I collect things I wish I could have once done or once possessed like little mind-trinkets.  Let me explain.  Instead of allowing disappointments and regrets to follow me around like the constant rain cloud over the head of poor old Joe Bfstpik from the famous L’il Abner comic strip by Al Capp, I instead, have a grand a wonderful collection of onces.

Let me explain further.  There was a time when I was Once enrolled and set to begin classes in law school.  It was an exciting time filled with school acceptance, a dog-eared catalog with classes and professor preferences circled and selected.  I was enrolled.  I was ready!  Then I was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  After a while, becoming an attorney became something that was Once on my horizon, but in reality did not and could not occur.

Then there was the time that I was Once going to travel to the South of France to attend a very fancy-schmancy writers conference held in a very romantic setting in an old convent with weeping stone walls and yummy French wines served at every dinner.  The very wondrous and famous Australian movie director, Jane Campion, was to be the Saturday night key-note speaker.  I had visions of walking along hushed hallways with her at my side while she drooled over my book, begging me to let her direct her favorite actress, Holly Hunter, as my main character.  As my hand hovered over my checkbook, ready to give up a sizable chunk of moolah in the off chance that I could wave across the room in the direction of Jane Campion, my cooler head prevailed.

I laugh now that while I was Once going to attend the trip-of-a-lifetime writers conference, in reality, the budget of a simple woman didn’t include such pie-in-the-sky dreamy thoughts.  It still doesn’t.

Of course, my greatest Once was when my children were very little.  They’ve grown now into wonderful, amazing people raising children of their own.  Still, Once they were teeny tiny little children whose brilliance was as bright as the sun flashing on their faces.  They are my grandest and most special Onces and will always be so.

My collection of Onces is eclectic and vast.  I have a wonderful and long list of shiny objects found during window shopping trips that caused ooohs to slip from my lips and make my fingers beg to wave a credit card through the air.  Alas, the credit card obediently stayed in my wallet.  There are trips not taken and experiences undone.  There was that champagne balloon ride, the lifetime dream trip to Ireland, that moonlight train journey, each once considered, but never realized.  There are cities all across the country that make my foot itch to walk their streets and wonder at their sites and sit in their little outdoor cafes and even eat pizza handed out from windows right on the sidewalk.

There was that beautiful hair clip I once wanted so much it made my teeth ache.

Yesterday, I saw a chair in a shop that made me stop dead in my tracks.  It was just a small chair, powder blue with poodles printed on the fabric.  Poodles!  How could I NOT love this poodle chair … and I wanted it and I wanted it and I wanted it.  It didn’t matter that there wasn’t a place to put it or that powder blue would be a color completely out of place in my home filled with its russets and greens and grays.  It was a POODLE CHAIR … and … I.  Wanted.  It.  It carried with it the rationalization that it was not only very, very inexpensive … it made my mouth water.  Right there in that  store filled with little chairs and chotskies and women with more regrets than sense.

But here’s the thing about interrupted educations and unfulfilled experiences and things we must pass by because the inconvenience is greater than the desire:  Long ago I realized that disappointment and regret for not having this or for never doing that — in the end — only serves to make my heart too heavy to carry inside my chest.   Instead of holding onto sadness for things that never were, I know that ONCE there was a magical moment of possibility.

So, someday in the future, I’ll think back to yesterday and I’ll remember that Once I walked by a small, soft blue chair and it made my heart sing and my mouth smile and …  in that shining,  sparkling moment … I gained one more beautiful item to add to my large  Magical Collection of Onces.

On Sundays we would sit side-by-side on a blue couch, our hands bundled together, our foreheads touching in intimate conversation.  For two or three hours, we would chat aimlessly … or rather, I would listen while she wandered in and out of conversation.  Back and forth through time, she would go.  Furrowing her brow with the strain of remembering.  Smiling brightly when she would come to the successful conclusion to a tale of her past.

Usually, there was one single thread that would engage her thoughts and loop circuitously during the course of our visits together.  She would tell me her story and, once told, she would lapse into silence for a while.  Then she would tell me the story … again.

Sometimes she remembered me, often I was a friendly stranger stopping by for “a spell.”  Whether she knew me or not, she always took hold of my hands and pressed her head toward mine.  Then she would tell her story and I would listen like a child begging for it to be told, “just one more time.”  We were generous with each other that way.  Her with telling, me with listening.  Over and over.  Storyteller.  Listener.

On those  occasions when she forgot me, only a momentary puzzlement would cross her face when I called her, Mom.  I was her daughter-in-law and her love for family — even for late-comers like me — was boundless, energetic and uncommon.  If I was bold enough to call her, Mom, then I was okay in her book.

I suspected, though, that whether I felt like family or stranger, it was of no concern.  I was a visitor who, for those few Sunday hours, meant relief to the unrelenting loneliness that rides the back of every Alzheimer’s patient.  The occasion of company was welcome relief.  The hands of  another person — ANY other person — meant blissful companionship and conversation.

Goodbyes always produced a brief spring of tears, soothed only by solemn promises to be back the following Sunday afternoon.  When that next Sunday came, she was always surprised to have company, proclaiming that it had been “forever” since our last visit.

For a person with memory loss, every day contains the repetition of new joys, fresh losses.  Over and over again.  The only constant seems to be a heavy and abiding loneliness.  There was nothing I could do for my mother-in-law that could soothe her chronic sense of isolation, but for a time … for a blessed brief time … we sat side-by-side on a blue couch, holding hands and touching foreheads while she talked of her distant past and tightly held to the generosity of a Sunday visit.

I miss that.

The past few days, I’ve immersed myself into a genealogy project of my own making.  Yes.  Me!  The person who stays so “in the moment” I don’t know what’s for dinner even while I’m cooking it.  Yet, I thought it would be a fun thing to spread it all out before my children and say, “See.  See!  This is why you are so special.”

Inspired by the new TV show on ABC called, Who Do You Think You Are, and a nice introductory offer by Ancestry.com, along with a background and high interest in all things regarding research, I jumped in.  Both feet.  Energetically.  I figured the only difference between the research of my family and that of Brooke Shield’s ancestors is a function of dollars.  She can afford it.  I can’t.

Still, every mother wants her children to know their story.  Every mom who has ever sung Itsy Bitsy Spider to her baby wants him to know which drainpipe he belongs to, the sky from where his rain fell.

And so with nothing more than a few names and dates gathered from a dusty garage box, I started my adventure.

Thanks to Ancestry.com and all those nice folks who let interlopers like me tag onto the research they have already painstakingly done, within three days, this is what I’ve found out about myself:

I’m a Southern Northerner with West Coast, North Eastern roots.  I had lots of illegitimate kids in North Carolina and fought there in the Civil War.  Before that, I lived in an Insane Asylum in Oregon.  I was an original Colonist who fought in the American Revolution.  Obviously, I ate wild turkey, yams and wore a powdered wig.

I am from Canada and Ireland and Scotland and England.  Oh, and some of me from France into England.  I lived in thatched cottages and castles.  I was commoner and King, Lord and Lady, subject and ruler.  I required you to bow.  I genuflected before you.

I stood by you in court when your name was Sir Thomas More because I was a More (or Moore) myself.  I smacked wet clothes on a rock and wailed as my babies died in my arms.   According to the American Genealogical-Biographical Index (AGBI), I am directly descended from SIX Kings of Scotland and, still, I pulled my shawl tighter as the wind came through the chinks in my small cottage.  I pulled up my skirt to cross a puddle and strode across the cloak of my servant.

I died tragically young with a bullet in my head and I lived all the way into my senility.

I am a queen, I am beheaded.

I am a grand, anointed … MUTT.

I am you, I am me.  I am every heartbeat and every breath from as far back as I can find and even farther than that.  I am white and black and brown and yellow.  I am purple.  I am everything and nothing.  I am you.  I am me.

But … Who Are You?  Who, Who … Who Who?????

I’ve recently had a wild desire to do artsy things.  Van Gough things … although I’d keep my ears on the sides of my head.  I found myself in the art store yesterday, pricing canvases, paints, brushes.  An easel.  A palate with a thumb hole and plenty of room for wonderful dollops of paint.  I can nearly smell an oil painting in process.

My father was an artist and worked at his craft every day until Parkinson’s took his steady hand.  Surely, it’s in my blood.  Certainly, turpentine runs in my veins.  Obviously, I’m an art machine!

But have I mentioned I suck at art?  Crayons crumble in my fingers.  Pencils snap.  Bristles inexplicably fall from my brushes.

Nevertheless, I look at pictures — especially abstracts — and think … I could SO do that!  I mean, how hard can it be when an elephant paints a masterpiece by swishing a paint-dipped tail over a canvas?  Monkeys swirl fingerpaints over some newsprint and voila! a masterpiece worth thousands.

Really, how hard can it be?

Then I found this photo of a cake frosted like Van Gogh’s Starry Night and I’m altogether humbled by the genius of such art.  I mean a CAKE, for heavens sake.  How do people think of these things?

Maybe instead of a slight fortune in painting supplies, I could instead open a simple box of Betty Crocker cake mix and create a masterpiece of sugary confection.  I’m thinking a Red Velvet Renoir … or a Mocha Monet.  A Devils Food da Vinci.  A Pineapple Upside Down Picasso.

I’ll return.  I think I hear a cupcake calling for me to artsify it.

P.S.  If you’d like to see some amazing artwork by my former school chum, Karen Merry, please go here.  I promise you’ll fall in love.  (http://www.karenmerryartist.com/)  Also, in case you’re trying to figure out what to send me as thanks for introducing you to the work of this grand artist … I’d be quite delighted to receive any one of Karen’s magnificent pieces.

Day one: I wake with a niggling little sore throat.  By noon, tonsils have swollen to the size of Rhode Island.  By dinner, I’m thinking this might help me get out of doing dishes.

Day two: The colony has established itself overnight, staking out territories from the Upper Nasals to the Dorsal Islands.  First tiny cough escapes from my mouth.  Hubby is fashioning a life raft out of wine glasses and duct tape.

Day three: Saturday and the infadel invaders have lit fires throughout my lungs.

Day four: Sunday.  I hear drumming coming from the inner reaches of the ear canals.  The invaders must be encamped along the canals and signaling to one another, those beasts.  I can do nothing but wait upon the morrow when I shall consult the village wise man.  I only hope I survive the night and that horrid drum, drum, drumming.  In the meantime, America’s historic Health Care bill passes and I celebrate by coughing up a lung.

Day five: All is lost.  The village magician can do nothing but offer a pinkish elixir … only after I pay him a hundred shiny pebbles, one goat and my fattest chicken.

Day six: I console myself with cookies.  Lots of cookies.

Day seven: I wait.  For what horror, I don’t know, but the siege of the infidels is nearly too much to bear.  Even building a couch fort of blankets and Kleenex doesn’t help.  The invaders continue to mount their offense, now taking my voice so I can’t even whisper my protestations.

Day eight: I continue to wait, but now I’ve discovered the healing properties of potato chips.  According to the witch doctor’s pronouncement over me, I only need to hold out for six more days.  I’ll let you know how that works out.  In the meantime, I’ve sent out for more potato chips and … ICE CREAM!!!

Stay well out there, my friends.  If the invaders should strike, however, remember … cookies, potato chips and ice cream are the only defensive weapons that seem to have any effect.  Good luck!

This totally makes up for all those nights I sat with my father at the dining table crying, “But I don’t get it.” I still don’t understand math and, at this point, I probably never will. But this beautiful video makes the subject seem so very elegant and important.

It makes me want to practice my times tables again.

(For those who have trouble viewing the video, you can find it here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkGeOWYOFoA&feature=player_embedded)

Unfortunately, I can’t upload an amazing audio slide show I found, but please go here to hear today’s poet: http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/03/21/nyregion/21poet-ss/index.html

Every day after she puts her 7-month old baby to bed, Tina Chang, Brooklyn’s new Poet Laureate, opens the window of her home office so she can hear the sounds of the city, the voices, the arguing men, neighbors sipping wine on their fire escapes. Then she takes up a lined notebook from the 99-cent store and records the world outside her window. Her first lines are often To-Do lists, recipes, simple thoughts. As she writes, though, things happen. Words take over.  Beauty winds its way onto the page containing the poetry she hears from her window.

It’s obviously a pleasure to highlight the magic and grace contained in the work of Ms. Chang.  Here she writes on the birth of her first child:

Birthing a Boy

My child was once a thought and he had

no name, locked in the stall of my making.

The child was housed inside me for a long time,

held still in water, his limbs floating on a screen,

fingerprints intricate as aerial maps.

Yes, here we are:  Catless in Phoenix.

I feel strange.

Before I say anything further, I want to say this … responsible pet ownership is, well, responsible.  And grown-up.  And mature.  And it should be carefully considered before assuming any care for an animal … or even a snake or a gerbil or one of those lizardy things that make me go all shaky and blechy.  Even a worm farm should be thought out to the extreme before making a casual commitment and hauling that stinky box of dirt into your home or office.

Pets aren’t disposable things that you can slip into and out of like a pair of  ill-fitting jeans.  Pets — even worms — have happiness and pain and sadness and joy.  Well, I really don’t know about worms, but still …..

I said all that to say this:  Lavern the Cat is happy.  No, I mean she is really, really happy.  She’s now with a lovely woman and making friends with other cats.  She has her Peeps now.  No dogs.  Just cats and a really cool young woman with a purple hair streak and a smile that makes you need sunglasses around her.

Laverne the Cat is in total love and I couldn’t be happier for her.

From the time Laverne was abandoned in our rental house — until now — it has been an adventure of trial and failure and trial again.  We wanted so much for her to fit in, but the divide between cat and dog was simply too much for her to cross.  I honor her for sticking to her guns in that respect.  She wanted nothing to do with dogs and, in our house, she was required to make that sacrifice.  She couldn’t do that and so we were the wrong house for her.  But now … NOW!!!

In the lingo of pet placement folks, she has found her “forever home.”

Still, I’ve added a No-Pet clause to all future rental agreements.  I’m too sensitive, too thoughtful, too generous to ever go through this again.  I cried.  No, I sobbed!  I felt like I was re-abandoning her.

I LIKED Laverne.  Who wouldn’t like a cat named Laverne?  So, now I have another creature to add to my litany of people, animals and things that are the subject of my nightly prayers.  The list is getting long.  Very long.

Even though Laverne doesn’t live with us any more, I’ll always remember her.  Fondly.  Always.

I suppose I should mention that I’ve abandoned that notion of bringing home a worm farm unless I check it out with the dogs first.  Maybe worms really do have feelings.

I might think about chickens, though.  I’ve always wanted a yard filled with chickens.  What do you think?

If Laverne the Cat were a bird …

Ah, Laverne the Cat … you little minx, you small screaming thing, you …. you ….

To continue with the story of what we are now calling the Year of the Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Cat, perhaps I should provide a recap:

About a year ago, because of the more-than unfavorable real estate climate in Phoenix, Dan and I inadvertently, unexpectedly and much to our displeasure became the owners of two homes — one of which is totally so underwater, we need to put on scuba gear to just drive down its street.  We call it the cutsey house, not because it’s small (it is), but rather, because it’s just a cute little house with a teensy swimming pool in the back yard and a darling little floor plan in a nice little neighborhood.  Rather than referring to it as the “little house” which doesn’t accurately describe its redeeming qualities, we call it the “cutsey house.”

Since we can’t possibly sell the cutsey house, we decided to rent it — at a HUGE monthly loss, I might add — and voila! we became instant landlords with a very nice female tenant and her teenage daughter.  Eight months into our new tenant’s lease, she lost her job and could no longer pay rent.  Kindly, we let her slide for a couple of months while she found another place to live.  A couple of days after she moved out, Dan went over to start the clean-up and painting to spruce it up and restore the house to its original cutseyness.

That’s when we found Laverne.  Inside the house.  Without food.  Without water.  Without her dignity in a very dirty litterbox.

What could we do?  Poor Laverne was such a pitiful sight to behold.  Of course, we ran out and bought a cat carrier, food, fresh litter and, bribing Scarlett the Retriever and Wilson the Labradoodle to be extra nice, we took in Laverne the Cat.

She took one look at the two dogs and, acting very much like the little red bird in the above picture, loudly hissed her total displeasure into their startled faces.   She then took over the entire upstairs and marked her new territory by vomiting a HUGE hairball smack in the middle of the guest bed.  Hairballs soon became a daily occurrence.  Under the bed.  On my special cowhide rug.  On the WHITE couch.  At the top of the landing.  Everywhere!  The Hurt Locker could have been filmed in our upstairs and no one would have noticed the difference.  Hairball IEDs were a clear danger — everywhere.

Then, there was Laverne’s propensity for BITING.  Twice a day, I ventured upstairs to clean the litterbox, make certain her food and water bowls were always freshly filled  … but not before donning some serious protective gear.  She was sweet as pie while I tended to her bowls and tidied her space …  cleaned up her ubiquitous hairballs.  But the moment I was done, she would rush me — teeth bared, leaping, clutching, grabbing, BITING.  Medic!  Medic!

So, here we are today.  Yesterday, Laverne was taken in by a lovely woman who just LOVES cats.  I told her that Laverne bites and the woman merely smiled that her two other cats would take care of that.  Not a problem.  This morning — for the first time in quite a while — my body is unmarked from a fresh bite.  In spite of my guilt for giving Laverne away, I slept well and drank my morning coffee in peace.  I removed all traces of ever having a cat and was able to feel good that Laverne has the chance for companionship and comfort in her new home.

Of course, I called Laverne’s new owner this morning to see how she was getting on.  She’s doing well, the woman said, although the other cats are terrified of her … but boy, no wonder she was grumpy — she coughed up a HUGE hairball.

Perhaps I should offer to give this kind woman my protective gear?

Laverne the Cat, caught like a criminal in the act

Yes, of course … the moment I talk with a lovely woman about how Laverne the Cat won’t come downstairs because there are YUCKY dogs who live downstairs … and the moment the woman says she would LOVE to meet Laverne the Cat … and the moment she adds that she would be VERY interested in providing a dogless home for Laverne … because oh, poor Laverne …..

is the very puzzling moment when Laverne decides to come down from her parapet and join the world, dogs and all.

How do they do that?  How do cats KNOW?

I’m now puzzled and baffled and flummoxed and mostly crazy in the head, even more so than normal.  How in the world do cats KNOW?  This horrid, no good, very awful furball-urping, foot-biting, arm-grabbing, crazy-making cat has decided to become a now and then, semi-functioning member of this no-nonsense, no drama family.

That … that … that Laverne the Cat person found my heart string and now she’s playing it like a moaning violin.  My head is filled with every churchy song I’ve ever sung about kindness and compassion and love-thy-neighborness.  Just for that, I’m going to dress her in doll clothes and make her drink tea out of a plastic teacup.

Oh, how dare … how dare … but then — of course — what else would someone named Laverne do?  Shlameel … Shlamazel …..