YO, WE GOT YER SNOWMAN

Quite a while back, when my kids were just 9 and 13 years old, it was Christmastime and we were decorating the house with lights outside. It was always in the back of our minds that some day ours would be a "destination" house.... one that folks would make sure they drove by every year to see the dazzling display. Something was missing though. We never had any figures or a manger scene, only lights. We didn't have much money- so when I saw a cute little wooden snow man on a stick at a hardware store- I bought him and we proudly stuck him in the planter on the porch. It was as if he were a seed, and from him many other decorations would come.
A few days later, it was pouring down rain, and we sat snugly in our warm house by the beautiful Christmas tree. The doorbell rang; but when I opened the door, no one was there. I looked down  the sidewalk each direction, and when I turned to go back in, I noticed a soggy piece of paper with graffiti-type scrawling in indelible ink: "YO,WE GOT YER SNOWMAN. TALK TO ANYONE AND WE MELT HIM.  DA PUNX".
Our little wooden snowman was indeed missing! I picked up the dripping note, looked across the street and up and down for the hooligan who was playing this trick on us, but nothing. Then I got a funny feeling that even if I couldn't see him, I was probably being watched, so I went inside to tell the kids, locking the front door behind me.
We went over together the usual suspects, thinking after all it was pretty funny. Whoever it was wanted us to figure it out, and then they'd give our beloved ornament back to us. Was it Michael across the street, or the nextdoor neighbor kids, or another friend of ours with a quirky sense of humor? I called around and the kids asked their friends and everyone sounded so innocent. After all the interrogation, no one confessed and we put the note away with the Christmas decorations. Every year we bring it out and recount the story as we decorate the tree. It never fails to get a laugh.

Three or four years later, my daughter went to a concert in San Francisco; and she got a ride home with one of the band members by his mom. As they drove up to our house, the guy said, "You live in THIS house?.... I stole a snowman from in front of it a few years ago!" Turns out that a band named, I think,  Devil Doll, used to live across the street from us and he hung out there. I'm not sure what prompted him to do the deed.
My daughter could hardly believe it! She told him he should come in to tell her mom, but he didn't want to. Instead, he accepted an invitation to a neighborhood Christmas party we were giving the next week.
During the party I was told that our thief had arrived; but by the time I got to the door to greet him, he had chickened out and left, evidently scared to meet me. I was disappointed. I guess he didn't realize what a hoot we got out of his crime every year. The Phantom did give us a new ending to the story though. He left behind a new wooden snowman that hangs on our mailbox every year.

Current Cats, Chapter 2

The mama cat never has been very friendly. In fact she's downright skittish. You'd think with all the food we give her....... Well, there's another cat that looks alot like her that is either her former beau or her brother, with the same sort of grey and white markings. He showed up soon after "Mommy" was fixed, and he lets me pet him. I started calling him Gimpy. I know it's a rather un-PC name, but he does do a big limp when he's surprised and goes to move fast. Now he's more lovingly called "Gimpers", since he greets me sometimes, rubbing along my legs as I bend down and stroke his soft fur. Mommy won't have anything to do with me, but if Gimpers is around letting himself be petted, she comes over too, purring and rubbing. It's as if to say, "This is my girl, and I let her pet me like this all the time!"
Some folks say we shouldn't feed the feral cats. They think we'll attract racoons and such. We only feed the cats when they come and ask for it. Mommy and sometimes Gimpers are sitting waiting in the driveway for us when we come home from work, and meow till we feed them, thanking us for any handouts.
One time though, I was having a lovely time working in the garden on a hot day. I went over to prune a rosebush, when I saw out of the corner of my eye, one of the cats near their bowl. I naturally started to make some little mewing noise as I turned toward it, and discovered a small skunk eating the cat food! As quietly as  I could, I tried to close the huge sliding garage door, and at the movement, the skunk ran toward the back yard. I saw that the back door of the garage was open, and prayed that the little critter wouldn't run in there! Luckily I saw it turn the other way and run toward the neighbor's under the fence. Closing up the garage, my heart was beating fast, as I realized how quickly things could change. There I was having an idyllic afternoon, watching butterflies and birds, planting things and pruning bushes, and in an instant, I was afraid that I'd be shot at close range by a skunk's spray! The thought went through my head, "how could I even go into work the next day if I smelled of skunk?" As it is I got off easy without any scent. That's when I learned the lesson of only feeding the cats a little bit in their bowl, and only when they're there to eat it.

Current Cats, Chapter 1

When my kids were home we had, at one point, 1 dog, 2 cats, 2 parakeets, 1 dove, a cherry-headed conure, a dozen goldfish and 4 adult and 19 baby bunnies. The cats, the dog and the birds left their residue throughout the house. Everyone who came to our house left with fur on their black pants, and sometimes a feather on their shoulder.
Over time, the kids moved out, the pets passed on, the bunnies were sold to nice families, and I became pet-free! I discovered it was kind of nice to not have to turn on the light in the hall to be able to navigate over the possible messes on the way to the kitchen in the middle of the night. I could walk into my home without sniffing to check if one of the cats had peed in the heater vent. Friends didn't mention it, but I know they probably appreciated it when they left our house sans fur on their clothes.
Nevertheless, I miss sitting with a kitty on my lap, stroking it's head, or having my darling collie, Lillian, look at me soulfully with her head on my knee. When I'm out and about lately, I am drawn to most animals that I come across.and love to pet them. It's my pet fix, I say, and the dog's owners never mind, in fact they love it! They love sharing their joy!
This wasn't exactly on topic, was it? ....the situation I have now, is no indoor pets. A few years ago, my husband and I decided not to adopt any more pets, since we like to travel. So.....one of the neighborhood feral cats started to come around and we began buying food for it, but didn't let it come in. Actually, one time it sauntered in the door, and when it realized it was inside, it ran around the living room frantically, via the mantel and the drapes. We figured she wasn't a candidate for domestication. A few months later, I discovered a couple of kittens coming from a tiny opening in the side of the garage. She had had a whole litter of kittens in our garage, and we never even knew it! (Well, we hadn't used the garage for much more than storage for a couple of months).
That was the day that we decided we should try to get the mama cat fixed. (Later the kitties were found homes.)
We went on the web and found out how to capture a cat in a "have-a-heart" trap. We bought one, (a huge version of the one for mice), read the instructions and followed them to the letter just to see how it worked. Then we went inside the house. We weren't actually ready to to capture a cat that night, since we were about to leave for the weekend. It suddenly dawned on us that we shouldn't have left the trap set. Looking out the window, we saw the gray and white mama cat sitting in our trap!
It was 4 p.m. on a Friday and we tried calling all the cat rescue places we had gotten advice from, but all of them had rules like "capture the cat on the 3rd Saturday of the month and bring it in for the lottery at 7 a.m. to see if we have time to spay it."
Meanwhile, the cat was howling, backed into the corner of the cage, her fearful eyes accented by the white peak of fur between them.
Finally a vet's office in San Pablo said they were about to close, but they would spay her for $75. if we could bring her now and leave her overnight. They agreed to keep her till Monday when we came home from camping.
After being out of cell phone range for the weekend, we turned on our phone and listened to messages. The vet's office had called several times to tell us that the cat had already been fixed, which they could tell by it's notched ear, and it was a male! We had absconded with someone's cat for the weekend, and almost had it undergo surgery! As we sheepishly appologized to them, they thought it was funny, and didn't even charge us for the room and board.
Darned if that cat didn't look like our mama cat! Well maybe the white peak wasn't quite as big as hers...
When we brought the cage up to the yard and opened it, I never saw a cat run so fast. Mama cat, however, looked up at us from next to her empty bowl and meowed.

Ode To My Mom

They each look a little like my mother, standing there in the grocery store. The checkers in the store used to call the sisters shopping togethe,r "The Three Musketeers", but now there's only two.
Auntie Harriett is making out her check in advance, leaning the checkbook on the handle of the shopping cart. I guess she wants to be prepared.
I shuffle over to them saying, "Ooh.... look who I see!", and push my cart to the side to be on the receiving end of the inevitable warm embraces.
Auntie Harriett say lustily in my ear, "Give me a smacker!", as she lands a kiss on my cheek. Her hugs last about 4 seconds longer than anyone else's, but they're always welcome. She looks over her glasses at me and smiles, saying, "Just let me finish writing my name!", and goes back to focusing on her checkbook.
Auntie Dot takes her turn at at a hug and kiss after she walks down the aisle toward me with containers of Comet and SOS in each hand. I smell the familiar scent of Shalimar. "You look so good!" she enthuses, and I know she means it. She looks at me through her glasses, that make her eyes look so big. Dot or "Sister", as Mama always called her, looks most like my mother, especially now in the old age. Both sisters had little expressions that reminded me of her today, without even knowing, like a gift.
I miss Mom. I miss the person she was before the last years of confusion and frailty.
She was smart, caring, talented, and a shrewd businesswoman. Mama knew her real estate, made investments, paid her own bills, and made time to care for others, really care, by volunteering to spend time with them.
She always had special relationships with her grandchildren at her house where they always knew the candy jar would be full.
I miss hearing her play the piano.
On a hot day, she would always dry her hair outside in the sun. She sat in the backyard on the picnic table that Daddy made, rubbing her hair with a towel. She thought maybe the birds would find strands of her hair and work them into their nests.
I miss watching her toss crusts of bread out to the birds, and the thrill that you knew she got from watching those little birds. Guess I inherited that from her.
I miss seeing her cook in her own kitchen for all of us with her apron on, usually doing it all herself.
I miss her little poems, her paintings, her neat handwriting, her soft hair and her understanding spirit.
I miss her naive "oo-oo "sound that she'd make when she got excited about something.
I miss you, Mama. I know you knew I would.

staycation in half moon bay/pacifica

On a whim, we decided to pack up a few necessities, and head for Half Moon Bay, CA. It's only an hour from where we live, and it's one of our favorite haunts, so I thought I'd share some of the best parts of the area.
This was such a spontaneous trip that my husband was calling for a reservation on his cell phone while I drove. Our first choice was booked up on such short notice, but it's a place that I'd like to tell about. It's the Cypress Inn, one of the Inns-by-the-Sea group, We always feel pampered at any of these inns, but this one is unique in that it's on the Pacific Coast Trail, right on the shore. One day last year we even rented a bicycle at Bikeworks in Half Moon Bay, and rode them kind of shakily (I admit) down to the trail and then to the Cypress Inn. .....  That Place! Most rooms have nice views, a fireplace, and everyone comes down to the common area for hot hors d'oeurves and wine at 5:00 or so, and then the innkeeper makes a fancy cobbler or other dessert to have at 7:00 pm. Then...in the morning you can sit in your little white robes and be served breakfast on a cute little cart that's wheeled into your room.  This is all included for the price of the room, which is lower in the fall/winter time period.
Anyway, since that wasn't available, we stopped sooner, at Rockaway Beach. We found the BestWestern, which had just taken over and started to remodel a hotel right on the shore. It was Saturday night, so the price wasn't as low as we'd like, but they lowered it 50 bucks for the second night. Most of the rooms have views of the sea, and ours reminded us of Bodega Head, with the cliffs and beach in our sight. 
The old restaurant, Nick's, is across the street, and we headed over there on Saturday night. There was a lively atmosphere with people dancing to a band, and  we sat at the bar to have a drink. The dining room is old-style with booths, and we really enjoyed the coquilles st jacque, something I've always wanted to try, a dish with scallops, mushrooms, and garlic sauteed in wine and then baked with mashed potatoes and cheese. Yum!
The next night was Sunday, and when we went in to Nick's, it was kind of dark, except for a banquet that was going on. We ventured in to the quiet, empty bar and found out that the band only plays on Friday and Saturday nights, and it was a lot less busy. We ended up just sharing a crab sandwich at the bar and visiting with the bartender. He's worked for this Greek family for years, and Nick was the son of the original Greek immigrant. What luck he had in getting this beautiful place on the California shoreline!
Back to the trip. If you're a bargain hunter, a good reason to come to Half Moon Bay, is to check out Twice As Nice, a booming seconds business that has 3 stores in the strip mall at the corner of Hiway 92 and Main St. They receive seconds from Costco and other stores and I'm sure lots of people make it a point to check out their bargains every week.
The next place to look at is Tokenz, on Main St., a fun shop that we make sure we at least go to once a year. I always seem to end up with some nice earrings or a ring, or handcrafted hair clip, but mostly we know we can get hand-dipped candles for our advent wreath. It's harder that you would think to find 3 purple and one pink candle in December. Catholics need them for their Advent wreaths and none of the candle manufacturers have figured it out. Even the owner of Tokenz just happens to have all the colors of the rainbow all the time. Now she knows that she should stock up on purple and pink in the fall.
Lunch is found next door, at McCoffee, where we shared a tasty turkey sandwich on a rosemary roll, and a nice strong cup of coffee, which we lacked at our breakfast at the hotel.
Across the street, you can round off the afternoon with a frozen yogurt at Nano's Yogurt Shack.
On the way out of town, a must stop for thrift shop fans is the Senior Coastsiders Thriftshop. We can almost always find something great there.
Depending on what time of year you go to Half Moon Bay, you can pick up a pumpkin or a Christmas tree or stop at one of the nurseries on the way out of town on Hiway 92. All this, and it's only an hour away from the Bay Area.

My Fifteen Minutes of Fame

My Dad, William James Reilly, was the last of his line, and the last male to pass on the Reilly name. I was his youngest child, the fourth daughter, and always felt that I'd like to keep the name going. It's always been a name I've used as part of my "pen" name when writing for a magazine, for the local newspaper, and even when I wrote little stories for the family.
About 10 years ago, I met my husband to be, and wanted to introduce him to my favorite old haunt, Capitola. We took a day trip from the bay area, and I showed him all around the little town, the beach, the picturesque Venetian Court, and  had lunch at the Paradise Grill by the river. We ended up driving past the house on McCormick Ave that used to be owned my my Grandma "Diddo", a place that had so many memories for my family. My family had spent several vacations when I was young, at what I knew as The Greenhouse (it was always painted green, usually by my father while on vacation).
I slowed the car as we went by, pointing out different parts of the property, when a man who was washing his car in the driveway asked if we needed help. After telling him that this used to be my Grandma Reilly's place, he said, "Are you Pat Reilly Romer by any chance?"
Surprised, I said, "yes, sometimes I go by that." It turns out that he had found a copy of a story I wrote about life in Capitola in 1960, called Capitola Days, in the house when he bought it. He delighted me by inviting us in for a tour of the renovated house, and even asked me to autograph the book!
We then went out the back door and I spotted the wonderful Santa Rosa plum tree that was still there producing luscious fruit. He led us through a space in the hedge and we were in front of a little cottage that my Dad had helped to build. He said "just a minute", as he walked up to knock on the door. A woman answered, and he said, "Loren, guess who this is! It's Pat Reilly Romer!"
She opened the screen door and grabbed my hand to shake it, saying, "You mean from Capitola Days?"
I stood dumbfounded, shaking hands with this stranger who knew my name.
To this day, every time we go Capitola, we do all the same things....go to the beach, eat in the same place, and drive by the house recounting the story. I must say, there really is something wonderful about your very own "fifteen minutes of fame."

The Ceramics Teacher

Another one from the archives. Circa 2000.

You might say my ceramics teacher is strict. A studio potter herself, she always gives you the feeling that her pottery class is not for hobbyists. It is very serious and rules should be obeyed. Grades are recorded and attendance is kept. It is a college course after all. But a smile from her and a comment such as "such a sweet pot" is the grade itself.
You see potters all around you, masters, you think, yet trying very hard to perfect their skills. they sit in rapt attention, taking notes and making drawings as their mentor spins balls of clay into fantastic yet functional forms. They shake their heads in wonder as the grey stuff obeys the nuances of her hands.
As she goes through the motions she's repeated so often, beginning and advanced students alike are enthralled by the magic that seems to be happening in front of them. "Use the weight of your body", "keep your wrists down",  and "make your fingers like a paw", she says with just a touch of a Tennessee accent. You'll hear all that when you're ready, perhaps one pearl of wisdom at a time.....maybe after you've made your 20th lopsided bowl or your 40th thick-bottomed cylinder,
You repeat your mistakes and finally decide to do as she suggests and cut through the darned things and you see the problem. The wall of the pot is noticeably thicker at the bottom, thinner at the top. So THAT'S why my 85 year old mother had trouble lifting her beloved coffee cup! Help me, help me to figure this out....to bring the clay up from the bottom!
So you throw and cut and throw and cut with a passion! You have a semester that you think you won't have very much to show for, but you're better, you know it...  There was that time she talked you through a pull and you actually felt the lump ride up the side of the pot. It was like a religious experience. "I feel the lump!",  you cried.
The benefit of being in a class setting, is that right after you figured this out, like a chain reaction, the person next to you, after watching your struggles, follows the same instructions. With the teacher guiding her, she holds her hands in just the right way and feels that, at least for this moment, she's doing something right. The excitement built as we watched the bump of clay climb up the side of her cylinder. The pot grew taller and she carefully finished off the top rim and pulled away gently. The joy on her face was infectious. She looked up at the teacher and the gathered students and said, "I felt it! I felt the lump!"  Somebody in the room said "Hallelujah".    

(This was written about Mary Law, a studio potter in Berkeley, California)

Zen Garden/ Litter Box

This story is from what I'll call "The Archives". It was written in 2000.

I've always wanted a Zen Garden. They are flat, rectangular ceramic pots filled with sand. I've seen rocks, a bonzai plant, shells and little animal figures arranged in them, and then the sand is raked into designs around them with a special miniature rake. It looks so peaceful. My plans for simplicity and serenity in 1999 included  one of these, but I decided against one because I have two cats.
These cats have never seen a litter box, but I figure they would at least find time to dig in the sand. They've been showing their years lately and one of them, (no one has ever been caught in the act), has started peeing in the heater duct. I've been advised repeatedly to get a litter box, but I hate the smell and the litter scattered on the floor. After coming into the house on a cold evening and turning on the heater, the odor made me run for the disinfectant and paper towels. One too many times on my knees deodorizing the vents, and I threw in the towel and purchased a litter box, the new clumping litter, pan liners and a scoop.
I filled it and placed it in my upstairs bathroom. To show one cat how interesting it might be, I closed her in the room with me, knelt down, and encouraged her to join me in digging. She sat by the door with her back to me. I lifted her into the box. She sneezed, jumped out, gave me a dirty look, and shook the litter off her paws all over the floor. I swept it up and decided to give it time.
My next time in the bathroom, as I sat gazing across the room at the box, I thought the litter looked kind of hilly. I didn't remember leaving it like that. Turns out one of the cats had figured out what it was for......Now, how did she know? Is there something in kitty litter that encourages them to use it? Have they been unfaithful to me and gone to someone else's house and used their box? Sure enough, it had clumped and I cleaned it out with the scooper.
Then I felt I should arrange the litter nicely so I could tell the next time the cats used it. I dragged the back of the slotted scooper over the litter and it made indefinite lines,.....not unlike the ridges left in the sand at the edge of a stream....
Perhaps I should invest in a little wooden rake. Maybe not. But still, a small rice paper screen and some incense would make that corner of the room more esthetically pleasing, if not for the cats, for me.