Memorable Day 1

commentary by: Mavis McWavis
edited for inappropriate language by: Mavis's Mommie and Daddy

It was Memowial Day weekend and let me tell you, it's not one I will forget in a huwwy. The brouhaha started Friday night after Dad got off work: Dad and Mom lugged all this [stuff] into the house, reorganized it, and took it back out to the garage. Now, this should have been my first clue; why would anyone stay up until 3 a.m. just moving [stuff] awound? Well, they actually put this [stuff] into the car, of all things. I should have hid somewhere wewy safe Saturday morning. I didn't. I too, was most unceremoniously loaded into the car and was to be a victim of the Stiltskin family fate.

Mom drove for what was supposed to be a 45 minute twip to a place called "Clements Canoeing," on Sugar Cweek. (Now, Clements I have heard of, but who the heck is Canoeing?) After a short stop at the Stiltskins' favourite outfitting place (Dollar General) we continued. Dad gave directions and Mom dwove wewwy fast one way and then wewwy fast another way, on back roads and on the highway (--I love dwiving fast cuz the wind whistles down from the moon-roof and fwuffs my hair all up); I could tell some confusion was happening cuz there were a lot of words like [oh darn] -- that and the fact that Mom kept making u-turns. Finally we arrived somewhere and unloaded all the [stuff] we had loaded last night--including me, [darn] near suffocating in a [dumb] Cat Voyage cage Dad stuck me in (I thought that the Cat Voyage cage was a place for my toys! Fooled again!). We were there about 10 minutes when Mom and Dad came back and reloaded all the [stuff] BACK INTO THE CAR! HALLO? HELP! I am surrounded by ijits!

Side bar: We had reservations to go on an overnight canoeing trip. The location was new to Scott, the map he was given was as detailed as one could expect when taken by satellite, and there was road construction and detours. We arrived in the nick of time only to have one of the attendants fail to notify the driver that we were there. The van pulled out leaving the Stiltskins standing high and dry.

I was vewy happy! we would now be going back home! And I fell asleep in my teepee. Well, I twied to sleep, but this big [butt] tent kept edging my teepee off the seat--good thing we had loaded that mother, eh? Anyhow, my naps. Big mistake they were. Next thing I know we are in Kentucky! I with I had stayed awake; I could have told them that our trip was jinxed! From that point on I remained on alert, besides, it was getting close to dark and I would be able to get my wevenge while they twied to sleep.



Since we had all the camping gear loaded and it was the start of a long weekend, we decided to continue driving south. We drove some nice by-ways through Indiana into Kentucky. More beautiful old towns with wonderful architecture. On Boy Scout trips, Scott (when he was a whelp) had visited a place called the "Land Between the Lakes" (LBL) in KY. There is a long history to this place so the quick and dirty one is that this is an area where two rivers run parallel to each other and in between was a huge swamp. The two rivers were dammed side-by-side and the result was the formation of two lakes. During the Depression, thousands of workers came in and drained the swamp and formed a National Park--LBL. Most of the park is in KY and the southern portion is in Tennessee. We decided that we would camp there, but upon a visit to the Tourist Center, we found that by the previous Wednesday, 30000 other campers had laid claim to all the spots. We ended up staying at a motel at the north end.

The park was lush and green--as so much of Kentucky is--and, Tennessee is even more so. We saw wild turkey, quail, deer, elk and bison. A beautiful sunset over Kentucky Lake, we later realized was deceptive; we thought at the time that it was the perfect ending to a tumultuous day.


We stopped at this place to look at the water and Daddy put me on top of the car to see better.
Do you see that!?? That is just wrong! I just don't get the wespect I so deserve!

That night, Mavie went into action. We didn't enquire about the motel's pet rules as we knew that Mave would be a perfect guest (prior experience) plus, we didn't want to hear the 'wrong' answer! Mavie did her best to get her revenge. She didn't meow loudly or anything--she just did her little "talking" (which is a combination of purr and guttural sounds ranging from short to long, high and low pitched, depending on what she is trying to tell us) ALL NIGHT LONG! If one of us was in the bathroom with the door closed. She complained until let in. Once in, she complained to be let out. Once out she ... well, you get the idea. When she wasn't complaining at us, she was jumping up and off the bed. When that didn't work, some furious digging in her litter box ensued, kitty-litter hitting the wall behind (fortunately, we always have a plastic undersheet in place). Then, some loud wrestling with her mice (she calls her little mice "Mildreds"). Finally, as a last resort, she found the window to the parking lot and pressed her little face against the window--that was until I caught her doing it! Finally, at midnight, we took her out for a walk on her lead. We also, vowed that the next day, we wouldn't let her sleep the whole time we drove!


to be continued....

Stiltskins Try to Save a Buck

by C. MacKinnon-Morris

In the previous post, I spoke of the expenses accrued for the Stiltskins' night out in Chicago. Well, the expenses began to accumulate in the afternoon. Driving into Chicago is an event in itself--it is a pretty big city for a country girl to be driving around--but hey! I am game for anything--besides I enjoy the speeds that most cars are driving at (damn the speed limit signs, damn the oil shortage--yippee turbo-charged Subaru!).

We had to travel many different 'highways' (that are 6-10 lanes wide) and these highways all have tolls. Five bucks lighter, we pulled into the parking lot at United Center only to pay a $20 fee (another thing that blows my mind is the cost of parking in Chicago--the downtown parkades are one big cash cow for someone--last summer we paid $12 for a 20 minute park). Once into the arena, it was another $20 for popcorn and beer. Then of course, the drive home and more tolls.

Now, I must admit that I've driven to Chicago several times--to O'Hare and Midway mostly. And, I have to confess that Saturday was not my first time driving through a toll booth on I80/94 (why do they insist on sharing one roadway between 2 or more interstates? I80/ 94 /294 /B /Ace Street /118th Avenue /Gramma's Lane / <---just kidding). I drove up to the first toll booth and Scott scrambled for change. We thought we had plenty, but the tolls have doubled since October. At 70 mph I make my way up and then the road widens to accommodate all the cars. There is a sign. Phew.

Now, I must admit that this photo is not mine and though it bears some resemblance, i.e./ the signage, there is one major and important difference. This particular toll booth we went through did not have advance signage--just those immediately above the booths themselves.

I am not sure whether the signs are legible, but here is a run-down:

Cars Only Left Lane
Automatic
Manual

Well, at 70 mph and slowing, my mind raced over the possibilities:
Automatic? must be if one has a pass; no good.
Manual? nope, we have the correct change OR does manual mean, throw in your correct change manually (as opposed to having a vehicle outfitted with automatic toll booth mechanism)? decisions, decisions.
That left only one clear option.
I am driving a car. Must mean I go through Cars Only Left Lane.
Why aren't more cars in this lane?
Why is there only one lane for people with correct change?
Don't people usually bring correct change? You'd think there would be more commuters than tourists on this highway (those who are surprised by the toll and haven't correct change).
All these thoughts were running through my mind--in the space of 10 seconds.

AHA! exclaims Scott--here is your 80 cents! Correct change in fist, I follow the line of traffic.

Hmmm, aren't we going a mite fast to stop and throw our coins in the bucket.....OH-NO!

It was at that very second that the sign (which I was now underneath) flashed before my mind's eye. The word "PASS" had another meaning!
And, with an "oh-ohhhhhhhhhh" I blew straight through that toll booth.

Fearing sirens and lights and police cars...I kept driving. Quickly. Checked with Scott (who had been busy with change, I must remind the reader) and ascertained that indeed, that left lane is for passholders. Explained why there was only one of them. Also explained the speed with which we drove through. Oh well, must be strong and persevere. We went through the next 7 toll booths without incident.

It was the 8th that got us into more trouble. On the way home, we got caught in some nasty traffic jams (at 11pm!); Scott was driving this time and he noticed that we were low on gas. Now, gas prices in Chicago are about 26cents/ gallon higher than Indiana so we crossed our fingers and headed for the border. We drove through the final toll booth and then decided we needed gas asap. Pulled off the freeway and gassed up. Then pulled back on. Another toll booth loomed ahead! We had just paid to drive on that freeway, not quite a mile back! Plus there were other dilemmas:
a. We had long run out of change and had to go through the Manual booth for the last 2 tolls (I learned that Manual means hand paper money to man and man hands you back change). This particular booth did not offer options. No man in booth. No change. We were stopped.
b. A car drove up behind us. No fancy wooden arm at the booth, only a red/ green light. We blew the toll booth and this time, the sirens did wail (at least in my head) and the lights did flash!!! Holy Lips! And, off to Indiana we did race.

Apparently, Scott says, that posted somewhere at those unmanned toll-booths, are signs that say that if you don't have the $$ call this number. Hello?
a. if you don't have a phone in your car, you do....what?
b. this sign is posted...where?
c. should one see the sign, one is supposed to stop all traffic behind from passing (there are no shoulders or "Pull Off Here if you encounter problems locating pen and paper"), scramble around in car and purses to locate something to write with, find a scrap of paper and write the number down???

Hindsight is great...I coulda taken out a lipstick and scrawled the number on the windshield, except I never saw a number and I'm not sure I have a lipstick. Anyhowwwww, we fully expect a couple letters from I-DOT this next week, containing our car's mugshot. Bad Car. Bad!

The Stiltskins on the Town

by C. MacKinnon-Morris

I am almost embarrassed to relate the events of this weekend, but I had such a unique experience that I can't help but tell it. And, if it seems choppy it is because my Mavie has decided that this is also the perfect time for a workout (i.e./ play fetch)--while her "Mommy" is sitting in one place for more than a few minutes.

One of Scott's former co-workers has a 2nd job as one of the trainers for a heavyweight boxing champion. When I met him a few months back, he told us that Lamon Brewster would be fighting in Chicago in a couple months. In abstract I said "Cool! That would be a real experience."

I say "in abstract" because I am definitely not a fan of blood sports of any shape or form. I have a real problem with the idea that (at least historically) boxers tend to be from disadvantaged backgrounds and that the more advantaged get to pay to (and bet) to see grown men pummel themselves into a early grave. Yeah, I know about the ability to make choices and I know that many people do this for a hobby (though why, I am not sure). I also know that these boxers sustain a lot of injury to their heads (in which, presumably, rests their brains) and that over time, it can be gravely debilitating. Now, to be fair, there are many opponents of my opinion--and perhaps they are right. But statements such as the following from "What's Right with Boxing" are telling to me:
In spite of its low fatality rate and rare occurrences of injury, boxing is still at the forefront when it comes to targeted aggression from "special interest groups", like the AMA.

Darn doctors! what do they know anyhow?!

Anyhow I digress. Scott and I decided to go to the fight, however bourgeois an event. The tickets were a cool $75 per and the event was to be held in Chicago at United Center (home of the Black Hawks and Bulls). Well, shortly before the time, we also decided that we should be more frugal in our spending and that boxing tix weren't in the Stiltskin budget. Scott went to work armed with the news. Scott came away from work armed with the tix (we were too late)--and to add insult to injury, buddy in charge of tix thought we wanted better seats, so we had tix that now cost $100 per. Yes, I know. Story of the Stiltskin's life. But we soldiered on (plus, we got some groovy posters courtesy of the boxer's organization):


We arrived at the arena at 7 p.m., 3 hours after the events began. The bout we were interested in was later and we didn't feel we needed to sit through all the rest. There were a couple of interesting bouts prior to Brewster's--and this is what I cut my teeth on. They actually hit each other! It's not like wrestling where the guys are only injured if an accident occurs. I was quite dismayed by the whole thing as I watched the action in the ring, as opposed to the screen. It was when I happened to glance at the screen that I noticed the expressions of the boxers--the losers look so sad, so defeated that I immediately decided to cheer for the underdogs (as if they would hear). When I saw my first blood, I cringed. When I realized that the blood's opponent then was aiming for the cut, tears sprang to my eyes--how could civilized people do this. When the crowd booed the fellow with blood running down his face because the ref had stopped the action for a clean-up--I was ashamed to be part of the whole event. I was, quite frankly, shocked at the negative attitude of the crowd in general. We do so much to teach children to be supportive of each other, especially in sports and other activities where kids put their pride on the line--no wonder we have such a difficult time when their parents act like this. My previous experience at sporting events (e.g./ NHL games--previous I said--today it is quite likely different) in Vancouver, if someone gets hurt, the crowd is silent. When the hurt individual goes off the ice, either walking or on a stretcher, the crowd cheers in support. Apparently not here... at least not for boxing.

Oops! time out. Mavie is ready for the punching bag exercise. She is working on her left jab (it's a bit weaker than her right). I hold the mouse by the tail and she jabs away, fwack, fwack, fwack. Great paw-eye coordination going on here! Oh-oh, she has regressed into wrestling and is body slamming the mouse. No Mavie! Back to your workout!

The extent of the boxers injuries astounded me. At the end of the WBC Light Heavyweight (??) Championship match (which went 12 brutal rounds), we had to wait for the judges' decision. I watched on the screen as I stood in line for quaff. When the winner was announced, this fact did not at all register on his broken, swollen, bruised face. His trainers had to come over and shake him and tell him. This fellow did not, apparently, know where he was or what he was doing there, much less realize that he had won something! How sad. I just found the following comment from the ESPN website that makes me feel a bit better about my reaction to this particular fight:
This is perhaps the single bloodiest fight we've ever attended, and both men should be applauded for their heart and courage. It certainly was not for the squeamish as both men bled throughout the fight and crushed each other for 12 rounds with punches so flush that they were sickeningly audible at ringside.

While we waited the hoopla for the main match to begin, the announcer introduced/ pointed out some celebrities in the audience: e.g./ Judge Mathis, Drew Carey (I would have rather seen Mimi--but can't have everything!), the Right Reverand Jesse Jackson, Dick Butkus (Chicago Bear linebacker of old), numerous Bulls and present-day Bears, Leon Spinks, Corey Spinks, and of course Don King. Oh yeah, and some Fox News radio personality?? All the sports people and t.v. folk were loudly cheered (save for Don King--but I think it was about his hair). The politicos were roundly booed. Kind of sad really that the public is more excited about entertainers than people who make a living trying to make the world a better place, but neither here nor there.

Mavis is back, rubbing her tail against my legs (she is careful not to show too much affection). Seems she wants a sparring partner. "I'm busy Mave. Go do some shadow boxing!" Sorry about this, readers.

The hoopla for the two boxers vying for the WBO World Championship finally arrived. The two got into the ring and dong! Round one on. Then 53 seconds later, Dong! Match over. If you blinked you missed it. If people in front of one stood up to watch and one hadn't quite got that far (or felt it was bad manners to stand up in front of the people behind oneself) one missed it. I missed it. Lamon Brewster, reigning Champ was the underdog and the odds against kept increasing as the match grew closer. In this 53 seconds Brewster landed 15 out of 26 punches to Golota's 3 out of 11. In this 53 seconds Brewster knocked Golota to his butt 3 times, once nearly out of the ropes. The ref called the match. Poor HBO and Don King Productions...had to fill the other 59 minutes with replays and interviews! Well, the only thing I felt was a sense of relief: at least there was no blood.

And that is my one and only experience at a boxing match. I am not sure that I would ever go to see one again--it would depend on Scott. I think that he really enjoyed learning about a new 'sport'--I don't honestly think he was aware that there were other sports besides NFL football! I myself, much prefer pro baseball where the most violent occurrence (save for the odd bench clearing brawl--but these are rare) is the manager contesting an ump's decision by kicking dirt or, if really daring, spitting on the ground near-ish the ump! One doesn't have to dress up for a bb game. One can take a book along (or knitting if that is your bag) and leisurely look up from time to time all the while catching some rays and gorging oneself on ballpark dogs and popcorn...and of course, beer. And, one never has to leave the seat--the concession stand comes to one. Very civilized is the 7th inning stretch--that is when one stands up without displaying poor manners. It is a relatively inexpensive spectator sport ($25 v. $100) and people rarely boo--well except for booing the umpire's decisions, but really, don't spectators have a superior view of the strike zone on a batter?? And, one can actually get tix game day! in fact, get tix period--not like NFL football where, for instance, the Green Bay Packer tix have a ten-year waiting list--and where is Green Bay anyhow. Okay, okay, back on track here....my point is that if one is into professional sports (and this particular "one" ain't) there is a myriad of events available where one doesn't have to watch grown men try to injure each other. We look at the gladiator fights of old and shake heads in disbelief--how barbaric. A slave--an underpriviliged man? Is there much difference?

And, now back to Mavis "The Terror" McWavis. I couldn't help thinking during one or two of the less brutal fights, that the boxers' moves mirrored those of our little Mavis. She is fearless and will take on any cat, no matter the size. Just as Dad's favourite wrestler (Gene Kininski) was fond of stating "I fear no man," Mavis fears no cat; of course it helps that she is the alpha among our other 2 females and 3 males. Mave's favourite sports include fetch with her mouse, laser tag, and paw-ball (catch-the-ball-in-the-air and either hold onto it or pass it back to Mommy/ Daddy OR if it is the yellow ball, she will carry it back in her mouth). But her best sport is boxing. She practises a slight variation of "Fanzi Quan" boxing, on her opponents (usually Leper or Koda, who are her age but twice her size). She is always on the offensive because she is too fast for them. She throws in a few fakes and then goes for the jab; she is light on her feet as well as fast. Her flicking, provoking and jabbing is fast then slow; continuous and intermittent. She jabs right, fakes an upper cut and then nips at the hind legs. The other cats don't stand a chance. I do not wait for a KO, after all we are civilized here. I call a TKO when the big cat cries for my help--not because they are hurt physically--I think it is because their pride is hurting badly (or could it be annoyance????). Anyhow, Mavis doesn't have that taste for blood nor the wish to hurt an opponent; otherwise, she coulda been a contender.

Weekend Report

by Cynthia MacKinnon-Morris

The previous weekend was spent, in large part, driving a large truck to and from the "ROCK" place. We had a window of 2 hours to get our loads, have them weighed, then unload at home. There was an unanticipated slowdown, however. At a busy intersection (fourway stop) between us and "ROCK," a group of people were collecting for MDA (and not the mescaline and amphetamine sort). They stood in the middle of the road at all four stop points and offered pails in which to toss your donation. Nice idea. Of course one doesn't like to bypass without giving--which I guess is what the Harley Davidson bikers Association was counting on. And, we did give. The issue was that we made six or eight passes within that 2 hour span. Our intentions were not to 'give' each time, plus we were under the time-gun and this slowed down traffic a fair bit. Scott was at the wheel and I just averted my eyes; we did think that perhaps they would recognize us: "Oh yes, those people gave already." But no, bit of the guilt-trip-look each time we passed and then, one burly-women called after us: "It could be you next!" Great. I knew we should have broken our donation down into singles!

Anyhow, our first trip load-wise, was uneventful--except for the 5 or 6 tries Scott made backing this truck over the sidewalk and up to the rock garden area to dump the 2 tons of pea gravel. I am not entirely sure why this was necessary but it may have been due to .... well, okay, I haven't a clue. It did look professional though Scott! And off we went to pick up (and drive the MDA gauntlet) the one ton of sand and mega-tons of flagstone. The flagstone had to be unloaded pieces at a time and some of it was pretty heavy--the rest was small annoying pieces. The clock was ticking and the Stiltskins changed jobs--me on the truck and Scott setting flagstone on the driveway. Phew! done finally. Out of sheer desperation, we dumped that load of sand right on the driveway. The rest of the weekend was spent wheeling and raking sand and pea-gravel--for the flagstone foundation and the rock garden. Not very picturesque--thus, no picture.

The only noteworthy outcome of the weekend was the new-found play area for the kitties. They were in seventh heaven! The sand pile presented many opportunities for fun--and just in case the reader suspects other uses for the sand pile? our cats are whimpy! They scratch furiuosly at the door during the evening as if there were a lion on their tails. Open the door and swoosh--------into the litter box. Sometimes, if a bunch come in at the same time, we have a queue at the box. Go figure. They do, I must note, have two litter boxes in the garage (it's accessible from outside), but I guess there is no place like one's own special litter box. When, I wonder, will they realize that the outdoors is one big litter box just a-waiting for some action? And while I am on this topic, one more thing. I bought some lovely fountain grass and planted it. So, what do you think they use as their grass-resource? I try to point out that there is a sea of lush green grass all around us, but oh no, got to eat the expensive stuff. We have decided to plant some catnip and oatgrass seeds on the south side of the house and let them have a free-for-all.

This weekend was one of excitement (landscaping type excitement). We spent Saturday at nurseries--well, one nursery to receive free advice, otherwise we hit grocery stores and hardware stores--the Stiltskins are not made of gold you know! Pocket books lighter, we returned home victorious.

Sunday was the big day. Scott puzzle-pieced together half of our patio with flagstone while I tried frantically (AGAIN) to eradicate the Chameleon plants.
I carted out more loads of pea gravel (we were generous in the estimation of our needs) and actually exposed some of our lovely rocks in the rock garden. This is a close-up of one of our prized fossil stones.
Then I began the process of digging, adding good soil to the not very good clay, and planting. What I thought would be an hour's job turned into an hours' labour. Very quickly the pea gravel was hurting my bare knees, plus I was tiring, so the neighbours got to see me lying on my side, perched on an elbow, in the gravel bed. Just my moaning alone (about the amount of unexpected effort and time) added an additional hour onto the job.

I had gone to the 'nurseries' armed with a list of plants. We came away from the 'nurseries' with different plants. It got so difficult to read the darn tags and match with the list, that I gave up. As an anchor, we got a dwarf Alberta Spruce (Scott's choice); he also likes the look of dwarf creeping Juniper so in it went. We added some colour with: Salvia (purple Meadow Sage), Lavandula (Silver Edge Lavender), we had already planted the creeping Phlox on the berm but added another couple pinky-purple plants: Delosperma (John Profitt) and Sedum (Autumn Joy). Scott likes yellow (Green Bay Packer colour) so in went another couple sedum (Stonecrop) and Coreopsis (Tickseed). For some interesting foliage Campanula (Bellflower), and Blue Fescue (I love grasses). This is a side view of the rock garden: My personal favourite are the Sempervivum (Hen & chicks). My grandmother, Hattie, had these planted in front of their little house and they always fascinated me. We would take the little chicks and stick them in a bare section of garden and voila! they would grow like magic! The other thing that made them special was that my grandfather thought that flower gardens were frivilous and Hattie wasn't allowed to keep much of a garden. He said that the only decent flower out there was that of the potato plant. So, these little plants were Hattie's pride and joy. My own hen/chicks that I planted last summer are thriving and I wanted to continue their growth in our rock garden as a memory of Hattie.

To end this week's garden journal, here are a couple pictures of our little rain forest garden along the north side of the house.

I took these photos just minutes before the sun went down--which is the only time of the day that this garden receives direct sunlight.

Where there is Flora, there also is Fauna

by Cynthia MacKinnon-Morris

The Stiltskins have a firm belief in the duty of humans to care for the creatures of this planet. I must, however, admit to playing favourites--while I wouldn't deliberately hurt a snake or frog, I certainly wouldn't take it into custodial care. We are most definitely cat-people. Before we met, each of us were taking in strays--in a fashion. I had an apartment and could never have a cat; my strays went home to the farm. Scott had the Big Bad Wolf so he had to find other means of helping his strays. Now that we have escaped our former prisoners, The Stiltskins are open for business!

Winter of 2003/4 Scott acquired Angst Maybelline, (a garage cat) from a co-worker. Within a couple months, he went back to rescue Angst's kitten Jessica from the same garage. These two girls are quite reserved (Jess on the left; Angst the right)and will only come out of their shells if the other cats are absent.

While Scott was picking up Jessica, his co-worker told him the sad story of Kot. Kot, a small gray male, was also a stray who had recently moved into their garage. He was constantly been beaten up by other tomcats in the neighbourhood, was starving and weak. Scott of course brought him home and with the help of the vet and a lot of TLC, Kot thrived. Kot is a wimp, plain and simple. He would rather the girls check out new things and he takes the rear position. Kot rarely sleeps alone. If there is a person present, that is where Kot takes up residence. In a pinch, however, one of the other cats will do and he wiggles his way into their space--which is why we do not have any pictures of Kot solo.

Kot snuggling with Koda and below, Kot snuggling with Leper.


In the summer of 2004, we were married and I moved to Lafayette. One of the best things about my move was the ability to have cats in residence! Shortly after arriving, I met Scott's 19 year old step-daughter. She was a single mom of 2 toddlers and had these two darling kittens: Koda and Leper. Circumstances had it that she was forced to move back in with her mother--who is not a cat person--and who insisted that the two kittens live in a very small cage on the door step. Well, Scott and I conferred and voila! we took in two foster-kittens. Koda and Leper's mother was a small Siamese; obviously their father (or grandparent) was not. They were mammoth in size right from kittens--and they were a going concern right from the get-go.

Koda and Leper had skills that the older cats hadn't even heard of...but they caught on quickly. The most noteable was the drinking hole trick:

Above are the Twins at four months; below at 8 months.
We had the Twins for several months, until Kim moved into a place of her own. We did visit often and took the Twins for respite weekends.

One cold and wet November evening while I was attempting to get home (was a wee bit lost), I came across a kitten who was starving, wet and cold, and very straggly. She was out in the middle of nowhere (to me, it really was nowhere--I hadn't a clue!). I didn't miss a beat but swooped up the kitten and brought her home. The next morning I took her to the vet for a check-up and vaccinations, etc. We were very surprised to learn that this small cat was actually 6 months old--about the same age as the Twins! Poor nutrition had stunted her growth. She was to be kitten-sized for ever.

At home on the farm, my family has a 'tradition' of giving cats people-names: Edith (Edie), Brian, Mona, Madison, Emma, Mike, etc. you get the idea. Well, this kitten's colouring reminded me of a cousin my sister and I used to see during the summer. So, this poor kitten received the moniker of "Mavis." Right from the start, Mavis seemed to enjoy car rides! So we made the decision that she was going to be a road-trip gal and we had to practise for our trip home to B.C. in the summer. Her first road-trip was to Missouri.
Scott secreted her into our hotel room in his gym bag, then went back to the truck for a 2nd trip to bring in her dishes and travel litter-box. She was a perfect lady the whole time. Of course, we didn't leave her in the room alone--where we went, she did as well.

Since that time, Mavis has taken several trips to Illinois when we visit or stay with Scott's Gramma and Dad--they too have taken a shine to her; Larry refers to Mavie as "my Grand-Kitty." In fact, while Scott's Gramma has been in hospital and then the nursing home Mavie has made each and every trip. She has been a big hit at the nursing home! Mariah refers to Mavis McWavis as her little sister and even though they are not able to spend much time together (Mariah stays with us every 2nd weekend), Mavie adores Mariah, especially as her road-trip mate.
While in the car, she wears a harness attached to a lanyard--although she is very well behaved, we are not about to take chances with her jumping out of the car. She is really an enigma in the Stiltskin family as she manages to look well groomed all the time!


Just one more: the cats all claim what we call the "storm chair" for their own. Like me, they like to sit in it and watch the weather change--and in Indiana it does so often and suddenly. Here is Leper basking in a sun beam.

Warfare on the Green

by the Stiltskins

We had a couple goals for our landscaping project:
1. to beautify our yard which, to that point was nearly devoid of anything but grass, and
2. to rid ourselves of the green menace, i.e./ dramatically reduce the time spent mowing the lawns.

Our strategies:
-to turn the back yard into a traditional garden with only a token strip of grass;
-to have trees in the backyard to combat the wicked afternoon heat/ sun (the backyard is west-facing);
-to build a potting shed at the back;
-to build a pergola extending out from the small rear patio;
-to build contained raised beds on the southside for a vegetable garden;
-to design a rainforest garden for along the northside of the house;
-to build a small patio in front of the house;
-to extend this patio of flagstone into a pathway along the rainforest garden and
then enter the backyard;
-to build (with the neighbour) a picket fence along the north side;
-to dig and plant a border along the driveway;
-to fill and create a berm to shade the patio; AND,
-to design and plant a rock garden extending down from the berm and into the front yard.

When all planning was said and done, we realized that we neither had the time to do all this in one year nor did we have $30000 to call up HGTV and be featured on the "Design Challenge." So, we decided to start on the front and side yards. Once the weather turned very warm, another must-do occurred to us: those planned shade trees were not going to grow over night, we'd better put them in straightaway. So, off to the garden centre (one that we could afford to make purchases at) and came away with 2 Weeping Willows for the back yard.

Once the time came to transport the trees home, we realized that we were in a bit of a dilemma. We had traded in our truck a couple months earlier and now had our Subaru Outback (TURBO <---I have to put that in for Scott!). These trees were not bushy by any means, but from tip to toe they easily measured 4 metres. Hmmmm.

So, we did have a bit of an issue...but Scott is never one to back down from a challenge. We hoisted the rootballs into the back of the wagon--but that left three metres of delicate branches and leaves hanging out the back. Lightbulb. Scott pulled out a big ole piece of tarp and wrapped the top of the trees to secure them. He knew that the weight of the rootballs would hold the trees in the car. But, then as we pulled out on to the road and picked up a very small amount of speed, the trees dragged along the road. Not good. We stopped and Scott pulled out a large yellow tow rope (we are prepared for any and all eventualities) and looped it under the trees mid-point and he and I held onto each end. Held on for dear life. And, voila! we made it home without incident.

Safely planted in the back yard (I know, I know, one can hardly make out the tree in the picture--but it is there, believe me!), we then turned to cleaning out the car. It was at that point someone realized the tarp was missing. Visions of an accident at the side of the road ran through my mind. The tarp obviously came off mid-trip; I crossed my fingers that it did not end up covering someone's windshield. Sighs of relief, there was the old hunk of woven plastic lying sadly abandoned road-side. No accidents in sight.

*****

The front yard is small. Our projects were small. One good weekend should do it. That is when we rediscovered the Indiana clay. It is also when we discovered a host of interesting items hidden just below the sod. We started on the patio area. False start. We started on the rock garden area. False start. We plunged that rototiller at random into the lawn to see if we could dislodge anything at all!
We regrouped and headed for the flower border-to-be. Aha! and away Scott went. His hands and wrists are much stronger than mine, so he tilled and I scooped and moved the excess dirt to the berm area.

Now there is a novel concept. Berm. I had never heard of the term before. That was, not until I moved to the midwest. A mound or wall of earth: well that is simple enough, but why? I then realized that on the flat land of Indiana, people have to build their own hills--hence the popularity of berm-building.

The berm did get larger over time and we planted it with a few white pines. We were also much more successful with the tiller and scrambled up some dirt for the rock garden-to-be. We had decided on the berm/ patio area because the hot west sun beating down into our backyard did not make for comfortable relaxing. We wanted a small area in which to put a couple Adirondack chairs and a table. Other folks in the subdivision (and in fact, any house in Lafayette that sports a garage out front) sit in their garage and relax. I am sure it is a nice tradition, but we thought we could go one better and have flora surrounding us in lieu of tool benches, gasoline canisters, and litter boxes. The berm was Scott's idea (it would have to be since I didn't realize the concept was in existence). This berm with its trees would give us privacy while we enjoyed the late afternoon, and the ability to check out the neighbours at the same time! (<--- not really a factor, but hey! if it works?) During the fall and winter, time was spent collecting rocks for borders and we managed on a cache of fossil-rocks. I'l bet the south neighbour was glad when we moved the dozens we had stored against our outside wall. The rocks themselves weren't the issue, the problem was that they inhibited my lawn mowing and harboured GIANT dandelions, thistles and the like.
As for the treasures I found while scooping out soil: an old rusted paint bucket, complete with lid, a 30cm iron peg, some pieces of concrete 1-2kg, pieces of rusted wire and drainage tiles. However, I did not win any prizes for my finds. The prize winner went, 2-3 years back, to the lady adjacent to us. While digging a garden of her own, she discovered TEN (10) sheets of 30' vinyl siding! Well, burst my balloon.

We carved out the area in front of the living room for our patio. We also dug out the little rose garden (well, except for the roses).

But then we hit upon a new problem. We transplanted the hostas and violet-things temporarily and tried to eradicate a pesty plant that someone (Scott) had actually purchased some years before. Beware of something called "Chameleon Plant." It takes root anywhere (including through cement and weed barrier), it is hardy in the extreme, everytime you cut a root, it grows a new head, and it smells! It smells when one attempts to pull it out, it smells when it blooms; the roots smell, the leaves smell and one's hands smell too. Ever have your hands stained with the shells of green filbert nuts or walnuts? The stain has to wear off. Same thing here except this lingering putrid odour follows you about for...well too long. Anyhow, I digress. But, one last word about "Chameleon plants" People actually purchase these Hydrae!
Ahem. The last step in our initial set-up (that phase, by the way, lasted a bit longer than the weekend--more like a month?) was to plant our beloved weeping cherry tree in the patio area.


At last we had something to work with and now it was time to...well, more preparation!

Divine Intervention? Part I

On the Labour Day weekend, when we weren't gardening, Scott and I took a three day trip to the budding metropolis of Arthur, Illinois. I was to meet Scott's gramma and visit the town where she and Scott's father lived. Although I was apprehensive at first (shy I guess I should describe it) I found that she was a wonderful lady who welcomed me with open arms. As a celebration of our wedding, Gramma made us a great lunch, had a wedding cake made complete with the cake top she had at her own wedding,


and a beautiful floral centrepiece.


As a wedding gift, she arranged for us to stay at the most delightful B&B for the weekend. The B&B was run by a Mennonite couple who had the old house restored and furnished with antiques and Amish details. One surprise for me was the fact that before each breakfast (which were to-die-for) we had to bow our heads in prayer--the husband said grace each morning. I don't know if Canada is a land of heathens (apologies to all who are devote Christians) or if it is just my circle--but I am not used to this tradition occurring at a commercial establishment! Anyhow, I chalked it up to experience and ate my breakfast heartily.


Scott and I had not planned to be in Arthur specifically on the weekend of the Cheese Festival. I had no idea what it was all about. To set the scene, Arthur is a small town surrounded by Amish Country (est. in the late 19th century). Plus, Arthur itself is a very conservative town. On its website, among other highlights, it boasts: a population of 2203, 99.4% white non-Hispanic (!!!!), 9 churches (all Protestant but notes there is a Catholic church nearby-ish).

One sees Amish horse-drawn black buggies travelling the streets during the day. At night, the clip-clop of hooves signals that the Amish teenagers are coming into town for their own brand of entertainment. They have until age 18 to make a decision about whether to remain in the community or to venture out into the "English" world. Until then, it seems that the teenagers do their best to get a taste of the "English" world. I was shocked to see one lad driving a buggy wearing jeans and Nikes! I was told that it was not unusual--seemingly, they leave the farm in their traditional clothing and then change into "English" clothes on the way into town. Then they party.

The Amish are very traditional and eschew all things modern--except those items that are used for commerce it seems, e.g./ cell phones and cash registers. Also forbidden are forms of entertainment that we consider in some cases, well, not high on the entertainment scale. I was surprised to see some Amish families enjoying the "Cheese Festival" parade:


I was told that Cheese Festival began when there was a large cheese-making 'factory' in town. The place is long gone, but the tradition remains. Although C.F. is held over a long weekend, festivities were held only on the Saturday and Monday--Sunday was obviously not an option for this conservative town. That was, until this year: 2004. This year, the decision was made to include Sunday. But, would such a big step be later regretted?

to be continued....

Divine Intervention? Part II

by Cynthia L. MacKinnon-Morris

That Labour Day weekend saw the advent of "Cheese Festival." The entire downtown portion of Arthur is blocked off to vehicles and set-up with displays of local wares, concession stands (all basically offering the same fries and cotton candy), booths, etc. The highlight of the street for me was the Republican candidate's booth--NOT that I am in any way, shape or form anything remotely even resembling a REP--but I scored a decent handful of red, white and blue Mardi Gras beads. These were not to be displayed! Horrors no! My scrapbooking/ crafting cache of goodies needed an injection of glittery items.

Anyhow...other exciting events of CF were:
-the Christian Rock band on the town's bandstand,
-the lawn-tractor-pull,
-the World Cheese Curling Championships (which puzzle me to this day--being from Canada, I am all too familiar with the sport of curling--all I can picture is a group of people sweeping rounds of Gouda down the street),
-the GIANT cheese wheel cut up for everyone to taste, and of course
-the CF parade
Innocuous events to be sure...but this year, CF wasn't just held on the Saturday and Monday of the long weekend--these events took place on a SUNDAY! I imagine that more than a few people wondered at the wisdom of using the Sabbath in this manner.

It was during the parade that the unplanned for began to occur. The parade was befitting for a small rural town. It consisted, in most part, of public service vehicles, dignitaries, and politicians campaigning for the upcoming federal election. Scott and I decided to visit some of the stores giving out free samples of locally made food products instead.

The parade was still in its full three-block force when an elderly lady near us fell to the ground, possibly overcome by heat. 9-1-1 was called but the town's ambulance could not be reached. It was still in the middle of the parade.

Meanwhile, down at the other end of town (a good 2 blocks away)came an incredible explosive noise and poof!

A propane tank at a concession stand had exploded! then smoke and flames! one of the deep fryers had caught fire.

The local firetruck was called, but...it too was in the parade. By this time, the ambulance had been contacted, maneuvered out of the parade and had reached the elderly woman. Thankfully. But the fire truck now became an issue--I heard someone yell that with the siren blaring, the dispatcher couldn't be heard by the truck driver in the parade.

Finally, the firetruck made its way out of the parade and attempted to race up the main drag filled with concession stands and people. Ahead of us, an Amish woman directed foot traffic. Someone yelled for the ambulance! Alas, as we turned our heads in the other direction, it was just in time to see the ambulance pull out of town in the opposite direction (with the fallen woman).

Yes, the concession stand was a write-off but no-one had been seriously hurt.

But...Oh no! The town's insurance agency, which stood on the corner behind the burning concession stand has caught fire!!! Phew! the damage was sustained was only superficial. I wonder, do insurance agencies get free insurance? do the owners trust their own brand of insurance? or do they secretly purchase insurance from another company? OR, do they hedge their bets?

Speaking of bets, t'were I a betting person, I'd have to put a goodly amount of clams on this horse: I'd bet that more people than not shook their heads knowingly this's what happens when you operate this level of entertainment on a Sunday. It could have been a Divine Intervention--at least I think so!

Everywhere A Sign

Unlike Les Emmerson (of the Canadian "Five Man Electrical Band") I do have a real appreciation for signs--though I do take his point! Emerson saw the lyrics to "Sign" as a metaphor for the difficult times the band was going through. I see signs as an interesting contrast between, and commentary on, various cultures.

Take this sign:

I spotted it in central Illinois at a strip mall. Can you imagine?? Well, I couldn't being from the west coast. I immediately had several thoughts run through my mind:
a. doesn't this verge on the not-in-good-taste side of things?
b. Bible publishing is such a large industry in the south and midwest that they have enough "seconds" to fill stores?
c. I would have assumed that Bibles are important enough to those who are interested in a purchase that they wouldn't want a "second;"
d. What are some examples of Bible "seconds?"

And, then some notions (that border on ridiculous) ran through my brain.... What if:
-Genesis was missing? some folks would just not be equipped to argue Creation v. Evolution
-the printing error was extreme, e.g./ printed backwards, upside down -- would the Moral Majority maintain that these were Satanic?
-how would folks view Mary, Mother of Jesus if the printing error(s) included the first chapter of the Gospel of Luke? or some of the early prophesies?

I would maintain that it is pretty important to have one's Bible intact. But, I did some research and found an amazing 73 of these Bible Factory Outlets in the south and midwest! Whodathunkit? Of course, my husband patiently explained the probable function of these stores--but I like my thoughts waaaaaay better.

Okay, now contrast the midwest sign to one from British Columbia--interestingly, in an area known as the "Bible Belt" of the Fraser Valley:


Signs make nice souvenirs!
Here are two teachers from B.C.who are thrilled with the idea of being in exotic locales (hey! to people like us, Chicago and Indy are exotic), and who also do not mind standing beside a busy highway to have their picture taken.

Winter Cometh

And so it did, with a vengeance. At least, in the eyes of a person who had lived their entire 46 years in the rain forests of British Columbia. Some years we don't get any measurable snowfall--much to the surprise of most folks around here. I do get the sneaking suspicion that: a. many folks are not sure where B.C. is, and b. think all of Canada lies under a snowcap for the winter! Well, I am here to say that I have never experienced cold like this before. I am used to rain all year long and GREEN all year long--this winter (though I hear it was a mild one) was an experience.

My point in this post (and I do have one), is that no gardening took place this winter but Scott and I bought out the stores with our purchases of gardening equipment and tools on sale! We also used this time to load up on rocks for our landscaping (or stones, whatever one calls those grey hard things that weigh from 1-10kg). We found some wonderful caches of fossilized rocks! Back home in B.C. one does not find fossils on a regular basis--Indian arrowheads? yes, but I had never seen a real life fossil until Scott introduced me to Wild Cat Creek. I was completely entranced and we filled up the Barbie truck over and over with beautiful rocks (btw, the "Barbie Truck" is a term coined by my cousin to describe Scott's bright yellow Subaru Baja--and it stuck).

Come late winter (o.k. January) I started to watch for my mailbox garden. Alas, no sights to see--well, except for the diagonal trench some loser (she shall remain nameless for the sake of diplomacy) had dug with the wheels of their truck as they took a big shortcut into our driveway. At the time I was devastated! My only mark on my new home had been disfigured by the Big Bad Wolf! But, I got over it and once the spring came and all the neighbours' bulbs were blooming and mine were still in the ground and I waited and I waited........ Voila! the daffodils and tulips erupted in a show of colour! I prayed to the bulb-god in thanks--though I wasn't sure if she had anything at all to do with it.

The Beginning

Scott and I both admire creative landscaping designs. Scott and I both detest mowing the lawn. Scott and I got married and decided that landscaping was to be our baby; we decided to eradicate the yard of grass and I cannot honestly say which was more important at the time--the landscaping dream or the grassless dream!

We bought, borrowed and stole landscaping books and magazines (just kidding about the "stole") and poured over them. We were clear on one point: there must be a comprehensive plan in place before we started. Eager to get moving and unaware of the Indiana clay that lie beneath the sod, I started my first project: to jazz up the area around the mailbox and hide the large, brown, ugly waterworks thingy just below the mailbox. Previously, this ugly thingy had been the mailbox's most prominent feature but it wouldn't be for long.........

Well, first off I found that digging a hole in an old corn field in Indiana was not like digging a hole in the rich soil of British Columbia's Fraser Valley. But, with shovel in hand, I persevered. Two days later (I got tired and the sun went down the first day) I had a hole that was only 2' x 3'. Not knowing the garbage pick-up 'rules' I just dumped the sod into the garbage bin for pickup. I watched out the window to witness the lifting of the bin and the setting back down of the bin. The sod did not get picked up. Plan B was hatched immediately (I didn't realize at the time that there was a Plan C--but I soon picked it up courtesy of the neighbours). I hauled bucket loads of sod to an area that was going to become my composte! We didn't have a wheel barrow at that point so it was pretty time consuming. Finally, I was sod-less.

I filled that hole back up with good soil and planted my bulbs. The neighbours' looked on skeptically--they had all planted theirs 3-4 weeks back. I pretended that I knew what I was doing and soldiered on, all the while praying to the bulb-god that it wasn't all in vain.
.

Green Monster's little buddy

Green Monster

Denouncing Greener Pastures

The Stiltskins are on a mission
We have a blight in the land!
A phalanx of ferocious beasts
thunder in come each nightfall
Leaving a pestilent scourge in their wake.

The Stiltskins are on a lone mission
They alone must eradicate the blight!
The neighbouring princes welcome,
yea, encourage the beasts' presence
And, pay tribute to the graven images.

The poor Stiltskins have spent countless hours
in attack of this supernatural force!
One day they awoke and cried, "No More!
Our time and energy is too precious to a-waste!"
And from that day forward, their battle tactics they changed.

****

Today the Stiltskins are happy folk
The sight outside in the morn is no longer feared!
Tremendous is the scar that has been left in the wake, and
Til resources replete, remnants of the green monster survive
Though not for long, the Stiltskins do cry!