Mythology-Exam">The National Mythology Exam</a> for 3rd and 4th graders is based on this book, and Chebbles won the Silver Award based on her close reading of D'Aulaires.</p><p>The <a href="https://www.simonandschuster.com/authors/Bill-Watterson/19962368">Calvin and Hobbes books</a> by Bill Watterson were the other crowd favorite. Especially since we had several sentient stuffed animals populating our home. They couldn't get enough of these compilations.</p><span></span><p><br /></p><p>Eventually, these fascinations give way to chapter books, of which we have many. But that's a topic for another day!</p><p><br /></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN_tAt5TquxJq7RujOCohhFxgAcQT6vD0k6CkIY_PbgMoewdxPPVm3mTL8HbpfL3NTCbt8nMyQehXwQL8OhCoQpw-8fxxOIqDa97DlLktYsEd51Z569YHcQ8KSAF_Kk80arCzBQZcARo4Rz0uNnZVASpn8DAkM3bN7HMSbZU7VWCTU2hP77gxm" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhN_tAt5TquxJq7RujOCohhFxgAcQT6vD0k6CkIY_PbgMoewdxPPVm3mTL8HbpfL3NTCbt8nMyQehXwQL8OhCoQpw-8fxxOIqDa97DlLktYsEd51Z569YHcQ8KSAF_Kk80arCzBQZcARo4Rz0uNnZVASpn8DAkM3bN7HMSbZU7VWCTU2hP77gxm=w240-h320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young Hermione reads Rick Riordan.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-69441673072140724462024-02-17T16:07:00.000-08:002024-02-17T16:07:57.461-08:00The moment I discovered I wanted to teach<p>I know the exact second I knew I wanted to be a teacher.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtlLxwbpVfu01WEsxLp7iClvneHaOgqY0DCzMvn3PIPeDDIxBgKDqp7kZpl7_imtJF6MI9ZOgu55rYe7T8bjzwgxwv-dDqzN4EALZs-RQSEyrvvwQE82cz2v2s5bvfuMO195dR1ha1_yzwektq2S2NIOXLe80AQcc1q6Tp9el_FnO0lB3cgR2Y" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgtlLxwbpVfu01WEsxLp7iClvneHaOgqY0DCzMvn3PIPeDDIxBgKDqp7kZpl7_imtJF6MI9ZOgu55rYe7T8bjzwgxwv-dDqzN4EALZs-RQSEyrvvwQE82cz2v2s5bvfuMO195dR1ha1_yzwektq2S2NIOXLe80AQcc1q6Tp9el_FnO0lB3cgR2Y" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby to kindergarten!</td></tr></tbody></table>My youngest daughter had just started kindergarten, and my wonderful friend L. suggested I substitute for the school. "Perfect," I thought, "I can spy on my kids and make money at the same time!"</p><br /><p>To become a certified substitute teacher in California, I needed to prove I could think my way out of a paper bag (still debatable). Since I couldn't use my old ACT or SAT scores anymore, I drove to downtown Oakland and passed the <a href="https://www.ctcexams.nesinc.com/TestView.aspx?f=HTML_FRAG/CA_CBEST_TestPage.html">CBEST</a> test.</p><p>I then interviewed with our school district, nervous that they would detect I had never once taught anyone anything, other than silly things I'd done as a Girl Scout Leader. I never mentioned that I'm terrible at math and art, and I refuse to read stories where an animal dies. </p><p>Luckily, the district was desperate for subs, so they put me on the payroll, and called me just a few days later to cover a second grade class for half a day.</p><p>I had no idea what to wear, how to walk, or what to do, but I was so excited. My afternoon gig was at one of the elementary schools that my daughters did not attend, so I didn't know any of the kids. I arrived at the school with a tote bag full of random children's books, so full of trepidation I felt like I was going to throw up.</p><p>Finally, I walked into the office, imitating how a "teacher" might walk in, and let them know I would be their second grade substitute for the afternoon. They directed me to the classroom, and I went in and met the teacher before he left for the day.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAmuJpmRt1HBw5wjVfv5L6YEnS7Rd2VCrb6xzNsDK4GqyK_BDPEC5_GdU5b_tTmBWLsJ1WI1w7lq7wFJx0OcyAKI0QWOJzNcCpJNaqmbztmjexKJjM15YRCtWLW7vLUcbvbx4_qCYTMqhxpDIVUq90N8h19P1dVFl6DU5suTQF0jAz7wK_Cyqt" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAmuJpmRt1HBw5wjVfv5L6YEnS7Rd2VCrb6xzNsDK4GqyK_BDPEC5_GdU5b_tTmBWLsJ1WI1w7lq7wFJx0OcyAKI0QWOJzNcCpJNaqmbztmjexKJjM15YRCtWLW7vLUcbvbx4_qCYTMqhxpDIVUq90N8h19P1dVFl6DU5suTQF0jAz7wK_Cyqt" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Silly Girl Scout Leader" = my only qualification</td></tr></tbody></table>He gave me some basic instructions, and -- thank heavens -- introduced me to the para-professional who helped out in his classroom. He stayed for a few extra minutes, just kind of watching me from his desk, and I grew concerned that he knew I had *no idea what in the world I was doing*. Nevertheless, he finally left, and the kids were "mine" for the rest of the day.</p><p>Boy, did we have fun. As I recall, we assembled some construction paper research project stuff they were doing, and I read them a couple of stories as they gathered around my chair, barely breathing as the suspense grew.</p><p>The time flew by, and I walked them to dismissal. I said goodbye to them one by one, as their rides came to pick them up. Weirdly, I felt a little sadder each time one of the kids left. </p><p>Then, I clocked out with the school secretary and went back to the car, where I sat for a half hour in total silence. I couldn't drive. I couldn't turn the ignition. I could only sit. </p><p>I stared at the sidewalk next to the school, at the steering wheel, at my tote bag filled with books, and I suddenly just KNEW.</p><p>In what might be the most dramatic moment of clarity of my entire life, I said:</p><p>I am a teacher?</p><p>I am a teacher!?!?!</p><p>I am a g**d*** teacher!</p><p>After staring, yelling, looking at myself in the rearview mirror, and freaking out for a little longer, I finally drove home in a daze.</p><p>All it took was one afternoon at an old California elementary school, caring for a bunch of seven-year-olds I'd never met, and I finally figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up.</p><p>I never even liked babysitting when I was in high school, and when I was 18, I couldn't wait to leave high school and do something entirely different with my life. I had no interest in being a TA through grad school, either. How was I to know that I was, in my mysterious little heart, supposed to be TEACHING, of all things?</p><p>Sure, I did fun things as part of my public relations career, with rewarding victories and camaraderie. And I loved being a stay-at-home mom to my fabulous little daughters.</p><p>But on that sunny spring day in California, I knew for the first time, without question, what I wanted to do. </p><p>Is every day of teaching a wonderful picnic of fun and happiness? It is not. But am I -- finally -- in the right place? Yes, indeed. </p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-5030764754928704582024-02-16T17:38:00.000-08:002024-02-16T17:39:30.410-08:00Perpetual Motion<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtGhn84cLgmZkpRFfxJC10scLnf8bKM9bL6WjpbzCZbFu080rZvkN4c9wBpShWDJgRdfnZSq9RjcC37USm6R_hWKjEOgkpfeGD1Z8RPEqPI1PZSofiZSICf4MZQ_K0ferkLWgmUQQ_499uoWwhtSU0BOQxcfpsvr0sVvJp52d3ar4N9NpjiIrN" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1818" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjtGhn84cLgmZkpRFfxJC10scLnf8bKM9bL6WjpbzCZbFu080rZvkN4c9wBpShWDJgRdfnZSq9RjcC37USm6R_hWKjEOgkpfeGD1Z8RPEqPI1PZSofiZSICf4MZQ_K0ferkLWgmUQQ_499uoWwhtSU0BOQxcfpsvr0sVvJp52d3ar4N9NpjiIrN" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Let's go!"</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I see how other people linger over a cocktail, watch a long sunset, or simply stay in a chair for more than a half-hour, and I marvel at their ability to remain stationary.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I get antsy. Quick. My personal hell is attending a conference where I am required to sit still in one place and listen to speaker after speaker. I simply have an intense need to skedaddle.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">For a long time I thought that something was wrong with me, that things like seated meditation just irritated me. Finally, someone told me that moving can be just a contemplative as sitting still. So, ha ha, I can still claim mindfulness while scrambling up a hill!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I simply like to be able to leave, to go on a walk, and explore somewhere new. I want to know what's around the next corner, and I want to see what's around the corner after that.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This dovetails directly with my overpowering wanderlust. I have to have travel planned at all time. When I'm on a trip, my #1 favorite activity is planning another trip. I want to see something new while planning to see something even newer.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I love to explore the world on overnight trains, for example, so I can still move in my sleep. There is immense peace and joy in the discovery of something new for me. I have wondered in the past: Am I <i>running away </i>from something? Am I afraid of what would happen if I stood still?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Nope. I'm just this particular kind of person. I'm an ants-in-her-pants compulsive explorer. So when I "go to the bathroom" 20 minutes into a meeting, please know that I'm not coming back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSyUuw07xz6iUL_NA_GBlTNRbAoI5yjsuOKFnilPIsec54tt4pMb8cQm7NL0LGKT3CS-aUtl25g8HzaMCcwVf2yLc0kuzRI3YpuBm_oAHd7k6O-Qa6qiyaYnQbXqPS4OO0u8f1BUU347BqDCzpkrCJ44MLoi9-FqOpQvXgtX6hYl0H52Ot-1-F/s1600/IMG_0567.JPG" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSyUuw07xz6iUL_NA_GBlTNRbAoI5yjsuOKFnilPIsec54tt4pMb8cQm7NL0LGKT3CS-aUtl25g8HzaMCcwVf2yLc0kuzRI3YpuBm_oAHd7k6O-Qa6qiyaYnQbXqPS4OO0u8f1BUU347BqDCzpkrCJ44MLoi9-FqOpQvXgtX6hYl0H52Ot-1-F/s1600/IMG_0567.JPG" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><br /></a></div>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-15754854923670724532024-02-15T17:27:00.000-08:002024-02-15T17:50:39.607-08:00I definitely sweated the small stuff<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiQZSF0g3WN3PM0e6qkdQWHbuxfHOrkdCEPSw4oqt12ea6RRdoin-fec5rzuikHyuf8Vw2Gk-xgSRayeC6rcTJ7m1PmxdE_cz8rYbf8kwG8oQyUALHmrcuoGJ63I_KvdOQkVW6hripeUEhcGgeGRsgtpdcHLzoB40ncXPX8pi2mGCGP0Twc4BS" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1810" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhiQZSF0g3WN3PM0e6qkdQWHbuxfHOrkdCEPSw4oqt12ea6RRdoin-fec5rzuikHyuf8Vw2Gk-xgSRayeC6rcTJ7m1PmxdE_cz8rYbf8kwG8oQyUALHmrcuoGJ63I_KvdOQkVW6hripeUEhcGgeGRsgtpdcHLzoB40ncXPX8pi2mGCGP0Twc4BS" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Mateo's CuriOdyssey, 2015</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p>So many things seemed important when I first became a mother.</p><p>I was *that mom* who interviewed multiple pediatricians, grilling them on their qualifications. I had a long birth plan, including a request that the baby not given eye ointment until she and I had a chance to *visually bond*.</p><p>So many of the stipulations I created surrounding my children were silly in retrospect.</p><p>For example, did it truly matter that my three-year-old was in an academically rigorous pre-school that was a feeder school to the best prep school in our area? It did not. Did it matter if she made friends and played her heart out for several hours a day? It did indeed.</p><p>Did it matter that I chose to exclusively cloth diaper my second baby, hanging her wee diapers from a clothesline in the backyard, to dry in the California sun? No. Did it matter that I sang Chicago's "25 or 6 to 4" to her every time I changed her diaper? Somehow, yes.</p><p>The guest list to my two-year-old's birthday party? The competitiveness of the swim team we chose for our young children? The sheer amount of homeschooling courses I ferried my children to? Not really.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgdOlQv5FWDnrJDUHx04STjrD_6YzRU2R69wotqM0Jt802R6hbLQvgzEjBQNN6bk80jpwDj9wCmQJRWiaoOsnoE6nbMLIxPVD5TCKNXL4Vw-fTNYbEczTaQ782pRQf2gXdOzLsP9iGkORb9ZX0QbJJOBIarJzXiPIJBicz7iekg08jvz8uJm86" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1358" data-original-width="1018" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjgdOlQv5FWDnrJDUHx04STjrD_6YzRU2R69wotqM0Jt802R6hbLQvgzEjBQNN6bk80jpwDj9wCmQJRWiaoOsnoE6nbMLIxPVD5TCKNXL4Vw-fTNYbEczTaQ782pRQf2gXdOzLsP9iGkORb9ZX0QbJJOBIarJzXiPIJBicz7iekg08jvz8uJm86" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Berry picking, 2015</td></tr></tbody></table>Now that they are OLD children at 14, 15, and 18, I finally have a better perspective. I wish I could pull my younger self aside and say, "You know what? Get a few more pets. They love that stuff. And just roll with a lot of this stuff. They're going to be OK no matter what you do about these little things."</p><p>The problem is that those things didn't seem little to me at the time. Raising my kids "correctly" and/or "perfectly" seemed to be a feasible goal. Oh my goodness, I love you, me-of-the-past, but hoooo-boy you were high maintenance about this stuff.</p><br /><p>I'm GLAD those things didn't matter, because I am certain I've made multiple mistakes -- small and large -- along the way. </p><p>Lately, I'm enjoying more of a "sit back and be entertained by these ridiculous people" attitude that I wish I'd maintained earlier in this journey. The kids like when their parents laugh hard about random things. They enjoy it when we drop new "lore" about our pre-children pasts. And they would still like more pets.</p><p> I wonder what "small stuff" I'm sweating now that will amuse me in 10 years!</p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-1612952621809723022023-10-28T17:24:00.003-07:002023-10-28T17:24:34.826-07:00Me and the piano<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: both; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></div><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpsrzSrV_q3nc-aAupQzcM3f91FfjjvVgTr6g1N-mKB9KZqokZow5s807ld9o8NvH-FJUW5fjqKUORQqlH6Rp_YSVSNsQ071Jt6W9nThCvc9pp6d9jfbiV1-Np69aoaor7xRXTVBs2XeQ00CG9eSVTuwapfIMuvc35iQ8qJTT0CJpKg2OXTK8g" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1566" data-original-width="1174" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhpsrzSrV_q3nc-aAupQzcM3f91FfjjvVgTr6g1N-mKB9KZqokZow5s807ld9o8NvH-FJUW5fjqKUORQqlH6Rp_YSVSNsQ071Jt6W9nThCvc9pp6d9jfbiV1-Np69aoaor7xRXTVBs2XeQ00CG9eSVTuwapfIMuvc35iQ8qJTT0CJpKg2OXTK8g=w216-h288" width="216" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chebbles and I at my old Yamaha</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: left; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Were living room pianos a 1970s thing? We had one in our suburban Pittsburgh home: a pretty, brown wood thing that was tuned once a year by a fascinating blind man.</p><p>My first piano teacher, Mrs. H., was incredibly patient with me: I cried throughout every lesson.</p><p>She would dole out tissues as I wept my way through Schaum's Piano Course Books in her little piano room.</p><p>Through my tears, I learned scales, and drilled them up and down, major, minor, octave after octave, on our little upright living room piano. At home, I was required to practice all of my songs for a half hour every day. I began playing some elementary Chopin, and Brahms, and started to enjoy myself.</p><p></p><p>In the summer, our living room windows would be open, the breeze stirring the gauzy white curtains while I plunked away at my practice tunes. I began to imagine that an audience might gather to hear my nascent tunes.</p><p>The dog walkers, the strolling families, the kids on their Big Wheels -- I imagined that they were all just waiting breathlessly to hear what songs I might come up with next, and I didn't want to let them down, this audience.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQYx-ougj8DxdPoo87dz_MDHe4XW-1se49dWX20b_M89gaZxHG1GcDUHgaQAoZmMXKIXIvDMsOIItRUqqH3Cg6AVVrtPIQAHaAce4frlKCklItNhHk6FJe8NVdSEgbRawAu6pxQU-ybJJlPMHceh-wS1AfCUDHGgHPOreeV4DQkClDYXbToGnG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="255" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQYx-ougj8DxdPoo87dz_MDHe4XW-1se49dWX20b_M89gaZxHG1GcDUHgaQAoZmMXKIXIvDMsOIItRUqqH3Cg6AVVrtPIQAHaAce4frlKCklItNhHk6FJe8NVdSEgbRawAu6pxQU-ybJJlPMHceh-wS1AfCUDHGgHPOreeV4DQkClDYXbToGnG" width="175" /></a></div><p></p><p>I began mowing my way through the end of the Schaum books, and learning more complex pieces. </p><p>I perused the aisles of Volkwein's Music Store in the North Side of Pittsburgh, where I was delighted to discover that there were compilation books with my beloved Top 40 tunes, including Billy Joel! My parents would let me buy 3-4 new pieced, and I would ride the old-fashioned mesh elevator back down to the parking lot with a bag of musical treasure in my arms.</p><p>Armed with those books, my best friend and I would sit at the piano like Archie and Edith Bunker and yodel out the theme from Ice Castles, and Bette Midler's "The Rose." </p><p>After she went home, I'd continue to practice the songs, much to the delight of the "audience" I was certain had gathered down by the sycamore tree to hear my nightly concert.</p><p>One day, Mrs. H told me that she couldn't be my piano teacher anymore. I was stunned! We had stayed together through the birth of all three of her sons, and I could walk to her house in my sleep. I was comfortable there, and I'd stopped crying (as much). She said she'd taught me everything she knew, and she passed me along to the strict Mrs. S across town.</p><p>Mrs. S was perpetually disappointed with me. She had two pianos in her living room, and her husband was the band director at my high school. Their house was coated in awards and diplomas that the two of them had earned. She made me nervous as hell.</p><p>She didn't like how little I practiced the music she gave me, she didn't like that I couldn't follow a metronome to save my life, how badly I timed my Bach pieces, and I found it extremely hard to memorize music. Mrs. S held me to a much higher standard, and I dreaded my lessons.</p><p>But I did get better. I got much better. I started playing the piano in competitions down in Shadyside, against other teenaged piano players in Pittsburgh. A row of judges would listen to us play our memorized songs (sometimes we all had to memorize the same devilishly tricky song), and grade us on our performance.</p><p>Once, I got a top score!</p><p>Once.</p><p>But still.</p><p>I got really, really into playing the piano. I became obsessed with Beethoven: his style suited my erratic, emotional playing, and I memorized his Pathetique Sonata bit by bit.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXnDiyEW7zI3ejXr8RuEtI_kcsaQLjx3HYQL0wdaKmmd7kLiwB4tenEG1xvWCL5IKfYmnwA74hsSovh-LjCJMRekFbEnfadayIef0ifkkB-klkpwsVPd3OnPFSGLM-puRJEZtwpaOueYYhzkZU3GKXJtXHu1JnQU2AkPYFAsEL70P8JJv1LwI0" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="262" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXnDiyEW7zI3ejXr8RuEtI_kcsaQLjx3HYQL0wdaKmmd7kLiwB4tenEG1xvWCL5IKfYmnwA74hsSovh-LjCJMRekFbEnfadayIef0ifkkB-klkpwsVPd3OnPFSGLM-puRJEZtwpaOueYYhzkZU3GKXJtXHu1JnQU2AkPYFAsEL70P8JJv1LwI0" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Billy Joel sheet music!</td></tr></tbody></table>I jammed out to as many Billy Joel songs as I could find at Volkwein's, and I never, ever learned how to play by ear. </p><p>That was not the way my piano playing worked. I had to look at it, and see the notes splashed across the page, and decode a song from there. When I watch my daughters play music by ear, the process only confuses me. </p><p>My greatest piano playing moment was when I discovered that the second movement of the Pathetique Sonata was <i>also </i>a Billy Joel song! Boy howdy did I enjoy playing that song. I would slide into the chorus room at the high school after their practice was over, and I would play my heart out.</p><p>I poured my teenaged emotions out in two ways: by writing in my journal and hammering away semi-artlessly on the piano.</p><p>I continued to infuriate Mrs. S with my sloppy playing, in which I inadvertently memorized mistakes and couldn't hear what I was doing wrong. When I announced to her that I wanted to continue studying piano in college, she sat me down, looked me dead in the eye, and told me not to.</p><p>"You're not talented enough," she said, "I'm afraid you're setting yourself up for disappointment."</p><p>The next week, I quit my lessons with Mrs. S and determinedly found a new teacher in the back of a piano store in a shady part of downtown Pittsburgh. I needed someone encouraging, even if I sucked a little.</p><p>I would drive down once a week in my rusty Mercury Topaz, park in front of the porn shops by the comic book store, and march to the back of that store.</p><p>The teacher was very talented and supportive, and, in retrospect, maybe also a little drunk. He helped me master that Pathetique Sonata as much as I was able, and I just loved it. I looked forward to those lessons, and the stunning, sad way he played the piano.</p><p>But soon I was off to Michigan, where I continued to take lessons, and spent time in the tiny practice rooms at their School of Music. </p><p>Piano was a solace for me throughout my college years. When I moved to Germany for a year, I brought a selection of music and spent some rainy afternoons just communing with my old pals Beethoven and Chopin, and my giving my nemesis Bach another try.</p><p>When I moved to Boston after college, I lost access to a piano. Electronic keyboards hadn't yet become playable as a real substitute, and I lived in tiny apartments with no piano in sight. It became a kind of party trick of mine, how well I could play a few pieces I'd memorized on the piano, but my abilities began to wane. But I didn't miss it overly much, as I was so busy writing -- I stayed up late with a different type of keyboard.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcM34HKv4oxDOWQBPpAhRmjlpfhWX0p7MgjHNmCll71DQGAXw3K40Q-zfTrGJ5_yORZnVSfJWxQF8CN8aPIS4zSJNiA0IPw3ti4Ei_erIGKohsLgu_5auTBk-HuAHR0SLGWe636Xz1iZFXgbPAVqdyzPW4PPcmMsjwFsXn925I63-sh_alIJD1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcM34HKv4oxDOWQBPpAhRmjlpfhWX0p7MgjHNmCll71DQGAXw3K40Q-zfTrGJ5_yORZnVSfJWxQF8CN8aPIS4zSJNiA0IPw3ti4Ei_erIGKohsLgu_5auTBk-HuAHR0SLGWe636Xz1iZFXgbPAVqdyzPW4PPcmMsjwFsXn925I63-sh_alIJD1" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and my sweet Yamaha</td></tr></tbody></table>When I visited my dad, I would spend time with the brilliant black Yamaha that he'd bought me when I started to advance, learning some Christmas Carols and duets with my sister. It's still sitting there in his living room. I have a hand-me-down piano now in our living room, where the girls sit and figure out tunes sometimes, or Chebbles plays something by ear. Sometimes, she even asks me to accompany her on the flute with the piano, and I relish those times!</p><br /><p>I imagine that the piano and I will have a reconnection, after the girls have left the house, and I won't be interrupting anyone's homework or movie by learning new pieces, or wrestling with German composers.</p><p>And once I begin playing with some competency again, you better bet I'll be propping open the windows. My fans await.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>PS: When the piano tuner came to tune our piano a few years ago, imagine my surprise when he wasn't blind! I thought they all were. It seems that throughout the 20th century, <a href="https://historicpittsburgh.org/islandora/object/pitt:20180108-hpichswp-0026">the School of the Blind trained many of the piano tuners in our area</a>.</p><p><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-58575255824315343552023-10-22T06:35:00.002-07:002023-10-22T06:35:11.527-07:00Erica's Eras, 1-4<p>Yesterday, I attended a talk by a professor who drew comparisons between Taylor Swift's "Eras" to the different life stages of Empress Elisabeth ("Sisi") of Austria.</p><p>So I wondered: what have my Eras been?</p><p>Like Taylor Swift, each of my eras can be best summarized by a set of songs, poems, and some questionable outfit choices.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>1. Woods and Song</b></p><p>I was lucky to live in a wooded Pennsylvania suburb, where I could spill out of my back door and start yodeling about whatever was on my mind. My greatest hits included things like, "Being a Sister Isn't Great" and "I'm a LION."</p><p>My singing wasn't limited to the woods, though. Sitting in the back set of the car with my mom, I liked to make up a ditty about our plans for the day, and just stare out the window and concoct my own melodies.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSx6rcP8MueDXkPI7zQk9opOWCOvp7Mf_U99dGOZnQ6Hj_LxZCM8W5EwW4G6z1vaNLW2uJ9WipVXzl8WqDqdq6-7Htz_ZgT4S2eUMm-fbHRL7-L-smKW4IIk_YfwlZZyJGyGO22OHqX3bkHj9RN9lONOhROB_nbn10xWCuY1bgdhBqggtKznPb" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="490" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgSx6rcP8MueDXkPI7zQk9opOWCOvp7Mf_U99dGOZnQ6Hj_LxZCM8W5EwW4G6z1vaNLW2uJ9WipVXzl8WqDqdq6-7Htz_ZgT4S2eUMm-fbHRL7-L-smKW4IIk_YfwlZZyJGyGO22OHqX3bkHj9RN9lONOhROB_nbn10xWCuY1bgdhBqggtKznPb" width="163" /></a></p><p></p><p><br />I was inspired by the three guys who seemed similar to my dad: Mr. Rogers, Neil Diamond, and Kermit the Frog, so I took their songs and turned them into Erica-related songs. I'd plunk around on the piano and sing, "Everybody's Fancy," or my big hit, "Healthy, Wealthy, and Wise." When performing this song, it was essential to do a sort of one-girl kick line down the stairs.</p><br /><p>"The Muppet Movie" and "Free to Be, You and Me" soundtracks were on repeat on all of our record players, until those records were inevitably destroyed by our younger siblings. </p><p>In this era, I wore a lot of corduroy, a lot of Health Tex, and hand-me-downs from my best friend's older sister. I was deep into Laura Ingalls Wilder, so there are some prairie skirts, high-necked ruffled collars, and my bangs were almost always in my eyes.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>2. Top 40 Baby</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhijkdah8vAAsDRvle5ur36jF9qqgc5WKSbIuZ4wgnfU0zfN4acaY2STI5H_wckp2u_RtxVKA_NLQVoDJJoW9IIZruIhQRZ42elTdhNg4HpoFieUt6WqYMF5EYA1lYQ5F__8vPVq3Fd5qXUJY3mGXpuBFoHSHJoka8ppfwl-VLAbndArlFlxSzH" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1272" data-original-width="954" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhijkdah8vAAsDRvle5ur36jF9qqgc5WKSbIuZ4wgnfU0zfN4acaY2STI5H_wckp2u_RtxVKA_NLQVoDJJoW9IIZruIhQRZ42elTdhNg4HpoFieUt6WqYMF5EYA1lYQ5F__8vPVq3Fd5qXUJY3mGXpuBFoHSHJoka8ppfwl-VLAbndArlFlxSzH" width="180" /></a></div>My best friend introduced me to pop music, and our local radio station, WBZZ 93.7 or B94, was essential to this era for me. During this time, I wrote a metric ton of poetry while listening to Air Supply. I stared at their album covers for hours, belting out, "The One That You Love."<p></p><p>My hormones turned up to full blast during this era, so I vacillated between weeping copiously while Barry Manilow sang, "Mandy" (She <i>gave</i> without <i>taking</i>!) and leaping around on my pastel bedspread feeling all my womanhood to the Go-Go's. I would print out my poems on my dot-matrix printer, and share them around.</p><br /><p>My friend and I spent a great deal of time at Spinning Wheels and other local roller rinks during this era, so our outfits included white roller skates with red and blue trim, Xanadu-inspired ribbons in our hair, bangs, perms, Jordache jeans, leg-warmers, and velour tops.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>3. Folk and Beer Lover</b></p><p>As I transitioned from high school to college, I was inculcated into a great love for Lynyrd Skynyrd, The Steve Miller Band, as well as John Denver and James Taylor. My college roommates and I belted out these songs while drinking $4 Andre Cold Duck and obsessing over the boys in our dorm.</p><p>The poems kept flowing, many of them inspired by the lyrics of the songs I was listening to. At college, I could print them out on laser printers, then lurk around reading them back to myself and enjoying the sound of my maturing voice.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5pvHFzs_wN1vkuUB4wntXzB-UCXRPjJP-fw6HTtCsxxHvIkB3Ed1xIAv1V90FzjJNJfF7ZKceNFn5s9GO4gFa90z-hu1KNyeYdYCthmgNMShNa0m6D4ccmRhZrTAJKqSp7SxWg4S4CuxsVbgGH8BVgscv5OVVsqU9B8Y_W64_htuqXWexQnMV" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1260" data-original-width="1680" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5pvHFzs_wN1vkuUB4wntXzB-UCXRPjJP-fw6HTtCsxxHvIkB3Ed1xIAv1V90FzjJNJfF7ZKceNFn5s9GO4gFa90z-hu1KNyeYdYCthmgNMShNa0m6D4ccmRhZrTAJKqSp7SxWg4S4CuxsVbgGH8BVgscv5OVVsqU9B8Y_W64_htuqXWexQnMV" width="320" /></a></div>In true 90's style, my church camp boyfriend made mix tapes that my sorority sisters worshiped, and we all swooned to Shawn Colvin and Suzanne Vega. In the halls of Pi Beta Phi, we staged musical performances based on our latest failed relationships.<p></p><br /><p>I moved to Boston to pursue my M.F.A. in Creative Writing, where I was surrounded by new folk artists and other poetry writers. I wrote about everything, A CD called "This is Boston Not Austin" featuring local artists was the musical pinnacle of this era. Des'ree's "You Gotta Be" was probably my theme song at this point.</p><p>My clothing from this era was large woolen coats and scarves against the colder climes where I lived, suit jackets, unflattering grunge-inspired getups, and failed Vidal Sassoon haircuts, I smelled like smoke most of the time because so many of my friends smoked, and I looked cute purely by accident, by virtue of being in my early 20's.</p><p><br /></p><p><b>4. West Coast Moped Girl</b></p><p>Upon moving to Eugene, Oregon for my job, I joined the company singing group, and loved it immensely. I lived in a little cabin close to my job, where I lit candles, did my dishes in the little sink, wrote massive accounts of my failed romances on my aging Mac computer, and grew Concord grapes on my lawn.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I went to London on business and moved to San Francisco for a new job, attending concerts that would imbed themselves into my soul, such as Paula Cole ("I Don't Want to Wait") and the Canadian folk band, Great Big Sea. On my "new" Dell computer, I used digital music to create "getting ready to go out" playlists in my crowded San Francisco apartment.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipB7KOHb8tkat4YoNm7rHiHyxWx_dcjdyUOMKjD5IQlyLdxe_sHgGcZECYefhye2ZWlGzJOYSbvuNKUp8tLb0k4Sa9ZATtrHAeVfmZMSXz0-34j5qqkSk2RrATXtRQamtWyvBodGysW7a6WyLvCFFA9y3xFrOx_7k8Fl5aQln52pzOSBqZ02pd" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="720" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipB7KOHb8tkat4YoNm7rHiHyxWx_dcjdyUOMKjD5IQlyLdxe_sHgGcZECYefhye2ZWlGzJOYSbvuNKUp8tLb0k4Sa9ZATtrHAeVfmZMSXz0-34j5qqkSk2RrATXtRQamtWyvBodGysW7a6WyLvCFFA9y3xFrOx_7k8Fl5aQln52pzOSBqZ02pd" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I was very involved with PR for videogames, so my writing was confined to copious journals that I scrawled into next to my bed, and long papers for my Chaucer class at UCSF.</p><p>I wore lots of dark red lipstick, lacey tops with camisoles underneath them, and traded in my formal Boston corporate clothes for more casual West Coast business style. I wore a black leather jacket everywhere, some chunky jewelry, and I darted around the city on my moped, humming along to a Dave Matthews Band song, </p><p>My hair was short, sometimes drastically so, until my father told me to grow it out if I ever wanted to meet a man...</p><p><br /><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-3169953361833460492023-04-02T13:57:00.002-07:002023-04-02T13:57:55.351-07:00Quaker Valley's Illegal Withholding of Intelligence Screening and GIEP's <p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNCBfC3g2ZpTunVR0tIhgiIaHvftDkdnu0_-Bzv100kZOV6Szzo4XqDxPcMcgLD5FhFw5vi7WOnL-TzJ3xy4HIsD66M322zUV9FYPKUkDlOqSLK-2MRkJQLp4C8gTTumcnemXtjbpl4kGqLB0z28CfzzJ6CAsd4YiID_xVzE5env8mGy1UVQ" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="271" data-original-width="380" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjNCBfC3g2ZpTunVR0tIhgiIaHvftDkdnu0_-Bzv100kZOV6Szzo4XqDxPcMcgLD5FhFw5vi7WOnL-TzJ3xy4HIsD66M322zUV9FYPKUkDlOqSLK-2MRkJQLp4C8gTTumcnemXtjbpl4kGqLB0z28CfzzJ6CAsd4YiID_xVzE5env8mGy1UVQ" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intelligence screenings are commonplace, helpful, and the law!</td></tr></tbody></table><br />TLDR: </p><p><b>If you have children at Quaker Valley School District, please do not let the district gaslight you about gifted services. </b></p><p><b>Request, in writing, an MDE</b> (Multidisciplinary Evaluation), as soon as possible, even if you don't think your child is gifted. They ALL should be screened, and NONE are screened. </p><p><b>You are entitled by law to this screening, and you should insist on this state-mandated data about your child. </b>This information can be incredibly valuable to you, and it is against the law for them to refuse it.</p><p>For a full guide to what services that children are entitled to in Pennsylvania and not provided by Quaker Valley, <a href="chrome-extension://efaidnbmnnnibpcajpcglclefindmkaj/https://www.eastonsd.org/pdfs/ParentsGuide.pdf">this PDF is a comprehensive guide</a>.</p><p>***</p><p>And now, for my entire rant...</p><p>My local school district, in violation of the law, does not have universal screening, GIEP's, or any gifted program. </p><p>Quaker Valley refuses to issue GIEP's (Gifted Individualized Educational Plans) and they perform no intelligence screening of the student population. <a href="https://www.education.pa.gov/K-12/Gifted%20Education/Pages/default.aspx">The state requires every district to provide these things</a>, and Quaker Valley does not. </p><p>By their own admission, they have dismantled the gifted program, they provide "enrichment" to everyone, and they call "gifted" <a href="https://old.post-gazette.com/regionstate/20010612quaker0612p2.asp">"The 'G' Word."</a> </p><p>This refusal to screen or provide gifted services affects disadvantaged students in the worst way. In an area that prides itself on equality and "kindness," this illegal withholding of gifted services has grossed me out for years. <i>If you screen for intelligence instead of academic accomplishments, you can identify gifted learners who haven't had the advantages of preschool or early intervention. </i></p><p>Families in our district who have the means to supplement their child's education, and the resources to advocate for them to the district, get services. Conversely, the children of other families are hung out to dry.</p><p>Why is it so important to screen for intelligence early, and to provide GIEP's? It's not about glory or bragging rights. It's about kids' mental health and well-being. </p><p>As any teacher can tell you, children with<a href="https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0160289616303324"> high intelligence have a very high overlap with mental illness, with ADHD, with autism, and other major issues</a>. Screening young children for intelligence is sometimes the best gateway to helping to identify issues before the children become further distressed. </p><p>Our district doesn't do this. <i>And it's proud of not doing it</i>.</p><p>As soon as I realized that the district was in violation of Chapter 16, which requires every public school in Pennsylvania to provide gifted services and GIEP's, I went straight to the school board.</p><p>I stood in front of the group with my knees shaking, and I read a short prepared speech, stating that intelligence screening and GIEP's are mandatory -- the district can't just "do away with them" without pernission from the Pennsylvania Department of Education. There is a reason these laws are in place, and that every other district in Pennsylvania abides by them. </p><p>I was certain it was an oversight, and once I let the board know that the actions of Quaker Valley's administration were in violation of the law, and that they could seriously hurt disadvantaged children, they would certainly take action.</p><p>Nothing happened. Students weren't screened. No GIEP's were issued. No updates were provided.</p><p>I sent out a message to the town, and asked people to meet me in the library community room if they were concerned about the education of their gifted children. The room was packed with concerned parents of kids of all ages.</p><p>Many had been afraid to say something. Many had "imposter syndrome," in which they didn't believe that their kid was gifted, so they had believed the "every child is gifted" claptrap that the district was selling.</p><p>The <a href="https://www.qvsd.org/apps/pages/index.jsp?uREC_ID=1240168&type=d&pREC_ID=1469386">district eventually posted a website</a> rationalizing their lack of screening or GIEP's. </p><p>This is the same ridiculous story that Quaker Valley has been telling for 20 years. Please shield your eyes from the meaningless visuals on that website. None of it makes any sense, and I've stared at it for years now.</p><p>If I can't get the attention of the district by agitating about how unfair it is to disadvantaged children, perhaps the statistics can lead the conversation. Childrens' growth scores in Quaker Valley (known as PVAAS scores) are strangely low for a district in this general income bracket. Statistically, children are not growing at Quaker Valley the way they are in districts that provide screening and GIEP's.</p><p>Moreover, many families who have become tired of advocating for their gifted students to the district and the lack of any GIEP's have simply left the district, to private schools or other districts. As a result, they are experiencing a "brain drain."</p><p>My own children were lucky, since they have a mom who is an educator and knows the law, so their parents knew to ask the district for a multidisciplinary evaluation for each child. And we knew how to interpret them.</p><p>Imagine what it's like for children who don't have an educator as a parent!?</p><p>When we met about one of our children, who was routinely paired with lower level students and asked to teach them what she knew (this is invariably asked of compliant gifted girls, and truly disgusts me), the administration told us we didn't need testing, and that she was in the correct placement, and since she didn't get perfect scores, she did not need acceleration. </p><p>We met with administrators with this concern in first grade, then again in third grade.</p><p>It was only after we finally requested a Multidisciplinary Evaluation that the entire tenor of the conversation changed. Faced with the actual data about this child, they suggested that she radically accelerate in math, and whole grade accelerate. The result was upsetting for her, as she had become attached to some of her classmates.</p><p>The entire thing could have been avoided if they had done <i>like every other district in Pennsylvania</i>, and screened her along with all of her classmates at the beginning of first grade. </p><p>As I meet little kids in town and strike up conversations with their parents, I worry about them. Will they be screened? Will they have their needs met if they have the mental health struggles that so often accompany high intelligence?</p><p>I can't continue to whack my little tin cup against the bars of this issue anymore. My children are all educated outside the district, in large part because of this illegal withholding of screening and GIEP's.</p><p>But I can't say it won't still rankle. I've worked in several other districts, and I've seen the advantages of effectively applied screening and GIEP's. The fact that this isn't offered to my neighbors is unfair and in violation of the law. </p><p><a href="https://www.theedadvocate.org/multidisciplinary-evaluation-what-you-need-to-know/">More information about Multidisciplinary Evaluations is located here.</a></p><p><a href="https://www.pacodeandbulletin.gov/Display/pacode?file=/secure/pacode/data/022/chapter16/chap16toc.html">PDE's Chapter 16 is here, complete with requirements for screening all students and providing GIEP's.</a></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Child testing image downloaded from https://news.siu.edu/2010/11/113010amh10191.php</span></p><p><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-22632762075642155272023-03-25T14:13:00.003-07:002023-03-25T14:13:34.093-07:00The Other Dog in the Woods<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJNzen8eKww2fJL01-fyhfzaL98h9tpelTwkNL_XLF1LpLE3gPTMwNDazRO-T6zONwO47eo-99HJ3iUkB_laKf5EbWPxDBNfBHXdCYArcMQbWZMEWwOxeSEY0lEF-TYbE8HOO_jXM8rVzmtIGN8TnXMqVEHvL9EqkG_CCPSw-tv40RLlK_uA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="1280" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJNzen8eKww2fJL01-fyhfzaL98h9tpelTwkNL_XLF1LpLE3gPTMwNDazRO-T6zONwO47eo-99HJ3iUkB_laKf5EbWPxDBNfBHXdCYArcMQbWZMEWwOxeSEY0lEF-TYbE8HOO_jXM8rVzmtIGN8TnXMqVEHvL9EqkG_CCPSw-tv40RLlK_uA" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p> "Watch out, those people have a dog," Gigi said to me as we walked through the woods this morning.</p><p>Our dog, Larry, likes other dogs, but I like to give people a choice before our inevitably filthy pup comes bounding up to theirs.</p><p>I called Larry to me, and I put on his leash, but I didn't see the dog Gigi had seen.</p><p>I did see two friendly, older men. They were exploring some fallen trees, hoping to find a <a href="https://www.globalwoodsource.com/blog/burl-wood-bowl-guide-how-to-turn-a-burl-like-a-pro/">burl to turn</a>.</p><p>They introduced themselves and gave Larry a few pets.</p><p>"I'm John," said the older of the two, "And I've seen you up here before."</p><p>"Oh yes," I said, "Didn't you have a dog?"</p><p>"Yes. She was a Vizsla. She loved it up here." John said, sounding wistful.</p><p>"Oh no, I'm so sorry," I said. "She was a beautiful dog."</p><p>After we promised to look up burl turning videos and parted ways, Gigi came up to me with an urgent question.</p><p>"Mama, what does a Vizsla look like?"</p><p>I described John's dog, and she stopped along the path.</p><p>"Mama, I saw her. That is what she looked like, and THAT why I told you that they had a dog."</p><p>"Wow," I told her. "I'm so glad she's still with him."</p><p>And we ambled back home in a state of wonder, our muddy dog scrambling beside us.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgP5JPqbz-QiBbKBV8peiKqufDYkLE1MxXIGnBPcszAFHnGs-nh0mGsOQ38EtXGBa0PhB9aM3tPho9WObgxYxJ8jik4tlT7mfzom9y_YqKnjwtmpzkl2zqdoBsLMRWPIAiKiEQenfhKVTwHVWS7KdAxlIycHKsFS7LSKLv701NrTGb2akThEg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="203" data-original-width="600" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgP5JPqbz-QiBbKBV8peiKqufDYkLE1MxXIGnBPcszAFHnGs-nh0mGsOQ38EtXGBa0PhB9aM3tPho9WObgxYxJ8jik4tlT7mfzom9y_YqKnjwtmpzkl2zqdoBsLMRWPIAiKiEQenfhKVTwHVWS7KdAxlIycHKsFS7LSKLv701NrTGb2akThEg=w621-h210" width="621" /></a></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Vizsla image retrieved from http://zoldmali.com/en/?content=16</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">"For Better or For Worse" comic retrieved from https://fborfw.com/strip_fix/storyline/farleys-spirit/</span></p><p><br /><br /></p>Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19583693.post-31162277322589222982023-03-04T11:35:00.002-08:002023-03-04T11:35:35.489-08:00It's not a competition, but I'm going to win<div class="separator"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbs3YYsZtTBAWkhAO1mS-9amSsgGTelT6oG1G-nkcvtWCmM1rXIBVGd9VHovrfOjbjcXmUmXI9IPwV0PNXkxk8HeCVER5p94GtiF2KcvEVf2gewnaY7iSwgRH56vSRr-J9MuDMrHM2Q8nMOxMwOVG4F-OHRCT9Mw3lF71qeB_UkQ5TdyYFw/s1057/IMG_0609.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbs3YYsZtTBAWkhAO1mS-9amSsgGTelT6oG1G-nkcvtWCmM1rXIBVGd9VHovrfOjbjcXmUmXI9IPwV0PNXkxk8HeCVER5p94GtiF2KcvEVf2gewnaY7iSwgRH56vSRr-J9MuDMrHM2Q8nMOxMwOVG4F-OHRCT9Mw3lF71qeB_UkQ5TdyYFw/s320/IMG_0609.JPG" width="218" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I will absolutely take you down.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It started right away for me, this competitive fire. </p><p>I was used to being the smartest, and youngest, student in my class in the first grade. I lorded over my classmates with my timed math tests. My name was <i>always</i> on the board as the weekly winner.</p><p>Then one day, my world shifted. The teacher erased my name and wrote D.'s instead. I had been bested by a student younger, and smarter, than I was. Worse: he was a <i>boy</i>. </p><p>I felt a burning under my heart that day that propelled me to double down, and try to take this guy <i>out</i>. (Note: D. went on to a become a successful engineer, and I never beat him.) </p><p>This aggressive feeling has never gone away. I will still compete in any category with a fervor that feels somewhat out of my control.</p><p>Until recently, I have been somewhat embarrassed by this need to win. It does get me into trouble.</p><p>You see, I have pissed off some people with my ruthlessness. I can still hear and see the rage I have elicited from business competitors in the past. In order to land the client, secure the magazine cover, and get the contract, I would think hard and move fast. </p><p>Likewise, I recall a blind date I went on in San Francisco. After I locked horns with the man on the topic of Hitchcock's movies, he put money down on the dinner table and walked out, grumbling, "You're much too competitive for me." I chalked that up to a "win" for sure, and he was also wrong about Hitchcock.</p><p>It's worth mentioning that part of my attraction to Hub-D was how he bests me in many categories, including trivia, business, and vocabulary topics. In him, I found a worthy competitor, so I clearly had to marry him.</p><p>After we had Chebbles and I settled into motherhood, my competitive spirit made much less sense. Was I really going to compete for "which baby walked first?" (OK, mine, but that's not the point.)</p><p>I think this is part of why being a stay-at-home mom was somewhat numbing for me. I am driven by competition. It's simply been my nature from the start. I am charged up by going head-to-head against people since first grade, but I certainly am not going to compete against my children (they would win), or my students (ditto).</p><p>This morning, I decided that I must have been given this competitive nature for a good reason. I'm not sure what it is, but it's not going anywhere. I am going to be proud of this fire.</p><div>Although I can't run faster than anyone, for example, but I sure can run <i>further</i> than most people. And I keep running as far as I can, since my new goal is to run further into middle age than my peers. This may be how I (and the dog) stay healthy.</div><p>Recently, my friend K. and I signed up for a "fun" Amazing Race-type competition this summer, and I have reminded her multiple times to practice sprinting around her neighborhood. She knows: I <i>will</i> leave her behind because I <i>must</i> have that trophy. I'm lucky to have friends who accept this about me.</p><p>And now that I'm working as a German teacher, and enjoying it immensely, I am finding some unlikely ways to let my freaky competitive flag fly. For example, in a few weeks, my students will be competing for prizes in a German competition. In several categories, including German facts, poetry memorization and art -- my students are <i>in it to win it</i>. </p><p>I am hoping that my laser focus victory is inspiring to my students -- although it might seem a little intense to students who aren't as tightly strung as I am.</p><p>When I look back on some of my proudest accomplishments in life, many of them are a result of this unrelenting competitive drive. I have won spelling bees, scholarships, poetry and trivia competitions, and a few local running races (within my age category). </p><p>So today, I'm going to stoke my fire, and throw myself into a few more competitions. </p><p>Yes, like everyone else, I need love and companionship. But, for whatever reason, my fuel will always be a will to win.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUXB3bT4uvK8Wq1LrNiqQAZlX8jgqpYzs_NGhvweZO0zrFpqfItkEhAk6ZnqyA-bnVWEPnIdOMUmkrdT4kD_-rrInTgKaCWq5kOMfe8EquOCKdxaVzoe7Oa1SPdSx8rKZR3XzonkShoNqJZ15aZrAwsUZnxdF6DXEiI8sd5k4IYKFV76Ifw/s3000/621128145.546015%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2471" data-original-width="3000" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUXB3bT4uvK8Wq1LrNiqQAZlX8jgqpYzs_NGhvweZO0zrFpqfItkEhAk6ZnqyA-bnVWEPnIdOMUmkrdT4kD_-rrInTgKaCWq5kOMfe8EquOCKdxaVzoe7Oa1SPdSx8rKZR3XzonkShoNqJZ15aZrAwsUZnxdF6DXEiI8sd5k4IYKFV76Ifw/s320/621128145.546015%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My swing is higher than yours.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><br />Erica Kainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02917897064970938887noreply@blogger.com0