Two Uncommon Cats and Therapy

My human, who’s huge on manners, suggests that I begin this purfect review by introducing myself. I’m dismayed that you don’t already have an appreciation of my ability to discern unspeakable nuggets from delectable tidbits.                                                                                                      

But such is the perfidy of a human who chooses to write about her past life. What’s interesting in that!?!?! It’s the present that matters. Yet, I’ve had to accept such cavalier treatment. Why? Quite simple—I enjoy the cushiness of her lap.                                                                                          

That’s settled then. Let us begin.                                                               

My name is Ellie. I wear brindle fur and, like my human, a little extra poundage. I remain up close and personal when she reads. I delight in sprawling—gracefully of course—on open books. Thus, when the time came to write this book review, I was the perfect fur person to do so.                                                                             

The book I’m encouraging you to read—with my most melodic yowls—is Purr Therapy by Dr. Kathy McCoy. A psychotherapist, she is the author of the popular and helpful blog “Dr. Kathy McCoy: Living Fully in Midlife.”                                   

As an objective reviewer, I may assure you that she is a true lover of felines and their foibles. She appreciates us, unlike some I could mention.                                                                                  

Observing us closely, she found, entirely by chance, two of us who were—trust me on this—quite exceptional: Timmy and Marina. Their names are in the subtitle to the book: What Timmy and Marina Taught Me About Life, Love, and Loss.                                                        

Timmy

Marina

Why are these two so unusual? Because they refuse to exhibit those supposed traits that have sullied the reputation of felines. That is, being: Aloof. Destructive. Disdainful. Naughty. Picky. Sneaky. Stingy with our canned tuna.                                                       

Ever so delicately, Timmy and Marina shred those malicious rumors into mincemeat. That’s what makes McCoy’s book about them so appetizing.                                                                        

The following excerpt begins Purr Therapy. It provides an overview of just how uncommon those two cats were as they helped their human in her work of counseling others. Believe me it takes a peerless cat to know one and I tell you that they make me proud to be a feline.

Timmy and Marina never knew each other. But they were both rescue animals, both coming into my life when I wasn’t looking for a cat. And they both unexpectedly demonstrated traits that cats don’t often have—most notable an affinity for family, friends, and strangers. . . .

Cats aren’t frequently used in animal-assisted psychotherapy. This type of therapy cat, after all, needs to be friendly with strangers, willing to be touched, petted, and held by a variety of people unfamiliar to it. Therapy cats have to be tolerant of loud voices and angry shouting, emotional distress, and sudden movements. It’s a tall order for any creature, but it is a particular challenge for a cat. . . .

Knowing, loving, and working with both of these therapy cats was an incredible pleasure. Timmy and Marina brought comfort to my patients and joy to my home,

They had something else in common: they both died tragically, quite early in life, like angels lent for just a limited time. And yet, in their sweet, short lives, they made such a difference.

This is their story—and mine as I worked with, lived with, and loved these two very special cats, learning lessons in life, loss, and love along the way.

 In Purr Therapy you will learn how Timmy and Marina helped Dr. McCoy’s patients. I know my purrs comfort my human. I’m her “purr therapy.” But never could I cheer or console strangers—especially if they raised their voices.                                            

With the wisdom with which my race has endowed me, I encourage you to read about these two extraordinary felines and the human who recognized their gifts. That trio—Timmy, Marina, and Dr. McCoy—have been a gift from the Universe to all their patients and now to me and my human and . . . to you.                 

As that human of mine would say, “Peace.” 

The Mysterious Arc of Time . . . And Love

In the school year 1972-73, six years after leaving the convent, I taught high school juniors in Claremont, New Hampshire. Their syllabus included Look to the Mountain, a historical novel written by LeGrand Cannon, Jr. It is an engrossing story about Whit—a taciturn pioneer with great good sense, strength of mind and body, and a tenacity bred by a hardscrabble upbringing.

Entering the wilderness with him is Melissa. Together, they canoe far up river to claim land near Sandwich. The novel, which takes place between 1769 and 1777, captures the background in which these two—Whit and Melissa—settle and raise a family as a revolution begins to brew in far-off Boston.  

I enjoyed the book, which was new to me, as much as the students did. We were thunderstruck by the paucity of “things” on the frontier. We empathized with Melissa as she longed for the companionship of another woman; we were impressed by Whit’s know-how. A few students had seen that area of New Hampshire so they could describe the differences two hundred years had made on the landscape.

That summer, while visiting Dad here in Missouri, I told him about the book. “Your mom always enjoyed a good historical,” he said when I’d finished my long-winded summary.

He got up, left the room, and came back carrying two of Mom’s books: The Spider King, a historical novel about Louis XI and . . . you guessed it! . . . Look to the Mountain. I’d had no idea my mom had read it.

“Here, you take them,” Dad said. “You enjoy a good read just like your mother did.”

For thirty-eight years the two novels sat on a bookshelf in Stillwater, Minnesota. When I moved back to Missouri, I shelved them again. I’d read neither since the day Dad gave them to me. To be truthful, I didn’t even think about the fact that Mom had handled and read both of them.

Then this past Monday I wanted to read something about the Revolutionary War. All these years—forty-one—since I left Claremont, I’d remembered two scenes from Look to the Mountain: the mowing contest and Whit going off to war, carrying his prized rifle.

So I removed Mom’s copy from the bookshelf and began, once again, to read the words that so compellingly brought to life the inhabitants of Kettleford and Sandwich, New Hampshire. After all these years, they sprang forth from the pages to greet me as an old friend.

In the quiet after midnight, as I entered Whit and Melissa’s world, I idly looked at the copyright page to see when the book had been published. 1942. Then it was that realization unfolded within me: My mom must have bought the book brand new in Parsons, Kansas, where she lived in a refurbished chicken coop with my little brother while Dad worked at the nearby munitions factory. I was in Kansas City, attending kindergarten.

Last night I saw my mother—my brother and Dad asleep while she read late in the night, missing me, I believe, and hoping that my asthma wasn’t acting up.

She had turned the pages of that book just as I was turning them. Both of us—night owls—found solace and retreat in a historical novel. Both of us felt the heft both of the story and the hardbound book with the mountain on the cover. That mountain encouraged Whit to venture into the wilderness.

Seventy-two years ago my mother completed that book and sat within its story. She, too, had left her home and entrusted her life to another.  

Early this morning, seventy-two years later, I laid the book aside with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Partly from the story and partly because I knew that Mom had reached out across a vast space of time with its arc of love and had spoken to me of the ties that bind us together as One. She spoke; I listened.

There is much to be grateful for as we age. This is one of those things. Peace.

All photographs from Wikipedia except for book cover, which is from Amazon. 

Review of "Chasing the Strawberry Moon: Hitchhiking (for girls)

Last July, an Arizona author—Judy A. Grout—contacted me to inquire if I’d work with her as she polished her young adult manuscript entitled Chasing the Strawberry Moon: Hitchhiking (for girls). Judy had gotten my name from a mutual friend in Minnesota.       

                                                                                                                                In our telephone conversation, she explained that a few months before she’d met an agent at a writer’s conference. After they’d discussed the novel’s plot and background, the agent asked to read the manuscript. A few weeks later, she sent Judy a full-page list of suggestions for how to improve the manuscript and make it more publishable. She expressed interest in seeing the manuscript again once Judy had worked on it.                                                                                                             Intrigued by the title of the novel and by Judy’s willingness to  continue polishing a manuscript on which she’d already spent so much time, I agreed to work with her. For a week, I read and made suggestions about plot development, sustaining suspense, creating tension, and showing character instead of just describing or telling about it—all of which were concerns of the agent.                                                                                                                    In September, Judy sent me a new manuscript in which she had incorporated her response to my suggestions. For two weeks we worked to polish that second manuscript, which had improved greatly. We both thought that she now had a manuscript that worked. She planned to do more with dialogue and format, but essentially she had written an entertaining and arresting young adult novel.                                                                                                                                    Judy Grout is a mature writer. By that I mean that she was faithful to her story and accepted only those suggestions of mine that worked for her and for the characters and plot she envisioned. Insecure writers slavishly accept all suggestions made by their critique readers; arrogant writers accept nothing. Judy’s attitude made working with her pleasurable.                                                                                                                          Now her young adult novel has been published. Here’s just a brief summary of its plot, which is sure to keep you reading to the end of this hitchhiking romp.  

                                                                                                                      Forced to flee Baywater, Minnesota, to avoid an arranged marriage to the local sheriff’s son, Patsy Schwartz hits the open road with her best friend, Virginia Burg. It’s 1939. Both the Great Depression and the Dust Bowl are affecting everyone’s life in the United States and war is sweeping across Europe.                                                                                                             Before she settles for marriage to someone who might be part of that war, Patsy wants some adventure . . . hopefully in Hollywood where she’s determined to become a star.     

                                                                                                                            The two girls trek across North Dakota, Montana, and Idaho, toward a café run by Virgie’s relatives in Washington. There they hope to rest from their adventures before heading south to California and the stardom that awaits them.                                                                                                            On their journey, Patsy and Virgie encounter a cast of characters whose foibles and antics will both delight and dismay you. As the two young women thumb their way across the country, they ride with truckers; work for ranchers; meet Communists, preachers, and artists for the WPA; encounter women motorcyclists; and get treated to a meal by the Civilian Conservation Corpsmen.         

                                                                                                                           And always, nipping at their heels, are the sheriff’s son and the Chicago hoods who have plans for Baywater, Minnesota, and that son.                                                                                                       While this novel will be of great interest to young women, I found it equally interesting as well as humorous  because the story helped me imagine my mom and her own dreams and adventures when she was young. The novel does, I think, accurately portray youth when we believe that all is possible.                                                                                                If you’d like to learn more about the plot and the background that led to Judy writing a fictionalized account of a true story, please go to the book’s page on Amazon. Or visit Judy’s writer's page, which features a short video of many of the scenes that Patsy and Virgie saw on their hitchhiking adventure.                                                                                                                     

P S: I apologize for the haphazard formatting of this posting. For some unknown reason, I just cannot get everything to line up as it normally does. Peace.

A Poem about Pope Francis

Hello All. If the Olympics gave medals for blogging the least number of times each year, I'd probably win the gold. Why? Because I took several weeks off in December and early January. Now, it’s Thursday again and I find myself unable to find the three hours I generally spend crafting the memoir story that serves as my posting. This week’s been hectic with the illness of a friend who needed help and with my own problems with Meniere’s. So I also haven’t been able to read any of your blogs.

         I’m hoping that next week life will permit me to get back to a routine that includes reading/commenting on blogs and writing a story for this blog. For now, I simply want to share two things.

1)         As you know, Time magazine chose Pope Francis as their person of the year. Below is a poem about the pope. A friend of mine, whom I’ve known for sixty years, wrote it. The two of us attended college together and we both entered Mount Saint Scholastica Monastery. I left; she stayed and I’m so thankful that she’s been able to pursue her love of writing there.

Pope Francis

He looked out at our world

and saw that it was good,

not wicked or lurking in alleys,

waiting to pounce on prey,

but wounded and scarred from battlefields

of controversy, dissention, and mistrust.

He calls for the Church to be

a “field hospital” doing triage

to stop the hemorrhaging, to bandage

the broken, to comfort the mournful,

not condemning or alienating.

Open-armed and open-hearted

Francis embraces those teetering

on the brink of poverty, trampled

by war and greed, lost

in disillusionment and darkness.

Throwing off the ermine and silk

and red shoes, abandoning

the papal palace, he reaches out

to ordinary folk with candor

and common language.

He makes the gospel speak

again to all those hungering

for the simple bread of compassion

and understanding, yearning

for a place to call home.

Barbara Mayer, OSB

October 2013

This is the second poem of Barb’s that I’ve shared with you. The first was one about the return of a number of ex-nuns, myself included, to the Mount in May 2013 to celebrate the monastery’s sesquicentennial. Click here if you’d like to read that poem.

2)         On January 26, I posted for the first time in fourteen weeks on my Sunday writing blog: Word-Crafting: a Writer’s Blog. For that posting, I reviewed Return to Canterbury, written by a fellow blogger. It is a sequel to her first book, The Christmas Village. If you have time, I hope you’ll visit my Sunday blog and read the review. Melissa Goodwin’s novel for 10-to-14-year-olds is so well written that it appeals not only to young readers, but also to those of us who’ve enjoyed a lengthy number of years!

         If all goes well with the weather and the barometer and my friend, whose health is not so good right now, I’ll return next Monday to reading blogs and next Thursday to sharing with you another convent story. Peace.

Fran Fischer's "Fishducky's Fables"

Hello all, on this, the first day of May 2013. Thank you for all your comments and e-mails encouraging me to take time off and “go with the flow” of the barometer. The temperature was 84° F here yesterday. Today’s prediction is for 74° with rain showers and thunderstorms. Then the temperature dramatically drops to 49° with rain forecast for the next five days. Of course, an erratic barometer will accompany all these temperature changes.

         But enough of this shilly-shallying over barometric changes. I’ve sat on the sidelines, nursing an aching brain, for three weeks now and its time to stand up, do my world-famous shimmy, and shout, “Enough already! I’m reentering the fray!”

         In truth, I really began this reentry on Monday when I visited several of you on your blogs and left comments. For me that was the day I yawned, stretched widely, and decided to say “Phooey!” to headaches and "Yes!" to posting again.

         So, to begin my blog anew, I’m reviewing today a delightful book of humor for all of us who still remember the wonder of our childhood reading of fairy tales and fables.
          The cover of Fishducky’s Fables by Fran Fischer hints at the merriment within. Be warned that if you read this entertaining entry into the humor genre, you may have to relinquish some cherished beliefs about fairy tales. What you learned as a child simply wasn’t true!

         In Fischer’s book, we chuckle over fractured fairy tales like Rapunzel. We guffaw as the author shares with us the reasons for why zebras zig, leopards spot, and kangaroos accessorize with a pouch. These how-did stories are amazingly original. In addition, Fischer weaves tongue-in-cheek magic as she spinningly retells myths about Greek gods, goddesses, and other important people.

         The book closes with two amusingly outlandish stories about Dorian Gray and Frankenstein and a number of nursery rhymes, each ending with a twist that left me grinning at Fischer’s humorous take on all of life.         

         I was drawn to this book because of all the enjoyment I’ve had in reading Fischer’s blog: Fishducky, finally. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for months I’ve depended on her postings to lighten my day with laughter.

         And yet, I seldom read humorous books or books on humor. Several years ago, I did read—and truly enjoyed—the P. G. Wodehouse series featuring Bertie Wooster and his long-suffering manservant, Jeeves.

         And I’ve been a fan of many comedians from radio, television, and Saturday Night Live, among them, Jack Benny, Sid Caesar, Imogene Coca, Flip Wilson, Carol Burnett, Dana Carvey, Lily Tomlin, Jackie Gleason, Billy Crystal, Bob Newhart, Bill Cosby, Tim Conway, Jonathan Winters, Red Skelton, Ernie Kovacs, Dick Gregory, Gilda Radner, Victor Borge, Ellen DeGeneres, Louie Armstrong, and Robin Williams.

         So while I’ve never really read humorous books, I’ve enjoyed many comedians. And now I count Fischer among them. She has a true sense of the ridiculous. She's the bloggers' standup comic. And in Fishducky’s Fables she'll give you the lowdown on how Jimmy Choo’s shoe company got started and on which princess had a happy marriage because of Breath Right Nasal.

         Fischer had me chuckling when I encountered the last line of the King Midas story. She amazed me with her inventiveness in the Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale. And she surprised me with the name of the television show on which Thumbelina appeared.

         And speaking of that little girl, according to Fischer when writing about Thumb and her husband, the “word on the street is that they lived reasonably happy ever after.” I’m relieved to know that!

         As well, it’s educational to learn why hares hop instead of run and why elephants have trunks. Not only humorous, but the word charming applies to many of these stories.

         Two of my most treasured childhood books—which sit in pride of place on one of my bookshelves—are Fairy Tales Every Child Should Know, a 1944 gift from my cousin Tommy and Fairy Tales and Stories by Hans Christian Andersen, a Christmas gift from my parents in 1945. Now I have shelved securely on my iPad a third fairy tale book—Fran Fischer’s Fishducky’s Fables. I’m going to post this review and then go to Amazon and Goodreads and give it a five-star review.

         If you delight in originality and seek laughter in your life, you’ll also want to read this book. Enjoy!