Living and dying: A tribute to Motormouth

Motormouth took his last breath just before 6 a.m. on Friday, December 24 - Christmas Eve day. He hadn't been sick long, and we thought he'd be with us for a long time to come. Just before Thanksgiving, he was diagnosed with renal failure, but he responded well to hydration treatments and a daily pill (followed by his favorite treats).

Then this last week it all changed. He ate a little on Monday night, but on Tuesday, he stopped eating. Several vet trips still suggested he'd be fine with some additional - and fairly minor - treatment. But as I left work on Thursday afternoon for Christmas holidays, Forrest called to say he'd just talked with Dr. Mentzer, that Motor's body was failing, and we had a decision to make. We went straight to the vet and brought Motor home to die. We kept him comfortable, warmed with a heating pad, pain meds to numb, at our feet in a basket full of blankets. I so wanted to snuggle him again, but by then he was too uncomfortable. On Thursday morning, something told me to bring him into bed with us, that this could be his last morning, so I collected him from under a table where he'd begun to hide, and I brought him into bed to snuggle in between us.

That night, we brought blankets and pillows and slept on the floor of the back room, the warmest room in this drafty house, so we could be with him every minute. We set the alarm to make sure he had pain meds before the last wore off.

We buried him deep in the ground later that morning, in the backyard near a place he loved to sit and keep watch. As hard as it was to see his lifeless body, it leaves no questions.

Sweet Motor kitty loved his sunbeams, the back yard, laps, tormenting neighborhood cats and dogs, laps, right shoulders, treats and catnip, dinner time, laps, and his pal Photon. I don't think he ever met a lap he didn't like. He wore a studded black leather collar for most of his kitty life, from which dangled a big red heart-shaped ID tag, hinting at his dual personality - lover and fighter. We're pretty sure he and Nightmare, as well as neighbor cat Buster, had devised some kind of power-sharing agreement, and only pretended to not get along when we were nearby. But when he was mad, he didn't mess around. He had some killer teeth and deadly claws.

I think he also found some kitty pride or maybe humor in being a tough guy. He was known for chasing dogs, and rumor has it that even big dogs (with their owners) would cross the street if Motor was perched near the sidewalk.

Nearly every night we lived together, he'd snuggle next to me at bedtime and all through the night. He'd lay his sweet head on my pillow, stretch out beside me and we'd 'spoon,' and he'd purr and make those sweet little kitty noises. He could be so still; I'd occasionally poke him to make sure he was breathing. Sometimes he'd lay on our heads, or compete for body space with his nemesis, Nightmare.

He was 15 1/2. He started his life in Savannah, Georgia, where Forrest adopted him when he was no bigger than a handful, a wee bundle of grey tabby fluff. He came out to the Olympic Peninsula before he was a year old, and stayed six months - at one time picked up by a bird of prey and dropped from a distance. He had troubled hips from then on, and avoided big jumps and for the most part, climbing trees. He came back to the NW two years later, when Forrest settled into an apartment in West Seattle. He was an indoor kitty then, but because I knew he liked the outdoors, I'd carry him onto the balcony so he could (sort of) be outside.

I met him when he was still on the Olympic Peninsula, just over a year old. We took to one another immediately. His big personality was obvious from the beginning, and I adored him. His voice was unmistakable, and while Forrest was in Savannah and I was still in Vancouver, I'd swear he'd pull Motor's tail so I could hear him on the phone... but no. Motor just talked. He earned his name.

He wasn't shy. He announced himself whenever he'd come in the house, or into a room, or jump on the bed, whatever time of day or night. He introduced himself to guests while the other two would find a place to hide. He early on earned another nickname - Boomakitty - because anytime you'd toss him off your lap, he'd come right back. And he'd always ask for whatever he wanted - the faucet, treats, a lap, outside, more loves.

When we moved back to the house in Ballard, my job became to open and close doors for cats. He was also a smart kitty - after we blocked off the cat door broken by an insistent Photon, he learned to use it as a door knocker. So there could be no question when he wanted to come in...

He had a little tuft of golden fur right behind his ears that was softer than even the softest fur. A sweet little pink nose, set off by white fur above and a white bib below. His paws would spread wide when draped over a shoulder, his happy place - his happy paws. His voice was loud, his purr was big, and he would coo pigeon-like and burble the happiest of sweet kitty sounds.

Weaned too early, he kneaded our bellies to "soften them up." And he was "needy" - he insisted we show him love whenever he wanted it (which was most of the time) and demanded much attention. Because I relate to his need to be loved, I'd give him extra pets, or a treat, or tuck him into a cozy spot if I couldn't make time to give him the attention he requested.

I know some kitties live to be 20 or more now. I thought he'd be with us till at least 18. We thought he'd move with us when we leave this house. But I think burying him here is the right thing - this place has been his home for a long time, and he's had many good years here. What more could a kitty ask for - birds and mice to stalk or watch, grass to chew or hide in, dirt to dig and roll in, trees to crouch or sleep under, room to run at high speeds, leaves to chase...

Sweet and happy cat that he was, he could also be curmudgeonly, and I thought his grouchy self would keep him going for many more years, if nothing else. We knew his kidneys had shown some wear this last year, but other than an illness a few years ago, he's been a pretty healthy cat.

I joked recently that perhaps he was getting a little senile; just before we knew he was sick, he would sit and stare, head down, seemingly "zoning"... Sleep sitting? I didn't realize it was a symptom, and I'm kicking myself for not recognizing that he should visit the vet right then. But soon there were other noticeable but subtle differences in behavior that told me something wasn't right. So we went to the kitty doc.

Yet now I ask the proverbial questions - is there more I could have done, could I have done something sooner, what didn't I notice...? I'm so connected to my cats; I usually have a sense... Now I have enough questions to make me crazy, when I know I did what I knew to do, and did as much for my sweet pal as I possibly could. They're not very good at telling us something's wrong until it's really wrong.

He had more personality than most, and was adored by most people who met him. Diane called him "the big bruiser," an "epic" cat. He had a way about him, of carrying himself. He left a lasting impression on just about everyone. I am missing him more than I thought possible. Motor kitty, King Cat, sweet Motor, precious companion.

Roasted!

Exasperated over unripened tomatoes and our sunless summer, I apparently had no need for concern about green tomatoes (lack of sun is entirely different...).

But because I don't expect to find much when I inspect the vines (those countless gray days), I'm caught with nothing to put the little red flavor containers in (my mouth only holds so many).

So I fill up my stretched-shirt-basket,then drop them haphazardly on the kitchen table for a random sea of red and yellow.

How to consume them before they go bad? There's nothing like fresh tomatoes just picked, and caprese salads are a favorite. But I can't seem to eat them quick enough, and I don't want to lose a single bite, since the season is so short.

I don't can (yet); I don't have a food dehydrator (and I'm not crazy about sundried). Freezing would alter the texture.

But roasting! Oh, I do love roasted vegetables, and what the high heat does to flavor. Add a little olive oil, some sea salt, and place in a hot oven for about 40 minutes.

I think the smell alone (along with a little garlic) could get me through a cold winter. I will enjoy every bite when I add them to sauces when anything resembling fresh is impossible to come by.

I hope the season lasts just a little longer... I could fill my freezer with tomatoes alone!

Cherry tomatoes and "ground" cherries

I made a double-score this weekend. Out in the garden, I found little red nuggets hiding under my sprawling, uncaged cherry tomato plants (and a few yellow ones, thanks to garden mates!), and while at the Edmonds Farmers Market on Saturday, I came across a childhood favorite, ground cherries, also sometimes called husk tomatoes.

What's a ground cherry? There's a strong resemblance to a tomatillo, but the husks are a creamy color and the berry inside is golden, with a sweet-tart taste that I remember so well but can't really describe. My grandfather grew them just for me, usually out near our driveway. I could eat handfuls at a time and never grow tired of them. They're typically ripe in late summer, early fall, just like tomatoes.

I've looked for ground cherries over the years but until this weekend, hadn't found the fruit anywhere. A couple of years ago, I found some seeds in a heritage seed catalog, and even after careful planting indoors, nothing grew. The woman at the Farmers Market (and no, I have no idea which farm they came from now...) said they don't typically grow here, but I find that odd since they grew in our Ballard garden throughout my early years. Could the climate have changed that much?

My fondness for ground cherries must resemble Forrest's fondness for boiled peanuts. I've mentioned them to him more times than I can count, but until this weekend, he's never tasted them. He liked them!

The summer that wasn't...(except for figs)

Anyone have some good recipes for green tomatoes? Hopes of home-grown, vine-ripened tomatoes are dwindling with each raindrop and gust of wind.

Today is August 31. Before leaving for work this morning, I pulled a box from the closet of tucked away winter clothes and grabbed a sweater to wear atop my gray flannel pants and leather oxfords. The red weather-resistent jacket with hood came next, and as I walked out the door, I threw my leather jacket on top of that. No regrets, except that it's August 31.

Grapes are slowly turning from green to red, and I still have hopes they'll ripen. The leaves, too, are turning, and fall arrives without summer ever getting a foothold. A couple of weeks in mid-July, a few days here and there, offered a glimpse of what summer could be. But it was only a glimpse. My garden has suffered, as has my energy.

One clear, unsuspected sign of summer: Fresh, tree-ripened figs. I had no idea they could be so good. A colleague brought these green-wrapped succulent pink-fleshed morsels to work this week, and offered a few favorite recipes to try after eating more freshly picked fruit than one person should.

Here's last night's dinner recipe:

Pasta with Figs, Walnuts and Gorgonzola
- Your choice of pasta (I've come to love brown rice pasta).
While it's cooking, saute in a tablespoon or two of butter:
- 1 chopped onion till brown
- add toasted walnuts or pecans till warm
- add figs, and salt to taste
- Then toss all together and sprinkle with crumbled gorgonzola cheese.

Said colleague also suggested drizzling fresh sliced figs with honey and sprinkling with goat cheese, or wrapping them in prociutto. Toasted walnuts work well here, too.

I think I'd like a fig tree. Had I known earlier that they grew so well in the Northwest, and that a fresh fig could be so delicious...

Eating my yard

Despite growing very little myself this year, it's a lovely thing to be able to wander from one end of the yard to the other and nibble my way through it.

From Shiv's peas at one end to our raspberries at the other, there's an entire salad of edible goodness. Lettuce left over from a previous garden mate, communally planted strawberries, it's a giant snack tray that's healthier than anything I could find in my kitchen.

I'm a bit shamed, though, by the gardens I saw this weekend on Lasqueti Island, where self-sufficiency is a necessary part of living. There's a part of me that would love to be so capable and grow so much, but another part sees the constant attention and work that such a bounty demands and recognizes the near impossibility given my lifestyle and penchant for fair-weather gardening.

Still, having treats from the yard a few months of the year is something to be savored and appreciated. Just as pine and cedar scents can't be bottled, flavors from fresh peas and berries straight from the vine can't be found anywhere else.

Food tip: Greek Gods honey yogurt with fresh berries on top, or strawberries drizzled with a bit of good Balsamic vinegar. Two of my very berry favorites.

Berry goodness, new reading, and happy cats

The berries are so amazingly juicy and awesome I couldn't NOT post a picture. But the weather has been dismal here, so fair-weathered gardener that I am, I've spent very little time doing anything useful.


Shiv's garden, on the other hand, is impressive. His pea vines are five-feet tall (that's them, to Photon's left)... and all the other gardeners have pretty good crops coming up. I, however, do not.

I did finally dig up all the weeds and who knows what was growing out there - and happily left the beets I discovered, along with some volunteer tomatoes. Nice to at least have it look like I've planted something - even if that's not really quite the case.




I also pulled copious weeds from around the strawberries (even with earlier help from gardeners, still more must be done) and attempted to pull the grass from in between the raspberries, but this will require much more time and energy than I have right now. The berry flavor, however, is not compromised by weeds and grass, and every berry popped between the lips is a delightful burst of sweetness.



Reading/Recipes:

On my radar - two newly published books by local authors: Amy Pennington's Urban Pantry and Molly Wizenberg's (of Orangette fame and now, in the 'hood, Delancey's Pizzaria) A Homemade Life. Found Wizenberg's book thanks to our friend Cayla, who made an awesome meal for us on a recent Sunday. I'm not a fan of potato salad, but in my opinion, this might be the best potato salad ever. I think Cayla made one change, using Vegannaise in place of mayo. It's worth picking up the book just for that. I hear Molly's also a great storyteller, and that the rest of the book is as delightful as the salad.

Hoping summer arrives - as is typical in Seattle - sometime soon after the 4th of July. I honestly don't feel like I can wait much longer for some sun - it'll be tanning booth, here I come, and that's not really a good idea. But 5000 iu's of Vitamin D3 just isn't doing it this year...

Cheers for a great 4th (and to my Canadian friends, a great 1st!). More pics to come soon.

Growing impatience

Patience has never been a virtue, but our local weather is testing the wee bit I have.

Today is the summer solstice - the longest day of the year - and with momentary exceptions, it's been dark, cloudy, and dreary, with some drizzle in between.

The berries say it's summer: strawberries and raspberries are popping out all over, ripe and red and fabulous.

It can't rain all the time... can it?

Here it is Memorial Day weekend and rain is forecast for most of it (a few sun breaks are expected in between drops and we here in the Northwest know exactly what a sun break is...makes me think of Erik the Viking... seen it?). Most of May was wet.

The garden is sufficiently watered, but I've yet to plant most of my seeds as I am a fair-weathered gardener and this is not my idea of fair weather... While it's warmer, I'm still in layers, boots, and rain gear. The days may be longer, but they're barely lighter... the sky just stays gray longer, and on some days, they're just a lighter shade of gray, depending on the torrent of that particular day.

Yes, Rainy Days and Mondays do tend to get me down.

On the plus side, weeds come out of the ground much easier. If I can make myself get out there to pull them.

Jane Siberry has a great song called, "It Can't Rain All the Time" - which is really about lost love and not at all about rain, but the sentiment can certainly evoke how I feel sometimes when the rain just doesn't stop...

Yes! Magazine features water this month, noting that some parts of the country are currently preparing for drought, and learning to manage their declining water resources (includes some awesome looking articles that I haven't yet read, including a piece by Canadian water advocate Maude Barlow, who I've written about here before...). And while water doesn't seem to be an issue here with all that rain, our water supply is greatly dependent on our snowpack, of which we really didn't have much this year. So yes, we should be paying attention to water resources...

I'm sure when summer finally comes (if it does; it's entirely possible that it might not, as nothing about Northwest weather is predictable, climate change or not), I will be grateful for the full rain barrels and the city reservoirs topped up by rainfall. Just not right now. I am ready for sunlight, which gives me energy, enthusiasm, and a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

I think all this rain has made me punchy. Not to mention flabby, because the last thing I feel like doing is going for a walk, a run, or working in the garden.

Flying kitty

Flying cat: For lack of a better place to put this... since it's not at all about growing things, more about flying things...

But maybe I can stretch it because he started off as mom's cat (extension of yesterday's post...), or because he hangs out in the garden with the gardeners when he's not stuck inside (or freaked out and hiding under the bed), or because it's almost Friday and it could be considered Friday cat blogging...

Or maybe just because it's pretty funny. Do you know a cat that likes to fly? Nightmare does!

Mom's view

Ten years ago today, I came home from a morning run at Shilshole Marina to a message I hoped would never come.

At least not so soon…

The message was from Ballard Manor, calling about my mom. My mom’s time here ended at about 7:30 a.m. on Friday, May 19, 2000. She was just 64. She had been ill; nine months earlier she moved into Ballard Manor, an assisted living facility about a mile south, but her health - and outlook - were improving and she seemed to be doing well in her new environment. I was hopeful. There were still so many questions to ask, things to say and do, and promises to fulfill.

But I'm grateful for the gifts she left, particularly her appreciation for wit, absurdity, and context, and especially, a small packet of short stories, essays, poems, and other creative writings that helped me view my mom - and her experiences - in a different way. She wrote about growing up (me), growing waistlines (hers/ours/theirs), and growing old, as well as growing things.

Here are a few about the home where both she and I grew up (and you can read "The Visitor" (my favorite) at the May 10, 2009, post).

A garden's a sensible spot
To raise food so it needn't be bought
But remember to weed it,
Whenever it need it,
Or it's likely to soon go to pot.

The Gravenstein

The gnarled old apple tree stands tall against the bleak wintery sky, barren branches swaying back and forth in the cold, icy wind. Lonely, lifeless, it awaits the first awakening of spring.

Life stirs in the old tree as the warm rays of the sun and the gentle rains caress its limbs. Tiny green buds poke out after a long winter sleep. Fragrant blossoms of pink and white burst forth, filling the air with a pleasant sweetness. Twittering birds, returning after a long winter absence, busily weave their nests of straw and string.

The beautiful ancient tree, weathered by time and the seasons, is reclaimed by spring, teeming with new life. Boldly, it stretches to meet the clear blue sky.

Unnamed poem, excerpt:

"That tree was just a little sprout
A long, long time ago."
"You grew that tree?" I marveled.
And smiling, he said, "No."

"It had everything it needed.
It was God that put it there.
But he thought it needed lots of love,
So he put it in my care."

Now I have a little tree,
All my very own.
And the farmer's words still echo back
Although the years have flown.

The Barn

The old wooden barn stands behind the house, silent, lonely, a silhouette against the crimson evening sky. The broken door swings back and forth on noisy hinges, the door knob long since disappeared. Stepping inside, the floorboards wobble beneath my feet, while the cool rush of winter wind blows through time-worn cracks in the walls, where tiny feed boxes still hang. Rusty wire spills from the decaying rafters. A musty chair stands in the corner, and faded curtains hang, lifeless, on the jagged broken windows.

This barn was once a playhouse for happy little girls, now grown and gone away. Cackling red hens once roosted here and laid their speckled brown eggs in nests of golden straw. A hitching ring still hangs where a huge black cow, tethered to the now barren wall, waited patiently to give her soft, creamy milk.

Now, as then, the wispy branches of the gnarled cherry tree rustle against the moss-covered roof. Slowly, sadly, I leave the old barn, standing silently, abandoned... (Ed. note: The barn came down with a little help from us in 1993.)

Back to the garden

About mid-April, our unofficial community garden got up and running for the season again with a celebratory and planning barbeque. Jennifer & Christopher, Andy & Yuko (and their sweet little Amelie, brand new as of January), and Ben are back - and of course our neighbor Shiv, who continues to expand his garden space anywhere he can. Andy and Yuko, in addition to Amelie, brought with them Amber & Ilan, who quickly readied their space, got seeds in the ground, repurposed some leftovers from last year (red lettuce and several types of onions), and eagerly helped out with other yard and garden chores. What an awesome group we have!

The pictures above and below (other than grape vines) are from that first April gathering. Jen has the distinction of getting the first tomato start into the ground.

A lot of work was accomplished today. Jennifer cleaned up the strawberry patch; if how much they've spread is an indication of how many berries we'll have, we should have quite a harvest. Forrest mowed the several-feet-high lawn behind the house, and I tackled much of the front sections where herbs, bulbs, and various perennials are mixed in with the dandelions, grass, and extensive unnamed weeds. Christopher and Ilan stepped in and helped all around the back, wherever more work was needed; the big accomplishment was clearing the "shared" patch that last year had squash, cucumbers, and volunteer tomatoes. It's now ready to plant, although we never really did talk about a plan for that spot. More of the same? Maybe Forrest can plant some peanuts there! Forrest and Christopher are both Georgia natives (and Jen spent a good amount of time there)... if we had success, we'd have some happy planters. Otherwise, Forrest and I will have one of the raised beds this year, which is now weed-free and ready to plant.

The degree to which the grass has grown - exponentially! - and filled in all the areas we cleared last year continues to befuddle me. And this year, we have wee Maples sprouting in every part of the yard. The good news - just one morning glory vine so far, and only two blackberry shoots. Whew. Perhaps those battles are won - for now.

Spring has sprung

Spring is here, spring has sprung,
The bird is on the wing.
Oh my, how absurd...
I thought the wing was on the bird!

(anonymous; variation by Anelda)

Despite the calendar telling me it's still February (albeit the end), the signs of spring are everywhere. Flowering cherries are in full bloom, the clematis is white with flowers, the fruit trees have buds and it looks like the blueberries are as happy as can be in their new locations. Cats are bouncing from one end of the yard to the other and - finally - prefer to spend more of their time outside.

Yesterday, a delightfully sunny Saturday, I came home from an errand-filled afternoon to find a yard full of eager gardeners, tilling and preparing their beds for the gardens to come. What a happy day! The long, painfully hard winter (even while milder than previous years), was ending and we were all coming out of hibernation. Andy and Yuko brought their new sweet girl, Amelie, just seven weeks old. How fun it will be to watch her grow as our seeds sprout and blossom this year, too.

A group barbeque will follow soon and we'll discuss plans for what we'll grow and where. More communal areas? Makes sense. It's been a great team effort so far. And we all like to cook, relish fresh vegetables, and have similar palates.

More reports as we go full swing into spring.