Friday was unseasonably warm, the apex in what this winter has proved to be a robust cycle of freezes and thaws, and no less beautiful in late afternoon and twilight.
Most of my Christmas morning at the tree was spent having a ball with my folks as we opened presents and enjoyed a succession of coffee, cinammon rolls, orange juice and chocolates. Naturally, catblogging took place.
Rascal and Buddy got what they wanted for Christmas: paper to play with and a few winks.
1. Where in the world did all this snow come from?
2. What difference does it make?
Merry Christmas.
Twelve inches and counting. During the night, precipitation changed to freezing rain and then back to snow, just in time for rush hour. Work, which ended up a half-day yesterday due to the weather, was called off today. The storm is being called "historic." My family remembers heavy Northeast Ohio snowfall of the early 1980s, and we agree.
Catblogging has been brought into vogue, so with a camera and two adorably photogenic cats within five miles of me, I'm happy to join the bandwagon.
In April of 1990, my family drove a few streets over to the home of a former teacher of my sister's; the woman's cat had recently become a mother and a brood of six kittens needed loving homes. This was new for us, as the Ubaldi household was one of few pets. My father has suffered from considerable allergies all his life: ragweed, mold, pollen, trees, and dander from most animals. He hardly enjoyed a day of clear breathing when the family kept a guinea pig for a few years in the mid-1980s, and as his allergist put it, he benefited enormously from the fact that the animal was stuck in one place at all times. Dad's reaction to dogs was legendary — they were out of the question. We assumed every other animal with fur was, too, until my father asked his allergist to try him for cats.
No reaction. After certain family members could finally be convinced that cats were not agents of the devil, it was decided that two cats be purchased, one ostensibly for me and the other for my sister.
The dam had made good: three black kittens, two grey and a tiny, black-and-russet thing who was, we were told, the runt of the litter. We visited once, when the mewling little cherubs could fit three times over in a washtub; and again, some weeks later, when they were nearly weaned and my sister and I were to select our kittens. The brood had been moved to a shed where they could run, jump and tumble under lock and key — they'd learned those skills quickly, no longer the immoble puffy balls in a washtub, and had a mind to dart away from us the moment my sister's teacher opened the shed door to let us inside. All except two: the brown runt and one of the two greys. The runt moved towards my sister, who squatted, then picked up the kitten to place it on her knee, where it stayed. The grey cat, as my mother tells it, wanted to follow his brothers and sisters but, startled by the shed's new entrants, froze in confusion. I scooped it up.
More visitors, invited by the teacher to adopt the rest of the brood, stepped into the shed as my sister and I each petted our catch. "I think they've found their kittens," smiled one.
We took the cats home on the third and final visit. As luck would have it, mine was a boy; my sister's was a girl.
They say that dogs are the best companions. The last fourteen years have led me to disagree.
The russet cat is Rascal. Rascal is strange. She is a cat but occasionally acts as if she were a dog or a rat — or even a slug. Last Sunday, at my folks' house, Rascal played groundhog. (Note the Garfield book in the first photograph; serendipitous symbolism.)
This is dear, old Buddy. He — means well.
The weather outside is delightful, and if your opinion is less flattering you're probably thinking about this year's trip to Florida. So be it. This photograph was taken three hours ago, and snow has been falling since. Even in tiny flakes, white, icy walls whirled as I drove to church on the appropriately rural Mastick Road. Cleveland classical music station WCLV was playing a choir's performance of Gloria in Excelsis Deo. It was...glorious.
LATER:
Here's the King, nearly complete; bows, icicles and family ornaments will finish the trimming. The sheer convenience of my Olympus made documentation of our decades-old trimming tradition possible. I'll put it up between now and Christmas. In the meantime, watch for some new sights on the masthead.
Outside, the snow is falling and I just finished calling my folks, "Yoo-hoo." After a hearty Bob Evans breakfast, we'll drive an hour south to chop down our Christmas tree. As my father explained at a party last night, the last pre-cut tree he bought was in 1974, a season spent hearing the dulcet chime of needles falling to the floor by the dozen. The Ubaldis have taken their tree directly from the ground ever since. Dad prefers Douglas Fir; I love the smell and sharpness of Blue Spruce. Either way, our find will be beautiful and uBlog photographs will follow. Enjoy the day!
I don't need to explain the relief and gratification I feel now that the election is over and the holidays are the only planned events between us and year's end. Nearly every leaf in Northeast Ohio is on the ground, and that the trees retain their beauty tells us something about the majesty of nature.
As the adage goes, twilight is so to save the best for last.
The same goes for winter and the Christmas season. This year is no exception, and I look forward to it.
