Now about the rescues...

It was, and is, still my mother's fault, and I love her for it.  From the time I was small and aware of my surroundings, my mother was 'being found' by a stray cat.  My father, who was always away on a ship in the Navy, never believed her. Though they never had more than one cat at a time, there was always a cat present and accounted for.  Both of them lived by "You can't save the world, but you most certainly can save your very own corner of it."

When I moved out on my own, my first possession would be a cat. Not a fancy furred, highly expensive show cat.  A rescue from the local shelter. When he passed after 22 years of sharing unconditional love, I got another. One cat at a time, from the local shelter in the area I was living when death struck and I lost a cat to old age or incurable disease.

In 2003 something changed, and not for the better, for animals in general, but in our case, cats (and a bird with one foot, but she would come later...).   My son came home from work one night and put a tiny, long-haired, fluffy, flea infested five week old kitten on the floor and said, "He came out from under a barn, and was all alone."   Well, there it was, all black with a white spot on his chest, marching around the living room already acting like he owned the place.   Our cat in residence came into the room to see what the commotion was about, took one  look at the kitten, a long thoughtful look, hissed one really long how did you get in here hiss, and wandered off to have a snack.  We named him F. Spot Fitzgerald. Roman had a brother....

A New Year



It was one of those days, when the paint won't flow, and the words won't grow so...



Today I chased a rainbow.



As soon as I was planted in the cockpit, er, driver's seat, there it was. Plastered across the sky in gorgeous hues, was the biggest rainbow I have ever seen in this area; dead ahead. Being one to recognize signs, I thought that just maybe this rainbow was here to make me smile, and help me see the reasons to the rear of the madness/events that seems to prevail over my life.



So I followed it.



Its enormity led me to the south end of town, near the ocean, with a clear view of Ledge Light. I parked next to the sea wall that, for years, had been fighting an onslaught of vines using it as a stronghold, noticing that despite having had plants scaling its modest height of three feet or so for decades, the wall stood strong and intact.



Only then did I discover that during my reverie of the wall, the sun had been replaced by an enormous moon, made for Halloween Night, but one so bright Goblins would find it hard to secure a hiding place.



So bright in fact, the southern end of the city across the river - one that borders Long Island Sound, jutting out just enough to create a safe haven for fishermen during inclement weather - was lit, ever so gently. The tops of the city's buildings glowed in the soft light, leading the eye to the meeting point of land and water.



Then I realized the reflection of the moon. Sitting softly on the water, it was pointing straight at me, its beginning just under the huge moon, its end on the water before me.



And I wondered. The rainbow had led me here. Now I faced a shimmering walkway pointing straight to the edge of the world I knew. Though fairly strong waves broke near shore, the walkway never faded, despite the uncertainty of its platform.



What is it that makes us shiver in the face of uncertainty? What makes the soul fear the unknown, when life itself is so unpredictable?



The Sunday Drive is an exercise in uncertainty. It is impossible to predict if one will navigate the course without incident, circumvent an entire area, and return to the starting point, if not with the same attitude, but at least the same physical features one began the ride possessing. Were the stars not in perfect alignment, one could conceivably end up smack in the middle of a career alcoholic's path, the vehicle driven by this destructive menace, heading straight for the Sunday Driver.



Should the stars be a degree off in another direction, the road itself could open up directly in ones path to reveal a sink hole the size of Wisconsin. No time to brake, stop, or reverse direction. Just plow right on in, down the abyss.



So this is how life is. No matter what, are we not just plowing ahead, hoping the ground remains steady and Wisconsin remains at its acceptable level, while we push on to the end?



THE END. So ominous, yet it is where we are headed, lest we forget.



Its the trip getting there that makes it all worthwhile.