Cat Bondage :)

 

 

Many writers have cats. I’m one of them. Still, sometimes, I wish I'd never gotten hooked on the  furry little tyrants when they do things like stand in front of the monitor (butt in your face), or lie on the keyboard, or step on it--unfailingly when you have 5 windows open and are in the middle of filling out some life-and-death form. Or they decide to recline on your forearms while you are typing.

(There's worse pictures, but I spared us.)

 

These boss-you-around-stories are the ones that people who love cats most enjoy telling. They are also the ones that make those who aren’t under the spell of Felis Sylvestris Catus wonder if we’ve lost our collective minds.

Supplication to the Goddess

You are the Great Cat, the avenger of the gods, the judge of words ,the sovereign and governor of the Holy Circle; You are indeed
The Great Cat!

Sometimes as I stand, holding the door watching metaphoric dollar bills fly out into February, I believe this is truly how the cat sees himself. I mean, what could I do that is more important than hold the door for my tiger cat, while he makes up his mind about whether he was, after all, mistaken in his burning desire to go out and harass the winged visitors of the birdfeeder? 

It's still cold and icy out there, even after ten whole minutes inside this boring house... 

Boot in the rear, you think? Well, you could do that, but just as in human relationships, treating a cat with disrespect will only lower you in his estimation. What goes around comes around. The return message will be clear, often written in poop. Back in the '60's, I knew a person who thought he could ignore cleaning the cat box. His cat, of course, soon registered his opinion by pooping upon his most precious possession—an expensive set of headphones, left on the sofa where the “owner” reclined for hours engrossed by the latest rock’n’roll.  Now, that was a perfectly symmetrical revenge.

 

All of us who share sleeping quarters with felines know that while they can be great cuddlers, they can also be disturbing, mostly because they are sticklers for routine. We’ve all slept beyond the cat-appointed time—only to be awakened by claws gently scraping along our face—or, delicately along our eyelids—or, maybe, worst of all—a single claw hooked inside a nostril, an ever-increasing pressure applied in some feline version of the death by a thousand cuts—to speed our sluggish getting up. 

A friend shared yet another story about this same long-ago Siamese -- probably the bossiest of all breeds -- who would noisily climb the door molding in her bedroom and then slowly slide down, creating a sound like chalk on a blackboard, while she lay, pillow over her head, desperately trying to collect a few more seconds of shut eye. This alarm clock behavior is prevalent Saturday/Sunday when cat owning working stiffs are trying to sleep in. In fact, for most of my own 9-5, the cat--using one of the above methods--would awaken me exactly two minutes before the dream-shattering beeping could begin. Maybe they just hated that sound as much as I did.

To end, I'll just say that all of my historical novels have feline characters. With such a lifestyle, How could they not?

 

~~Juliet Waldron

 

 

 

http://www.julietwaldron.com

https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic

http://bookswelove.net/authors/Waldron-Juliet

Sunday Snippets with Ginger Simpson #sundaysnips

This week I'm sharing a little more of my WIP, Sarah's Hope, which I hope to finish this month.  I hope you enjoy it, but remember this is the first, unedited draft:

While she waited for Daniel, she wandered down the hallway..“Mr. Crane?”  Sarah stood in the doorway of her supervisor’s office.  Uneasiness trembled in her voice.

“Yes.”  He turned, brows raised.

“I-I’d like to reconsider my earlier decision if you don’t mind.”

“About taking time off?”  His mouth pulled into a frown.

“Yes.  I’d like to get away for a while, and I’m considering a trip to another country.”

“Another country?”  His voice climbed an octave.  “How long would you be gone?”  He dropped a file onto his desk and crossed his arms across his bulging stomach.

Sarah squared her shoulders. “Since you mentioned hiring someone to fill in for me, I’d like to request a month away.”

The sun shining through the window behind him cast what looked like a halo around his head.  Sarah almost laughed since he was anything but angelic.  “What do you think,” she asked, feigning bravery she didn’t feel.  The man had an intimidating presence—always did.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “I suppose if you need time off, you need time off.  I’ll put in a call and arrange a temporary person.  When do you plan to leave?”

“At once...i-if that’s okay.  I received another threat here at work today, and I’d really like to just disappear for a while.  I don’t plan to let anyone know my destination, so if you don’t mind, I’m not even going to tell you.”

He stiffened.  “Surely you don’t suspect me?”

Sarah shook her head.  “Oh, it's not that, sir.  Not at all, but I figure the fewer people who know my whereabouts, the better.”

Mr. Crane cleared his throat again.  “Well, then enjoy your time away, and I hope the police find whoever is behind all your woes.  I’m sure I’ll get someone in to read while you’re gone.  If not right away, I’ll still have Marie.”  He stared into space and massaged his chin. “Hmmm, maybe I’ll have an assistant editor step into your place.  That would save me some money”

“Right.”  Poor Marie.  She certainly wouldn't be happy to learn she was the sole senior editor, but given the circumstances, she’d understand.  Plus, she knew how cheap the boss was when it came to running the business.

  Sarah wanted to scream at him, but forced kindness to surface.  “Thank you, Mr. Crane. I’ll apprise you of any progress made, and I’ll see you in a month.”

Sarah slunk out of the office before her boss had a chance to reconsider his moment of niceness.  She glanced at her wristwatch—quitting time. Marie must surely be wondering where Sarah was.

Watch for the completed novel coming from Books We Love and appearing on my Amazon page.

Now hop on over to the following blogs and check out their offerings:

http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)

http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)

GODS AND GROUNDHOGS

 

A Groundhog Day teaching 

 

In various traditions the beginning of February contains: Candlemas, Imbolc, St. Brigid’s Day and/or The Feast of the Purification of The Virgin. Chinese New Year, which sometimes coincides, is a little late in 2016, because that observance is tied to the arrival of the new moon. Therefore, on February 8^th, we will enter The Year of the Red Monkey.  (Look out below.)

 

Here, however, in my neck of the woods, this festival celebrating our sun's big Northern Hemisphere Comeback is about the groundhog and whether he/she sees (or doesn’t see) his/her shadow, either predicting the dreaded six more weeks of winter or an early spring. This year her prognostication will (we pray) be for an early spring. Weather World from the Penn State Department of Meteorology has just forecast of a "Groundhog Heat Wave,” for it’s supposed to be a sultry 46 degrees on Tuesday. If Punxsutawney is overcast and shadowless, there will be an early spring. Whatever happens, this warming trend should help melt the snow left after our recent humdinger Nor’easter, which dumped 30 inches of the fluffy white stuff.

 

 

Credit: Steven Earnshaw, Imbolc Celebration in West Yorkshire

Occurring at the mid point between the shortest day and the spring equinox, this is also one of the ancient “cross-quarter” days. In the middle ages, people hired workers, made contracts and paid debts at these seasonal markers. There were fairs, and a saint's festival in the Christian calendar to mark the occasion and to conceal a pagan past where the sun was a deity and closely observed. We seem in the heart of winter, but actually, if you check times of sunrise and sunset, you’ll see that the days are speedily lengthening.

If you are a sheep farmer, you know that the lambs are here and coming, dropped into an inhospitable world. Other species give birth as well. I’ll never forget watching a calf being born during a February snow storm and finally dropping into a lanky, steaming pile atop frozen mud.

(Happy !#@%* Birthday...)

In fact, the groundhog sticks his head out of the burrow around this time because he's looking for love. He needs locate the nearby ladies and to size up the competition. The young (called pups) will be born later, when there's plenty of yummy green stuff growing.  

 

It is sometimes jokingly asked whether “red or white” goes best with groundhog. You won’t get an answer to the question here, even if my Depression Era Joy of Cooking does explain how to clean, stuff and bake Marmota Monax--but, Lord, I hope things never again grow so dire that I have to!

Although I know they can be a menace to equipment and livestock, I can't help but like them. It's interesting to watch these chubby critters in high summer, roly-poly butts trundling between fields, or standing up, on the lookout, sounding  the shrill warning which gives them the name "Whistlepig." Groundhogs are fierce fighters, to which many a bloody-faced dog of my fifties childhood could attest. They are also dedicated parents and excellent housekeepers, carpeting their dens with leaves, and keeping both a summer den—sometimes tucked under an old barn or shed—and a safer winter den for hibernation, in the woods or in a hedgerow between fields. 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

 

Historical Novels

See them all at:

 

http://www.julietwaldron.com

 

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Snippets with Ginger Simpson #sundaysnips

This week, I'm sharing a little of my best-seller, First Degree Innocence.  This story was inspired by working as a Correctional Officer for a year, and I really took personal issue when a reviewer remarked that the story didn't seem real.  I lived among inmates for 12 hour days, so I know what I wrote is real and believable.

  The following scene is Carrie's experience when she's shown to her own personal cell for the first time.  Oh, and by the way...everyone in jail will tell you that they are innocent.  *lol*  In this case, Carrie really is, the problem:  no one believes her.

Cover by Michelle Lee at BWL

“Welcome to Hell.” A voice came from behind her.

Carrie’s heart jumped into her throat. She jerked around to see a prone form on the bottom bunk and struggled to find her voice. “I… I thought I was alone.”

“No such luck. They prefer to keep the cells full. Sharing space makes serving meals and head counts a lot easier for the coven of witches who work here. My name’s Susanna Crane.” A tall blonde with bright brown eyes and full lips stood and offered her hand, then chuckled. “Oh, sorry, I see you have your arms full. The good news is, it’s nice to have company, and the bad news is you get the top bunk. The bottom one is the only perk around here, and it’s first-come-first-served.” Her pleasant giggle was a welcome sound.

Carrie stood on tiptoes and dumped her issued items on the bare mattress. Marks of age crinkled the cold plastic. In a few ripped places, the cotton filling poked through—like her, it sought escape from a hellish confinement. A quiet chuckle bubbled to her lips until she tried picturing what type of people had slept on the bedding before her. She cringed.

At home, her downy mattress was practically new, still bearing the tags that threatened penalties if they were removed. How ironic. You couldn’t be more law-abiding than that.

She turned back to her cellmate. “Don’t we even get pillows?”

Susanna shook her head. “Not anymore. I hear they used to issue them, but some idiot tried flushing one and backed up the whole sewer system, so now…”

“I don’t think I can sleep without one.”

“You’ll learn.”

“So… we all get punished for what one person did?” Carrie hoped she misunderstood.

“That’s the way it works. It’s an incentive program.”

“Incentive for what?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. I think they expect us to police one another, yet fighting isn’t tolerated. That seems pretty stupid, considering the best way to stop someone from doing something that’s gonna screw us all, is to beat the livin’ shit out of ’em. Go figure.” Susanna’s lips practically disappeared into a thin line.

Carrie was taken aback by Susanna’s language. At first sight, with her shoulder-length hair and big eyes, she looked like the all-American girl. The one you’d find in church or at the Red Cross. Carrie figured her for twenty-five at the most. She glanced around the cell, pondering Susanna’s last statement.

“I’m not sure I understand. How can they expect us to prevent things from happening if we’re all separately caged… like animals?”

“Oh, we get recreation time… a whopping two hours a day. You’ll love it. You get to socialize with the cream of the crop.” Susanna’s voice held a teasing tone, as she sat back on her bunk, pulled out a netted laundry bag and held it in the air.

“Here’s the answer to your pillow.” She plumped the contents. “Just add your clean clothes and, voila!” She ducked her head, plopping onto her back, and rested against her makeshift cushion. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get some sleep. I work in the kitchen and have to get up at three a.m.” She pulled her scratchy woolen blanket up and rolled to face the wall, leaving Carrie with questions still begging for answers.

Susanna glanced over her shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

Carrie massaged the headache looming above one eye. “Carrie…Carrie Lang. Good night.”

An eerie silence filled the cell. She glanced at the top bunk, knowing sleep would be elusive. The sleeping accommodations offered no appeal, and her mind raced far too fast to rest. She glanced around, taking in the harsh reality of her new home. Tears clouded her vision and frustration gnawed at her gut. This had to be a nightmare, the worst in all her twenty-four years. She prayed someone would wake her soon.

http://amzn.com/B004A90CXM

Now...hope on over to my friends' sites and see what they are offering this week.

http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)

http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)

MOZART AND THE WRITERS

Written a very long time ago, but something to say on the occasion of another  notable January Birthday, that of Wolfgang A. Mozart, a fellow I liked so well he appears in three of my books.

Mozart sends telepathic messages!

 

I saw this headline in the '90's, in one of those papers where Bill Clinton could be seen  shaking hands with a friendly alien.

 

As a Mozart fan, however, I understood it to be true. After Amadeus, there were legions of us, out of the classical closet. We saw the play, then the movie. We began to collect Mozart music. CD and videotape were still new, and so we had to buy those and the new, and, in those early days, expensive, equipment. My poor vinyl collection took a back seat to digital perfection. I searched in for small businesses that would carry opera tapes. I volunteered constantly at my public radio station because they were kind enough to feed my Mozart frenzy on a daily basis.

 

I was not alone, however, in this mad Mozart revival. Every opera singer with a recording contract put out a Mozart album. Neighbors in posh NYC apartments sued neighbors after hours and hours and days and weeks and months of The Requiem played continuously and at full volume. Like so many phenoms, Mozart had surged over the top, infecting the planetary consciousness.

 

Love me! Love me! Listen to me! Do what those 18^th Century fools did not!

 

  

The single party I gave every year was to honor his birthday. My writer and poet friends, all of us struggling with manuscripts, attempting to find agents and publishers, to hold onto  day jobs, were loyal attendees. We could share our woes with that mostly impractical, humiliating, and perilous passion for writing.

 

I will always be grateful to those brave souls who drove through snowstorms from other states because they wanted to be in my kitchen, share their woes and then find a way to laugh about them.  It was a fun fellowship in the gray cold January world.

 

There was champagne and 18^th Century food of all kinds, steak and kidney pies, syllabub, etc., prepared, over the course of days and after trips to the butcher and the import shop, by the hands of Juliet the Certifiable. The Cake came from a now OOB bakery called Dingledein's, who certainly knew how to make a Mozart's Birthday Party Cake.

 

A warm winter pick-me-up among friends!

 

So, Happy Birthday, creator of musical joy, Wolfgang A!  

~~Juliet Waldron

See All my historical novels at:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B004HIX4GS