I received a one-cat escort from my car to the nearly the front yard today (I like to park in front of Susan's house --  she also works at Savannah Tech -- which is about three houses away). I took it to mean that Stella and I were back on good terms after a near-fatal bite to my forearm after I attempted to scoot her hindquarters on a towel that I prefer she lie on while she lounges on my bed. Sally reminded me that cats don't like to be touched there and added that it's a good thing Stella just got all her shots. 

I'm enjoying sitting in her spot now, next to the open window. I feel unmotivated on this perfectly mild spring day, February in Savannah. Others are making progress: tidying papers in an expandable file after completing a tax preview, building a brick fence that was the result of many design and planning hours, blowing leaves and getting ready for the really big event: St. Patrick's Day.

I'm thinking about an escape this year. That is, if I can get motivated and move beyond this President's Day Monday malaise. Thinking of Jimmy Carter (thanks to Bill Nigut, Political Rewind) and others. 

Loping

Because of a vocal performance class that I audited at SCAD, I sometimes notice the way that people stand or walk. The class was taught by renowned Prof. Vivian Majkowski and though I audited it, I felt like I barely passed. Two days a week at 8 AM I sat on the floor of one of the upstairs classrooms in Seitz Hall, trying to keep up with undergrad performance majors. (I took the class so that I'd be better at teaching voice to my public speaking students.)  

Among the many things that I remember from the class, Vivian said that everyone has a different inner-tempo-rhythm. We move and talk at different rates, basically, and that rate is innate or hardwired. 

Around the same time that I took Vivian's class I showed my students a video about the importance of moving. I was always encouraging them to exercise in order to manage their pre-speech jitters. The speaker in the video (which sadly I can't find) harked back to the intrinsic human gait of loping. Humans loped on the savannah long before they were worried about public speaking. I imagine that they sped up if being chased, but loping was their way of getting around, I guess, from one plain to another. 

I've been noticing these factors in my friend Todd. In social situations he lopes. I guess that to lope you have to have longish legs, which he does. Todd will check a place out with a bounding walk, then return with a beer and a report. When I go to talk to someone new he might make a loping circumference of the room and land to check out my conversation. He's a loper. 

In terms of speaking rate, Todd has has some Southern slowness (he's from Savannah, the city) but gets a number of thoughts in to one speaking turn. I like that. You know what Todd is up to and what he's thinking. 

I speak fast and walk fast. It's good to slow down and be in the moment. It's good to notice people who lope.  

The following blog post is from about two years ago. I'm happy to report that I'm gainfully employed as an ESL Instructor!  

I'm taking a TESOL class now -- Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. In fact, I'm not just taking a TESOL class. I'm working toward a TESOL certificate. There it is. I admitted it. 

It's not that working toward an online certificate is unusual; but it is a time and money  commitment and I haven't told many (any) body. 

My hopeful certificate is through University of Georgia's continuing education program. I signed up while at Panera a couple weeks ago. It's a place where I've made a number of life decisions. It helped that I had a credit card with me that had a low balance. My significant other [at the time] had repeatedly mentioned teaching English as a good option. His daughter had friends in the Philippines who were getting income as online ESL instructors. Why not you? (At least I'd put an end to the helpful suggestions.)

A couple months ago I started a "project" book, so that I could write down the what, how, and why of my goals, a structure inspired by Stacey Abrams in a TED Radio Hour podcast. It worked well for a while, and I'm sure that I'll go back to it. But the project book was not part of my luggage at Panera that day (I always have at least three bags with me). I guess I'll have to back into the what / how / why of this one. 

A Stella Day

 Stella and I had had our ups and downs just prior to this incident (I'd pull her leg, she'd claw me, etc.), and after a series of apologies I was thinking that I'd have to give up on the cat relationship. I've always been a dog person anyway. 

But after coming back from dinner on a Saturday night, the relationship rekindled. I was finishing a project in my room and it was the perfect atmosphere for her -- jazz, wine, the comforter, of course, (though I insist that she lay on a towel). We had cat nap / laptop time like never before. My housemate, Filip, a cat expert from Finland, came and scooped her up when it was time for me to go to bed. (I draw the line at having the cat sleep over.) 

But the evening made too much of an impression, as I thought it might. The next day Stella went out shopping to get me a present. The problem was, it was still alive. As I unpacked groceries I heard a slight bustle at the cat door and an animal sound. Hard to tell if it was a yelp or a meow. One glance down the hallway and I knew that I was getting a delivery. I saw a blur of Stella and something furry in her mouth headed toward my room. I screamed. Thank god Filip was home and the door to my room was closed 

Filip headed the cat-squirrel into Sally's room, where Stella dropped the squirrel and it ran into Sally's bathroom. 

"Close the door!" I yelled helpfully from the kitchen in my teacher voice. In fact I had Filip close the bathroom and bedroom doors. I wasn't going to be tormented by cat-with-squirrel on my Sunday afternoon. 

A couple times Filip and I met in the hallway between our rooms. What was going on in there? "Should I check?" he asked. We wondered if the squirrel was still alive; what was it like to spend four hours in a small room with someone who wanted to kill you? Etc. etc. 

Eventually Sally came home and common sense prevailed. She bent over Stella, half scolding, half with humor: "Now what am I going to do with a squirrel in my bathroom?" Then she picked up the cat and deposited her outside. Step one. Next, Filip and Sally began to corral the squirrel. The bathroom had been upset. Things floated in the toilet. Sally's earring plate was overturned. It was an active scene. 

After a couple time out's, when Sally and Filip returned to the kitchen sweating, the squirrel was somehow cornered into a cat carrier (one of my earlier ideas, I must say), encouraged by two long yard sticks (Sally is a seamstress among many other talents). The squirrel scratched at Sally's finger tips through the carrier. She let it out near the street and it leaped onto a nearby tree. I imagined it would sleep well that night.

After that the cat door was discontinued. Sally said that Stella was abusing it. The squirrel wasn't the only offering (though the only live one). Stella won out over a pesky mockingbird and there was another, smaller bird. 

Stella was depressed for a while, but she's adapted and regained her cat step, though with less mojo than during the hunting sprees. (After the mockingbird incident I saw her on a victory lap in the middle of the next street.) Hopefully the squirrel has survived. And that was a Stella Day.

 Dear Stella,

I am so sorry about this morning! When I walked in the kitchen and saw you in the sink, I blurted out, "Stella!"  That woke up Sally, of course (though she said she was already awake). 

Then when Sally was bent over you, smiling, scolding, you gave me the cat death stare. 

I've felt bad all day. I really didn't mean to get you in trouble. Believe me, I do things all the time that would get me in trouble if people found out. It was just such a shock to see you at eye level when you're normally a stay-on-the-floor kind of cat (well trained, thankfully). But I've seen you jump, so I shouldn't be surprised. 

Anyway, please forgive me. I won't give you away next time, or maybe I'll just pretend not to see you. (I'm a big push over when it comes to children and animals.)  

Please keep in mind that I'm not a cat person, but you really are a super cool cat. Maybe even part dog.

Julie 

  

                                                      

Lost, found, and left items

Things leave and reappear in my life, seemingly without me. 

Things that want to be lost, no matter what: Shortly after deciding to leave SCAD, the school where I'd taught for nine years, I went to my nephew's wedding in Dallas. The afternoon of the wedding, my partner and I were in an Uber running an errand. I was wearing my SCAD baseball hat -- one of my favorites -- and had this weird feeling that I wouldn't be able to hold on to it. Of course I left it in the Uber. Maybe symbolically I was letting go or feeling oddly guilty for leaving the "mother" institution (SCAD is a major presence and source of prestige in Savannah). Whatever the reason, I couldn't have held on to that thing and I knew it. 

Things that just won't be thrown out: These are usually very sweet connections to important people that I've convinced myself to donate or toss. It reappears, often in the magic space of my car trunk. I was going to give away a skort that my sister gave me, for example. She wore it during our last visit, then in one of our many clothes discussions, took it off and said it would look better on me. I disagreed when I got home. Despite a couple trips to Goodwill it stubbornly remained in the trunk. Now it's safe in my drawer, waiting to be worn and remind me of sis.

Things not meant to be lost, so they reappear: A prime example is a small gold angel (it's flat; I think it used to be on a necklace) that I kept on my dresser. My partner had given it to me. I think that the angel was one of his "found" items. He has a keen eye for discarded things that others might enjoy (that's just his nature). When he used to rent out properties people would leave things behind and gifts came in abundance. I got a beautiful pair of boots that way. A few months ago I moved and swept the angel into a Kroger bag with all its friends on the top of my dresser. When I re-assembled them at the new place, I was wadding up the Kroger bag and out fell the angel. Now I keep a closer eye on it. 

Some things just have a spirit of their own. 

 

Where's my bike helmet? Want to ride downtown ... 

My partner cleared out the car port where I had left it last and then put it, of course, exactly where it should be -- in my bike basket. 

My partner is meticulous. It's a quality that has served him well as a general contractor. Did the profession influence his behavior, or was it already present, as in a six year old who categorizes his sock drawer? 

His mother assured me that it was the former, because as a teen his room was typical -- strewn clothes, shoes, a trumpet for a period of time, frisbees, etc. 

His first construction project was the home where he was living in Minneapolis. His living and construction space were carefully separated by a plastic curtain, I imagine, and other neat markings. 

His father came to visit and described the scene. 

"I couldn't believe it! This same guy who had two feet of stuff on the floor of his room had created an impeccably separated work and living space. When I say 'work,' I mean construction, and all of the things that went along with it. I thought, 'What happened?'"

An impeccable work space has become his habit.  gotten worse since then. He is a hoarder, as most general contractors must be to some extent, but the hoarding is highly organized. Tools all have their place, along with bowls, baskets, and Tupperwares of nails, bolts, etc. (He has an affinity for Tupperware). The tools needed for a job are assembled the day before. 

Organization has merged with another quality, preparation. One of his sayings is, "And you're on your way." He makes himself ready to be "on his way" I'd say almost everyday. Traveling means a suitcase at least mostly packed the night before. It waits by the door for him hours before time to depart. (This truly drives me insane.)  He likes to lounge before leaving on a trip, watching golf on TV or a movie. In the meantime I'm in a frenzy between bathroom closet and make up bags. 

He's a regular at hot yoga, which generates a lot of laundry. No worries, because it's dropped off in the laundry room on the way into the house, and the bag of new work out clothes gets packed and set on the counter for the next day.

"And you're on your way" is his philosophy of being prepared: Be ready for what comes next. Not a bad way to live your life.  

photo of bike and helmet?