My my, just how much I’ve missed you…A few months ago, I mentioned to my husband that I had always wanted to see the stage production of Mama Mia, and that afternoon he presented me with two tickets to a touring company production held at the Durham Performing Arts Center. We went last night. My, my, how can I resist you?… It was an irresistible evening! I began to smile with the opening number and except for when I was singing along with the music, I don’t think the smile left my face. Pratfalls, lots of physical humor and plays on words and insider jokes – they just kept coming. And it was clear the cast was having a blast doing the show, responding to the enthusiastic audience. One more look and I forget everything, w-o-o-o-oh….At the end, everyone stood and we got to sing along and dance in place together with outrageously costumed the cast and dancers, to Mama Mia, Dancing Queen, and Waterloo. A perfect theater experience and why I love going to musicals where the audience knows the music. Bye bye doesn’t mean forever…I admit the audience was on the older side, unlike the Cher concert we went to earlier this year where the audience was more diverse. But the music resonated with so many people when Abba was at the top of the play charts, and the story wove in so many of their hits, that it was the perfect audience. Mamma mia, here I go again… I might have to see this again sometime. Yes, it’s fluff, but it’s great fun fluff. And brings back lots of memories. 0 0
I must be honest and tell you that I am always suspicious of books that are a spin off from a classic read. This time, however, I was completely in the wrong. All Hallows at Eyre Hall kept me tightly bound to my reading of it and constantly entertained with its twists and turns. I was never a great fan of the original Jane Eyre. I thought she was wimpy and colorless and Edward Rochester pusillanimous. Now, more than twenty years later, Jane has a backbone and Edward is still spineless, whining, and morally corrupt. But now Jane is fully cognizant of his failings and no longer loves him. The book begins with Edward on his deathbed and I thought, At last, Jane is free and can live her own life. Richard Mason returns, brother of Bertha, Edward’s first, mad wife, who lived locked on the top floor of Thornfield Hall – the same man who interrupted Jane’s first wedding ceremony by claiming bigamy because his sister was still living. With him comes an evil that threatens to destroy everything Jane holds dear – her sanity, her family and Eyre Hall. The venal Richard tries again to insinuate himself into the Rochester estate and its money by bringing with him to Eyre Hall a young girl, whom he claims is the offspring of Edward and Bertha. He also plants a mole at the Hall to spy for him. During this period, Jane once again falls deeply and inappropriately in love, but this time with a much younger man, whose status as staff at the Hall creates a love story with unexpected twists and turns. There is a lot more to this love story, but I don’t want to be a spoiler. What Richard demands to keep both Annette’s lineage and Jane’s love a secret aroused murderous feelings in this reader. There are also new revelations of extent of Edward’s depravity, creating more impossible stressors in Jane’s life. Jane’s response to these threats to her future and to that of her son John (who has an immediate and innocent attraction to the Annette), is planned out with her usual practicality, but will it work? Will she be strong enough to go through with her plan? The reader will need to get the next volume in this trilogy, out this fall. I found the characters in All Hallows at Eyre Hall richly drawn, and the descriptions that maintain the period of the piece well researched and in perfect continuity to the original book. Whether you liked or disliked the original Jane Eyre, you will find this sequel alternately engaging, surprising and impossible to put down. 0 0
Irene Watters has put me on the spot with a blog hop. Irene is a lot like me: she blogs about her life, challenges, animals, fiction, haiku, travels, and she also provides lots of beautiful photographs (that’s not me). Her blog is a one rich menu of interesting reading. Right now she has applied for a grant to get her Master’s degree with a thesis on writing. Check her out at http://irenewaters19.com/about-2/ The questions Irene sent to me: 1 What am I working on at the moment? Right now I am trying to get some short stories into submission quality while I wait for the beta readers of my second book, Death in a White Dacron Sail, to give me their overall comments. This book is the next in the Rhe Brewster Mystery series, and you can see the cover of the first here on the blog site. As soon as I get those comments, it will be a grand adventure in drudge work to make my last edits. I am waiting to hear from a publisher who might pick up both books, but if that doesn’t work out, I will publish again with CreateSpace. And just for fun, I’ve written the first two chapters of the third book. I can’t seem to put down my main character. 2 How does my work differ from others of its genre? While both Death in a Red Canvas Chair and Death in a White Dacron Sail are cozies in the genre of Sue Grafton’s alphabet series, my protagonist is a typical modern woman with a career, husband and young child. Along with acute investigative abilities and the tendency to get herself into dangerous situations. So a Kinsey Milhone in the modern day with family obligations. Rhe Brewster’s marriage itself becomes a character in the second book. 3. Why do I write what I do? That’s hard to answer because my writing has taken me all over the place, from a story on lobsters in Coastal Style, to one on becoming southern in Deep South Magazine, to another about an old woman who survives a hurricane in Sea Level Magazine. I am also working on an idea for a second chapter to add to a story about four cats – A Comfortable Clowder – that I haven’t been able to find a place to publish. So maybe a book? I write about whatever floats my boat. But the Rhe Brewster character is with me all the time. 4 How does my writing process work? Very simply, I just sit down and write. After a lifetime of planning for research, analyzing results and mapping out papers and grants, it is freeing to just write. Sometimes a prompt, such as an off the wall idea, a challenge, a picture, or an experience will lead to a story. With the second and third books, I did quite a bit of research in Maine, wrote up scenes in advance as they occurred to me, and kept a running list of ideas for each book. But basically it’s still the same: sit down, let my mind go, and put it on the computer screen (not paper, unfortunately; my handwriting is illegible, even to me). I am sending this blog hop on to three wonderful writers: Robert M. Bird http://byrdwords.wordpress.com/ Luccia Gray http://lucciagray.wordpress.com/ Sylvia Villalobos http://silviatomasvillalobos.wordpress.com/ 0 0
One of the lovely people I met during the A-Z blog challenge is Irene Waters. She gifted me with several awards that I would like to accept and pass on, as she and the founders of the awards suggested. Irene is a very talented writer and photographer, and her varied blogs never fail to interest me and provoke some discussion. You can find her at: http://irenewaters19.com/about-2/ 1.The first is the Inner Peace award, which only requires that you write a short piece on why you are accepting it. So: I am accepting it because this is something I’ve always wanted to have on a regular basis, hard to achieve, hard to maintain. There is one instance in which I truly experienced it and recognized it at the time: a winter night when it was very cold. My husband and I were sitting in our family room and there was a fire going in our fireplace. My son was sitting on the floor playing a game on which he was totally focused (so remarkable for an ADHD kid), and my daughter was ‘reading’ a book with her Dad. I remember looking at all of them and thinking I wish this could last forever. The Rules Accept, thank, nominate and inform another fourteen. I am passing this on to the people listed at the end of this blog. 2. The Angel award, which came to Irene from Don Charisma, amazing name and another person whose blog never fails to interest me (http://doncharisma.org/about/), has no requirements, other than accepting it. This, too, I will pass on. 3. I think The Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award is a wonderful name. I have met so many talented women last month and enjoy their blogs enormously. We do stay in loose contact; I often send haikus to Jemima Pett (http://jemimapett.com/about/), who writes wonderful children’s fiction, has a fabulous garden and some cute-as-a button guinea pigs. When I was off line after some surgery, she emailed me to make sure I was okay. That was such an unexpected and sweet thing to do! So yes, we have a Sisterhood. The Rules Accept, thank, nominate and inform another fourteen. Again, thanks to Irene and my nomination are below. 4. To quote Irene since I couldn’t say it better, the WordPress Family was created by Shaun Gibson (http://shaunynews.wordpress.com/about/ ) for everyone who is part of the Word Press Family. “This represents ‘Family’ we never meet, but are there for us as family. It is my honor to start this award. Thank you”— Shaun Gibson. We bloggers certainly do create an enormous family with very talented and diverse members and our written comments serve to support, reaffirm, teach, bless. 5. The Premio Dardos Award (Premio Dartos = prized darts!) is an honor for bloggers who transmit core human values through their post, pictures and other work. This is a really special award because it recognizes personal, ethical, cultural and literary values transmitted through writing and it is an incredible honor that Irene would give this to me. I will certainly pass this on! The Rules 1) Accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the name of the person that has granted the award and a link to his/her blog. 2) Pass the award to another ten blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgement, remembering to contact each of them to let them know they have been selected for this award. 6. Finally, and by now I am weighed down with all these special lovelinesses, the Team Membership Readership Award. To quote Irene and not reinvent the wheel, “The creator of this award said: “As bloggers, we are also readers. That is a part of blogging as listening is a part of speaking.” If we weren’t compelled readers, there would be no blogs and I love the fact that many of my fellow bloggers pass on recommendations for things they are reading. I have a long and growing list of books I am going to dip into, as a result. The Rules 1. The Nominee of the Wonderful Team member Readership Award shall display the logo on his/her post/page and/or sidebar 2. The Nominee shall nominate 14 readers they appreciate over a period of 7 days (1 week) – this can be done at any rate during the week. It can be ALL on one day or a few on one day and a few on another day, etc. 3. The Nominee shall name his or her Wonderful Team Member Readership Award nominees on a post or on posts during the 7 day (1 week) period. 4. The Nominee shall make these rules, or amended rules keeping to the spirit of the Wonderful Team Member Readership Award, known to each reader s/he nominates. 5. The Nominee must finish this sentence and post: ”A Great reader is…” Irene mentions that the word reader comes from an old English work meaning a dream interpreter, and I can’t think of a greater blessing we have as human beings than a brain that allows us to communicate with each other and dream. All it takes to be a great reader is curiosity, a brain and our ability to dream. As an anatomist, I love to watch the medical students each year as they see an actual brain for the first time: a rather soft and squishy and delicate work of evolution that in its simplicity and complexity makes us who we are. Here are my nominees for these awards. These are all bloggers whose posts I follow and who entertain, educate and teach me. They may accept or not, as they prefer. http://kateloveton.wordpress.com/ http://rosieamber.wordpress.com/ http://njmagas.wordpress.com/ http://kelworthfiles.wordpress.com/ http://lucciagray.wordpress.com/ http://stephenyhoughtlin.com/ http://awomanswisdom.wordpress.com/ http://septuagenarianjourney.wordpress.com/ http://alex-hurst.com/ http://graysonqueen.wordpress.com/ – in honor of his wife, who posted under Rarasaur http://blessedwithastarontheforehead.wordpress.com/ http://chrismusgravewriter.com/ 0 0
This week three members of our Early Birds critique group had an ‘event’ at Panera Bread in Cary, NC. The idea came from a session I attended at the spring conference of the North Carolina Writers Network, where one of the presenters mentioned that they had had a book sale at the place where they ate lunch once a week. The EBers have been meeting at Panera for two+ years, where we work on our books, and three of us published in the last year. I thought why not have a book sale there? We contacted the manager and he gave us the thumbs up. After we got permission to use the Panera logo, my daughter, the clever artist, made us a banner (reusable!). I contacted the Triangle Writers group (of which the Early Birds is one small group; we now number over 500), a press release was sent out, and we also contacted a local TV station. In retrospect, we should have done this sooner, more than a week ahead. We set up shop at 9 AM and handed people bookmarks and cards throughout the day, but discovered that you really need to talk to people to get them to stop by. So I went inside and chatted to customers while they ate and told them what we were about. Shameless self-promotion! For the most part, they were very receptive and kind, and I avoided interrupting anything that looked like a business meeting. Note: Bring a lot of bookmarks, postcard, and business cards advertising you and your book. We sold ten books, possibly got a gig talking to a book group about our experiences, and had a great time meeting all sorts of people. We collectively decided it was a great experience and plan to do it again next year, when more of our members will have books out and two of us will be on our second! 0 0
When I was growing up, my year was always dominated by summer adventures. In late August, my mother’s sister and her husband and two boys would come for a visit. These visits were always awaited with great anticipation, since their oldest boy, Peter, was six months younger than I, while the youngest, Paul, was six months younger than my brother Jay. I could never figure out how Mom and her sister had managed this arrangement. We had built-in playmates for a week or two: Paul and Jay roomed together in my bedroom, while Peter and I were housed in the old servant’s quarters on our old house’s third floor, in a bedroom with twin beds under the eaves. After the first couple of days of the cousin invasion, the bloom was off the rose. Peter and I or Paul and Jay were either getting into trouble or fighting. Which raises the subject of punishment. Spoiling the child was never an issue for my parents. Mom had a Master’s degree in verbal tongue-lashing, while Dad was in charge of physical discipline. I had a “smart mouth” according to Mom, and trouble found Jay several times daily. Thus the switch, a thin green stick cut from a forsythia bush in the back yard, was frequently applied to our posteriors by Dad, with varying degrees of force and frequency, depending on the infraction. “Wait ’til your father gets home,” was an ominous sign of things to come. Pain never seemed to be an issue for Jay, who was hyperactive and barely responded to anything that hurt. The only time Mom wielded a whacking instrument to my brother was when in complete frustration she broke a yardstick on Jay’s backside. Part of the frustration was that Jay smiled all the way through its application. I, on the other hand, dreaded the switch, and only managed to avoid encountering it once over the years, when I hid under a bed. While I was hiding, Mom and Dad calmed down considerably, so when I finally dared to emerge, I was assigned to wash all the dishes all by myself, each day for a month. The hiding-under-the-bed tactic didn’t work the next time. Our uncle was of like mind with our father, only he applied a belt to our cousins. The belt was an old black leather strap that hung in the kitchen closet in their home, but it traveled with them to Plymouth each summer. Each pair of cousins swore that what they experienced was worse, usually at the conclusion of a lengthy recounting of recent times the belt and switch had been used, the infractions that had called for their use, and the virtues of each form of punishment. All this ended during one of the cousin invasions when, exasperated to the limit by our behavior, our respective fathers gave us a choice: switch or belt. While Paul and Jay were on the receiving end of the belt and switch respectively, Peter and I sat down on the kitchen floor and recommenced our discussion of the merits of each of these instruments of torture. “Well?” my Dad asked, when our turn came. “I think I’ll take the switch,” I remember answering rather reluctantly. “I’m okay with the belt,” said Peter. Later that evening, with our backsides smarting from the latest insult, we collectively decided not to discuss our different forms of punishment again, just in case discussing them somehow elicited their use. P.S. As a parent, I never used a switch. When my children were little, they infrequently got one swat on their diapered rears for effect, but we mainly used time outs. 0 0
When I was growing up, I recognized that my father had a keen sense of family proprietorship where it concerned our house and its land. Several times a year, he would make a pronouncement on Saturday morning: “Today we clear land” or “Today we shovel the driveway” or “Today we burn the lawn.” These statements would be made from the pulpit of the breakfast table, in between bites whatever breakfast he had made that morning, with all the imperiousness of a New England preacher. If it weren’t for the fact that the driveway was a quarter mile long, the land was about five acres, and my father had an addiction to kerosene, my brother and I might have laughed ourselves silly. Our house was three stories, with weathered gray siding, dark green shutters, and three brick chimneys. It had been built in the mid 1800s by a sea captain named Hornblower, and its many windows stared out blankly at the water of Massachusetts Bay. There were five terraces that led up to the house from the main road, wild and full of brambles and wild blackberries, and some had even been other sites for the house. My father told me he had seen pictures of the house, raised up on a huge platform, being dragged down the hill, to be repositioned wherever the owners wanted it. The foundations of those other sites were still visible in some places, and there had once been a round extension on one side of the house, but it had fallen off in a move. The lowest terrace was next to the main road, and it and the next one up had ancient apple trees that bore fruit sporadically. My brother Jay and I had once tried the apples, but decided that the small, tart fruits weren’t worth the briar scratches on our legs and the burrs in our socks. The third terrace up was half-full of day lilies, which bloomed spectacularly in summer, painting the terrace in a brilliant shade of orange, and which spread a little each year. The fourth and fifth terraces had the thickest bushes and brambles and were in a perpetual state of being cleared; on the fifth, Dad had established a beachhead for brush burning. While no one in the family doubted that he was determined to clear those terraces, the fact the job simply couldn’t be done in one or two weekends meant the brush never was truly removed. It just grew back to be cleared again. But he was undaunted, and as a result the entire family suffered together in true pioneer fashion. Clearing was always done in late spring and early fall, when it was warm and humid and the poison ivy in full bloom. Dad would get a burning permit from the town and start bushwhacking early Saturday morning with his machete and a scythe. My mother, Jay and I would pull on old gloves, whose insides smelled and frequently contained small bits of yuck, and follow behind Dad, grabbing the cut brush and dragging it to the towering inferno he would create with a liberal splash of kerosene. In the early days, when no one was particularly good at recognizing poison ivy, Jay and I usually came down with a good dose of it and would be wearing pink calamine lotion for the next week or so. Burning poison ivy was also unsafe, because good dose of the smoke, when mixed with sweat, also required a dose of calamine. It didn’t help my regard of this shiny green weed when my mother told me that years before, some crazy relative had died after eating poison ivy on a dare. Jay and I thereafter carefully inspected every load of brush we dragged to the fire and tried to stay upwind of the smoke. My father was immune to poison ivy and was never subject to the humiliation of sitting in a classroom with a pink-coated face, being driven crazy with the itching. My mother was the smartest one in the family, which was evident the very first time we bush-whacked the terraces. She would haul brush for about 30 minutes and then engage my Dad in a short discussion. “John, I think we’ve about cleared this area.” That would be followed by a grunt from Dad, who was dripping sweat into his eyes and trying not to slash himself with the machete. “Would you like something to drink? You must be getting thirsty.” “Sounds good.” “OK, I’m going to head in and I’ll bring you all out some lemonade after I have started lunch.” Then Mom would retreat to the house and wouldn’t appear until she called us for lunch. The lemonade would be on the table when we slogged inside. I never knew exactly why ham sandwiches took the entire morning to make, but whatever Mom was doing, I would have been only too happy to help her. “The family will shovel” days in the winter usually occurred after a several foot snowfall, which inevitably blocked the back door. In that case, the easiest way out of the house was through the cellar, since Dad hermetically sealed all the other doors each winter to keep out the cold. We would assemble on the stairs leading up from the cellar to its double doors and with might grunts, would heave upward, dislodging a pile of snow which would rain down inside our clothes. While most of the day would be spent clearing the large parking area in the back of the house and making two straight lines the width of the car axle down the driveway, there were also a lot of snowball fights and general mayhem. Dad also believed that burning a lawn made it come back rich and green. So with another burning permit, on one Saturday morning each spring he would set fire to the lawn by sprinkling it with his favorite flammable material, kerosene, and dropping a match. Before he
For my second book, Death in a White Dacron Sail, I did some research while I was vacationing in Maine two years ago. This was before our winter adventure and believe me, Maine in summer is far nicer than Maine in winter. I made three excursions during that trip, one a morning on a lobster boat, one a visit to a sail maker’s loft, and the third, a walk around a bog. All of these figure into the new book. Today I’d like to tell you about Nathaniel Wilson, the sail maker. Mr. Wilson is probably one of the foremost sail makers in the country, if not the world, and I stumbled on him doing research online. He has made sails for the USS Constitution and the Mayflower II, the Godspeed and Discovery for the Jamestown Settlement, as well as for many of Maine’s schooner fleet. I made an appointment with him to visit his loft for a short interview one morning. His business is located on the second floor of a barn on his property, and when we arrived, he was striding across the lawn from his house, a tall, lanky man with white hair, cornflower blue eyes, and a tan, chiseled face. Wilson is very modest and prefers to talk about his business, but told me that he has his own boat, large with two masts, and has sailed virtually everywhere in the world as crew or skipper, including a transatlantic trip. He also owns five antique cars, including the beautifully restored Model A truck that was parked outside the barn. Instant karma for me, because my first car was a Model B Ford phaeton. Inside the barn, the main floor is lined with pictures of sailboats whose sails he has made, most of them quite famous, and in one room he has a masthead from an old sailing schooner. In a corner of that room was an old, discarded sail. It was one of the original sails on the Mayflower I, and since I was a native of Plymouth and a tour guide when the Mayflower I sailed into the harbor from England, he gave me a cutting from the sail. This is now a prized possession. Magazine covers featuring his handiwork paper the stairwell to the second-story loft: a single, large, bright room with a planked wooden floor and windows all around. There are three sail maker’s benches on each of three sides of the room – low, wooden, elongated benches scored with the marks of years of labor. One old bench was tilted back to take the pressure off the back of the sail maker when he or she leaned forward over the sail. On the benches are hand tools that haven’t changed in 200 years: bench hooks to stretch the sail, seam rubbers to flatten seams and fids to stretch the grommets. Industrial sewing machines, charts, drafting table, and a wall telephone occupy the shop. Here, Wilson teaches his craft to workers. He never uses the word “traditional” when referring to his craft, as he feels it indicates that his profession is on the decline. And that’s hardly the case. His shop is busy. Wilson learned sail making when he was in the Coast Guard; he discovered he liked the craft while taking a turn making sails for the Coast Guard’s square rigger, the Eagle. He liked it so much, he deliberately failed his bosun’s exam so he could stay with sail making. He opened his business in 1975 and in 1979 bought the shop he’d been leasing, building the company through hard work. It’s still not a large operation, employing only two or three people plus himself. What is unique about his business is that unlike the sails that are mass made and marketed from China, his sails are constructed from woven fabric, synthetic and natural, as opposed to laminated material. The sails are cut on the loft floor, then shaped by eye and experience. Everyone in the loft learns to do that and he gives it the final say. While his sails are mainly polyester nylon, he will use whatever is needed for a reconstruction, for example, flax for the Mayflower II sails. He chooses cloth that holds its shape under a range of design factors, so that the sail is the perfect air foil. Next time you see a square rigger or a group of windjammers proudly sailing into New York harbor, you can bet that many of those ships have sails made by Nathaniel Wilson. And look for my inclusion of a sail maker in my next book. 0 0
I was introduced to this at the last meeting of the Early Birds, the critique group I have been with since 2009. I’d never heard it expressed quite as succinctly and it turned out that one of our group was taking a course on just this. Perhaps you are aware of this, and if so, you can stop reading here! The hero myth is an analytical tool with which you can compose a story to meet any situation, from comic books to novels. The principles are based on The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell. This book is non-fiction, a seminal work of comparative mythology. Chris Vogler wrote a Practical Guide to this book when he was a story consultant at Walt Disney Pictures, and it has had a major impact on writing, story-telling and movie making, specifically Disney movies. You can read a lot more than I will write in this blog at: http://www.thewritersjourney.com/hero%27s_journey.htm In a nutshell (taken from his article): “The hero is introduced in his ordinary world, where he receives his call to adventure. He is reluctant at first but is encouraged by the wise old man or woman to cross the first threshold, where he encounters tests and helpers. He reaches the innermost cave, where he endures the supreme ideal. He seizes the sword or the treasure and is pursued on the road back to his world, He is resurrected and transformed by his experience. He returns to the ordinary world with a treasure, a boon or an elixir to benefit his world.” I then compared the two books I have written to this guide, substituting truth for the sword or the treasure. It was an interesting discovery that I had, without knowing it, generally followed the guidelines. I’d be interested to know: Have you read Campbell’s book? Are you familiar with the Hero Myth and the guidelines? Have you used them in your writing? 0 0
In honor of Munchie, a cat who formerly owned a fellow blogger, Pete Denton from Great Britain, and who is now in kitty heaven….. I’d like to introduce our cat, Elijah Moon. In my opinion, he’s gone through several of his nine lives. We’d found him living in our crawl space, along with his brother Ezekiel (we didn’t know their names at the time). They were sporting plastic flea collars grown so stiff and tight, they were cutting into their necks. They’d been spayed, so they obviously had belonged to someone at some point in time, but they needed love and attention. So of course we adopted them, took them to the vets, got them their shots. They joined a household with three other cats: Tarby, my mother’s cat, who lived in our bedroom and didn’t get along with Lucy and Ruckus, who lived in the rest of the house. Elijah Moon and Zeke didn’t get along with anyone, so they stayed outside, living in the yard and on the deck near our back door. We got them two houses to sleep in at night and an umbrella to deflect hot sun and the rain. They seemed to like the accommodations. At Christmas time of the year we took them in, Elijah Moon and Zeke showed up with very nice collars and name tags. So we finally knew their names. We called the number on the tag. Their owner was a graduate student who had adopted them from a shelter in Providence, Rhode Island. She was off to a post-doc in Berkeley, where her living arrangements didn’t include cats. So she had left them with her mother, who lived about an acre away. Her mother didn’t want them inside because they scratched the furniture, so she dumped them outside and left food for them. We live in the country and the area is semi-wild. We have tons of deer, raccoons, possums, badgers, beavers, wandering dogs and lately, coyotes. I think Elijah and Zeke took shelter in our crawl space for safety. Over the last few years, all but one of our cats have died from either cancer or old age, so Elijah or Moonie, as I call him, has moved inside and now enjoys a life of leisure – sprawled on the couch or guarding the yard (until dark, when we bring him in), rolling in the sunshine and eating expensive food. Okay, we spoil him. He also likes to sleep in cozy places, such as the clothes dryer. We also discovered that he likes water. He only drinks from a faucet, where he gets his water at night before we go to bed, or our pool. He loves the pool. Usually he floats around on a mat while I am swimming, but one really hot day he took a swim. Here he is heading for the side of the pool. Needless to say he has taken over our lives. We’ve learned to interpret specific mewing noises for what he wants: food, outside, inside, or petting. His wants are simple. Would that ours were! 0 0
