Candles and Cats

What other profession, tell me, anticipates being closed by weather and has created a whole mythology surrounding it?  Like a Rain Dance, a wish on a star, or as my Mom taught me, lick your thumb and twist it into your opposite palm, making a wish when the first robin is seen.  School teachers have rituals to bring on the snow or subzero cold here in Buffalo, New York; this allows a day off, there are 4 built into the school calendar for such emergencies.

But what do you do?  Travel bans are usually placed, advisories listed, sections of thruways closed, shops closed, banks, courts, and metro bus service limited.  You stay out of the way so the emergency crews can dig out, get folks to hospital, put out fires. This situation does not generally allow errands to be performed, or haircuts, or going to lunch with friends.  You are in the house, and are expected to amuse not only yourself, but any family members home with you while making lunch and dinner with whatever you brought into the house before the storm hit.

If you aren't lucky to have stopped at the grocery previously, you get to dig the back caverns of the cupboards, looking for cans of what?  Grey green beans?  Lychees?  Molasses--where the heck did that come from?  Check expiration dates so as not to poison anyone.  Break down and bake bread, follow a salt-rising recipe if no yeast is growing in regions relegated to the refrigerator.  Cookies.   Hope to heavens that you have enough pet food, toilet paper, and Get Candles.  More on that later, back to the teacher thing.

Yes, we dance when there is a snow day, yes we wear pajamas inside out, put spoons in the freezer, and a toothbrush under our pillows.  No, I don't know how that got figured, and there are many I have missed, but these are the mainstays.  This all comes down to spending precious time with our families, reading a book not connected to curriculum, maybe getting ahead with lesson plans, building, painting, communicating; things that we don't get to do normally.

A teacher's weekend whips by faster than an express train.  Saturday is mostly errands, figure out dinner, get things around the house vacuumed, cleaned, laundered.  Maybe you work a second job. Sunday is school work day, the ubiquitous lesson plans, divining homework papers, mayyybe a visit or a movie but probably not, for you are exhausted by the demands of the career, and are pulled like a wishbone with family desires and responsibilities.

I guarantee you, we are not lounging on the chaise eating bonbons while watching the dog show, we are worried about everything.  Teachers are worriers.  Did this kid get it?  How do we know the kid got it?  Did I differentiate enough, list objectives, state the instructional shifts, work with the bubble kids, do restorative circles, follow the CHAMPS protocol, is that kid all right, who needs mittens, who needs support, who needs structure, and observations are taking place where administration comes into your room with a checklist to see if you touch all bases and get rated highly efficient, efficient, developing, or, you poor mess with a master's degree, who let you into the building?

No wonder the mythology surrounding blowing snow exists.  Truth be told, I don't know a teacher who doesn't wonder if their students are warm, having a meal, or are being taken care of.  It's what we do, it's why this country gets away with the unusually low rate of pay; we don't complain.  We just do the job, heavens forbid if we react to the fact that we have an average of 8 years of education in order to be certified, we incur incredible loans, and sometimes have desks thrown at us by angry kids.  Oh, and now we practice "Shelter in Place" and "Code Lockdown" in case of a shooter.  Somewhat different than crouching under your desk to save you from an atomic blast.  Just as scary, though.

Snow days relieve a lot of job stress, shoveling off the house roof is actually soothing in comparison. So we dance.  Who else does?  For 8 years of college, I could be a Physician's Assistant.  I could be a dentist, making two to three times what I do.  Any number of money making careers take less time, but here we are, short staffed, short on supplies (we buy most of ours), short on salary.  Because we love what we do in spite of the rate of burn-out.  No lie, when you see a retired teacher, they look five years younger and have a healthy flush to their face.  So bring on the blustering winds, the snows that grind the city to a halt.  Help out the people that work through a blizzard by shoveling, offering a hot drink, staying off the road.

This is the second subzero freeze in January; the first one, this apartment complex had little heat until two days into it.  This second one began well, but since the population is mostly hunkered down and in residence, again the heat and hot water are dwindling in temperature.  Sure, put on a sweater, but other remedies include tea lights and cats.  Or a big dog.

The cats call a truce, mostly, when the cold slithers into the cracks, and sleep in closer proximity or try to pile onto my lap.  The lap business is nice, but getting up for tea, a pencil, or bathroom foments disruption which includes swats and name-calling.  Candles are quieter, but you still have to keep an eye on them...an up-ended terra cotta pot over a tea light will hold the heat and radiate it outwards, heating a smallish room.  Still, watch the thing, place on a non-flammable surface.

Back in the fifties, no one thought of lighting a candle for decor, except for formal dinner or Catholic bothering some saint; that burning candle business began in the later sixties, perhaps to cover the amount of marijuana being ignited?  These days, the candles have come a long way from the 25¢ paraffin emergency pack from the hardware, now they are scented, in jars, and are given foofy-foo names that would have us 50's kids rolling like squirrels in acorns. Harvest Whimsy.  Rain Fairy.  Sentient Forest.  Calm Down.  How about Burning Pumpkin, Help My Hair's On Fire From Leaning Over The Cake, or Spill Your Vodka Drink On The Decorative Candle While Wrapping Christmas Presents And Setting the Paper On Fire From The Alcohol Merry Christmas The Building Is Now On Fire, Too.  That last one actually happened.  Second floor, smoke damage traveled up the stairwells, water damage from the fire hoses demolished the apartment below.

I have a pile of blankets and comforters on the bed layered like a 4-foot tall lasagna.  Got rid of the polyester sheets which were horrid to sleep on, and purchased cotton, which is a dream.  I am ready for whatever heating emergency occurs, within reason, and am armed with a stock of pillar candles from IKEA and Walmart.  And cats.  Four.  The blizzard blotted out the sun--even though there are now 30 minutes longer of daylight this end of January, you couldn't tell when day became night; the city sounds were quieted by the snow, and one could be lulled to sleep by the rocking of spinning tires down on the street.

Sleep tonight, I will be turning in early, no news if the streets will be clear enough for buses, or if the temp will be considered safe for students to be in.  Last night, I dreamt of white envelopes; they were discards, and I retrieved them from recycling.  Dreamland is strange, mostly disjointed for me; no predictions or solutions, just moving pictures seemingly not connected.  Some are repetitive; the Chinese restaurant while a tornado is flying outside, the Easter candy shop on a path in the woods,  taking a 1950 Hudson to the mechanics, replacing wooden floors in my old house.  Not one twitchet of sense in that, but never mind.  You dream, dream of warmer days and warm hearts.  Of summer grass that releases that grassy smell as your feet run, as the sun goes down and twilight begins, when you try to squeeze that last moment to extend into another universe where you know you are wanted. Sleep, dear hearts.

Captain Banana Peel

Fresh sheets and the sandman had first led to quiet dreams, then at morning Kai cat was still on my pillow; oh, precious weekend! But phantom dozing fingers of forgotten thoughts ended when the black planet Roscoe crashed in, nailing poor Kai, followed by his proceeding to chomp her head.  I had shook the blankets, which trampolined him towards the end of the annoyed bed, if a bed had opinions. Blankets that had once been layered wool on wool, scratchy grandmother blankets that were meant for cold nights, were now willy-nilly. 

He reconnoitered with intent on harrying her tail, but enough was enough in Blanketland, which was fast becoming the Pile of Random Ideas. Sorta covers. A garage sale pile of linens. I grabbed him with two hands to redirect his plan, and Roscoe let loose with the worst cat fart ever.  The aroma--a miasma that hung in the air like a viscid Borealis made of Ice Age pony meat--stayed, toadish and doughy, and I thrashed, thrashed blankets, black cat, pillows and remnants of wishes into a mass of agitation. WHAT was that?  What on earth did that cat eat?  It was time to get up and tend to cat food, which was someone's idea all along.

They all lucked out as there were no more cans of mouse loaf, so chunky tuna was decanned onto the plate, yippee yippee. Happy tails, truces, and promotions for all.

The next day while sitting at the table, I noticed Mr. Business fiddling with something on the floor; let me see what it is.  He kept his head down but raised his eyebrows, as if cats have eyebrows, grabbed the thing and ran down the hallway, defiant.  He made it to the water dish, dropped the treasure in and sat; I  fished the item out in spite of his trying to paw my hand away while watching the water turn blue.  It was a roll of small Tibetan flags that I had bought from the incense store; they now hang from the bathroom mirror drip drying, where only if he grows wings will he retrieve it.

He mouths and steals, part crow, part terrier, part trebuchet.  I found one of the gongs' hard rubber mallets chewed in half; there was a missing phone cord snickered under a pillow, and lastly, the grocery list left on the counter had been delicately shredded into diminutive bits.  He hides my socks, nicks earrings, steals paper money, only sometimes returns it.  Twenny bucks, gone but restored 4 days later near the water dish with a stolen fabric rosebud.  He has his touches. A cherry cough drop was added to the water dish, turning it vivid pink.  

I moved the couch in anticipation of the incoming television; Roscoe was helping, curious, everything he does is a first time for him as he is still a baby at 7 months, 2 weeks old and a solid 12 pounds. The couch is now against a wall, forming a cat conduit behind it. 

My friend took off his shoes, putting them in the hall while we visited. When it was time to go, he went to retrieve his footwear; I heard him say, "There's only one shoe." What? "There's only one shoe, it must have been the cat..."  Oh good lord. A bit of a scurry happened before he found it behind the couch amid a pile of cat toys, no denying that it was Crazy Guggenheim at work. Roscoe would drag home a two-door car if I let him outside.

It's been awhile since relating this story, for Roscoe is now 15 pounds and living up to his namesake in size, Mr. Roscoe Arbuckle.  The feathered thing on the end of a fishing pole contraption stirred sabertooth instincts, causing great leaps and once caught, growls of possession.  I couldn't figure what the hissing was about, but finally sensed that he held the line responsible for taking his prey away, and thus hated that string with the intensity of a drunk swinging at the air.  He had hissed before, but the snarls set me back a little. Ooo, nize keddy. Mama gunna tell you a story if you it up the tuna fitch and brink her the dollah off the table you stole. Nu?

Outside the snow had started.

I don't think downtown got as much of the storm that inland areas did, the winds from the Lake usually blow falling snow towards the east.  Yet it is bitter cold today, with predictions of a low pressure system set up by the Canadian Rockies, an Alberta Clipper, which will create severely frigid air to hang over the city tomorrow morning. 

Last night, there was to be a spectacle around midnight, the Super Blood Wolf Moon plus a total lunar eclipse, which is enough to set off a month of New Age hooha.  'Blood' because sunlight still hits the moon a bit, but is bent towards the red spectrum by Earth's atmosphere; each month's full moon usually has a Native name, and January's is Wolf.  Super because the perigee is about 16,000 miles closer than usual.  Moon is simply moon.  Wolf, Snow,Worm, Pink, Flower, Strawberry, Buck, Sturgeon, Harvest, Hunter's, Beaver, and Cold.  There you have it, some science, some myth; a balanced almanac.

I am searching for slippers, perhaps Roscoe's cache should be investigated; right now he is speaking in tongues at the string attached to the feather toy, for tiring him out is a good thing.  The day stretches on, we have gained about 25 minutes since winter solstice, and it is well appreciated.  The blankets are orderly once again, layers of wool and cotton and pillows are smoothed; this bleak, hibernal night will arrive clear with the vault of heaven cloudless and open, hence providing the day's gathered heat an escape into the sky.  Morning could present us with 10 to 20 below zero.

Get ready for sleeping well and warm, count your kids, cats, and dogs; find gloves, find scarves, ready the pot for morning tea, get out the thermos; all before the evening origami of folding yourself under the covers, and thank whomever you like for this blessing of night.   Dream, remember; I will not forget you.