The Desistance of Memory

The two of them have been  customers at my shop for many years now.  Lately, though, the husband has been bringing in a lot of memorabilia to frame for his wife - published articles about her life experiences, certificates of commendation, old photographs.  I had not seen her in a long time.  Several months ago when I called to tell him his last order was finished, she answered the phone, and she seemed confused - she did not recognize the name of my shop at all - but she handed him the phone and he came in straight away to retrieve his framing.

They came in together yesterday afternoon.  He is recently retired from a lengthy military career, she was in education.  They have been married for over forty years.  Onto my counter he placed a couple of newsletters which had articles about her teaching mission in a remote Alaskan Eskimo settlement in the early seventies.  She strolled over to the workbench, looked at the articles and said, "Why - that's me!  Where did you find those?"  She is a tall, slender and beautiful woman with curly white hair, bright blue eyes, and an easy  smile.  He is the quiet, gentle, salt-of-the-earth type (like my dad). She commented that she had forgotten all about those articles.

We had a pleasant chat about the quirks of memory and I told them that I always keep a scrap of paper in my back pocket with "my list" on it.  I told her if I complete a task that I have forgotten to write down - I write it down anyway and cross it off, just for the satisfaction of crossing something off the list.  She laughed.

We wished each other a happy Easter and he handed me his business card so I did not have to hunt for his phone number to call when the order was ready.  As they were leaving he slipped a second card into my hand.  I did not look at it until after they had driven away;  when I did read it, my heart sank.

It is only natural that the public tends to associate picture framing with art.  Sure, we frame oil paintings, watercolors, ink drawings, pencil drawings, pastels, needle art,  photographs and posters. We also frame diplomas and sports jerseys, medals and score cards.  But the most important job of our profession is to present and preserve memories.  It is my hope that these and other framing projects will help this lovely woman hang onto her memories a bit longer. 

Cats and Tats

One afternoon I was sitting in the waiting room at my vet's office, waiting to pick up a prescription.  A young punk-looking couple came in with a small cardboard carrier.  This couple was dressed all in black - T-shirts, jeans, boots, and they were covered in piercings and colorful tattoos, with red/black/blond hair.  The young man especially caught my eye.  He had beautifully drawn and brilliantly inked tattoos extending up from his wrists and disappearing under his T-shirt sleeves, and he was both massive and solid.  They sat next to me on the bench with the carrier on the young man's knee.

The carrier was so small I thought it must contain a pet rat but suddenly little mews and scratching noises came from the carrier and two little pink noses pressed through the air holes.  The young man opened up the carrier and brought out two tiny perfect pure white kittens.  The kittens were very young and they were wide-eyed and squirming, so he placed one on each knee, holding them firmly in his huge hands as he waited for the vet.  What a great photo op - and there I sat with no camera.  I was in agony!

The kittens had their examinations and the young couple had departed before I had my brilliant idea.  I  asked the receptionist for some paper and a pen and I wrote a message to the couple, as I was sure they would be returning for kitten shots, and neuter/spay procedures.  I said something along the lines of "I have been bringing my cats to this vet practice for many years and they know me and can attest that I am not an axe-murderer or anything but I would really like to photograph you and your kittens."  I left my contact information and crossed my fingers.  A few weeks later the young woman phoned me and we made arrangements for me to visit them for a photo shoot.

The kittens had been christened Spirit and Opportunity after the Mars rovers, and I think they were 8-10 weeks old by the time I arrived on their doorstep.  I did not stay too long because the couple were clearly uncomfortable and the kittens were bored stiff and fell asleep before my eyes.  But I did get a couple of nice shots, although I cannot say which kitten was which because they were identical.  

Many thanks to Andrew and Laura for helping me learn a valuable lesson - I now keep my camera with me at all times!

Awake!

Nodding off

Out like a light

 

The Summer of Sam

My first view of him was from the back deck. I heard a sound in the tall grass below, finally spotting the stocky orange tomcat.  He appeared to be trying to stalk prey, but at the same time as he was sneaking through the weeds, he was making odd muttering sounds, which of course announced his presence to any rodents in the vicinity.  He may have been a lousy hunter, but from his size I could tell he was successful beggar.  I later learned that he was being fed by folks from blocks around.

That summer he also became enamored with my Angel, a tough tiger gal.  She was spayed but that did not stop him from following her wherever she went - in the yard, on the deck or up on the roof - but always at a few respectful paces behind.  She would not give him the time of day but he seemed to adore her.  He would never allow me to approach him, though - he vanished if I drew too close to him.

One day I saw that he must have been in a fight; his eye was swollen shut and he looked miserable.  I began to leave food out for him and he chowed down with great gusto.  I could see that his eye was healing but I suspected that he had no sight in it so I continued to feed him.  Every day I crept closer and closer to him until finally worked up the nerve to reach out to touch him.  As my hand patted his rough coat, he fell to the ground, rolling and showing me his belly.  He wanted everything all at once - love, food, pets, love, food!

I wanted to find a name for him but could not come up with anything that seemed to fit him.  As I was falling asleep one night I asked him to come to me in a dream and tell me his name.  Imagine my surprise when he did appear in my dream telling me, "My name is Samson but you can call me Sam."

All summer I fed him and gave him the attention he so dearly craved but then he did not come round for a few days in a row.  As I was growing really worried he staggered into the yard, scruffier than I'd ever seen him and clearly unwell.  He had been in another fight and this time his ear was severely swollen and infected.  I decided that a trip to the vet was in order.  

Hoo boy, this was going to be fun!  This was in the dark ages before they invented cat carriers, back when traveling kitties were traditionally stuffed into pillow cases (leaving their heads sticking out) and all that filled my mind was the unholy terror that Angel turned into when she was in the car or the vet.  She was a tame house cat - how on earth would a wild feral cat behave?  

Granted, he was less than thrilled about the one mile ride to the vet, but once in the examining room Sam amazed us all by sitting there like a stoic meatloaf, right in the middle of the cold stainless steel table.  The expression on his face?  "Well.  At long last I am receiving the professional care that I deserve!"  I am sure his ear must have been quite painful but he never flinched as the vet manipulated and cleaned it.

The vet told me to clean his ear twice a day with peroxide and apply the antibiotic ointment.  Right.  A feral cat, twice a day.  Uh huh.  Sam succeeded in amazing me once again by showing up right on schedule, morning and evening until his course of treatment was finished.  After he was all healed up he more or less disappeared from the neighborhood.  Once in a while I would catch a glimpse of orange muttering through the brush, but I guess my role in his life had been fulfilled.

Sam may never have been able to win his beloved Angel, but I do believe he passed on his orange genes to many generations of tough kitties.  I live only a mile away now (as the crow flies) and there has been a feisty orange tom around here for years and it was almost two years ago that Hari showed up at my back door and said, "Hi!  I am your new kitty!".  Could it be that Hari is a descendant of Sam?  I'll never know.

Sam, 1975

 

Hari, 2012