.Friday Firesmith

Friday Firesmith – Cats are universal conversation currency

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Cats are Universal Conversation Currency. If you have cats, or just a cat, you can talk feline with anyone else who has been a recipient, or a victim, of the Cat Distribution System. Aqaba Thomas, the Cat Unexpected, has a Urinary Tract Infection. I have asked for advice and gotten a lot of it, but I also took Aqaba to the vet. I love my cat people, but I trust in people who went to the University of Georgia to study animal medicine. The vet runs tests and confirms the UTI. But now I have to figure out how to get pills into the cat without trauma to the feline and blood loss to his owner.

Enter The Cat People!

Okay, first off, because they are my cat people, and cat people, like cats, never really belong to anyone, I get a lot of smart ass replies online that references full body armor, destroyed furniture, and blood. Lots of blood. Buckets of blood. There are eleventy billion “giving a cat a pill” meme, jokes, and that sort of thing.

All of them are accurate, but useless.

Yet there are those who have been in my paws before, and know I need help. Hid the pills in food, use the tube food as a treat hider, soak the pills in tuna oil, and the list grows. But this time it is accurate and it also works.

The first dose goes in through a syringe but it’s not pretty. The next dose goes in with scrambled eggs and is a success. But the cat treat in a tube hits the home run, and works twice in a row. The Cat People are there for me, and for Aqaba.

But it doesn’t stop there. I also get lessons in cat food that includes urinary health, I get a lecture of blockages and why I have to find out where he’s hiding his pee if he isn’t using his box, and I also get stories about long term effects and long-term answers.

Aqaba Thomas came in bloodied and terrified. The Cat People were down for that, andlet me know I did the right thing by leaving Aqaba in the trap on the trip to the vet’s. Rabies was unlikely, but not impossible, which was my thing, and The Cat People saw my caution as a sign of wisdom.

They also recommended I find Aqaba some sort of box to hide in and that I did, too, so he felt secure and hidden.

Whatever else may be, I have not faced being a new cat owner alone.

And so all the Cat People who were certain I would keep Aqaba were right. And now all of them are giving me advice, the vet agrees with.  Aqaba Thomas, through whatever device the Universe used to get him here, has found a home The Cat People approve of, and that is no small thing.

I discovered I speak fluent feline just by caring.

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – Missing Barbara Bach

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I’m not a musician, can’t read music, but play the radio proficiently. I pretty much can’t speak intelligently about the subject of music except I know what I like, and I feel it.

Years ago, I bought classical music CDs because they were cheap, and I was destitute. I also discovered I wrote better when writing under the influence of classical music.

I bought a boxed set of three CDs that had a wide variety of classical music on them for three bucks. This is how I met Partita No. 2 in D minor for solo violin, BWV 1004, by Johann Sebastian Bach. Now, the listing on the CD was “Partita No.2” and I had no idea it was a solo violin piece, and one of the most difficult, and well written pieces, ever created by humankind.

I could, of course, tell it was beautiful, and as I would listen to it on my cheap CD player,I felt this piece of music deep inside my soul. Forgive me my inabilities in music, but I thought it was a duet. I could identify a violin, easily, but that was as far as my talents went.

One day, many years after falling in love with this piece of music, I heard it on NPR and they played the entire piece, all eighteen minutes or so, and then the announcer spoke as to how some thought Bach had written part of it, especially the last part, in memory of his wife, Barbara, who had died while he was composing the piece.

Monday, I took my truck to the shop for a minor adjustment they had failed to make while repairing it and was listening to this song and pulled over. The connection was finally made in my heart and mind. I originally thought this song was a duet, and perchance, I heard it this way because the composer had written it while missing his wife, the person who was the other half of his duet in life. It would be something masterfully done, expertly, exquisitely, and painfully beautiful.

Three hundred years later, I can still feel a man’s heart breaking, as he grieved for his wife through music.

Is there a song, or a piece of music out there that hits you hard?

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – Three For One Used Books

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I’m not known as a man who is influenced quickly by things mystical, supernatural, or spiritual. Yet both writing and books hold over me a power I would not have them relinquish for anything in the Universe at large.

When I was in the Army, money was hard to come by, and new books were expensive. I knew my time in the military would be temporary when a sergeant told me, “You have too many books.” He told me I would be limited to owning five books.

However, the desert of books could be traveled through the oasis of Used Book Stores, which peppered various spots in nearly every small town in South Georgia. From my post in Hinesville, Georgia, to my hometown in Blakely, a few used bookstores could be found and break the monotony of the drive. Vidalia, a place known for sweet onions and UFOs, also had a small bookstore I discovered quite by accident and happily so.

Years before, a woman tried to get me to read, “Illusions” by Richard Bach, but I wasn’t into that sort of thing at the time, and was surprised a copy had fallen off a stack of books when I brushed against them. I replaced it, and it slipped off again. The price on it was three dollars and all I had was two. They sold it to me for two, and it’s been a regular in my bookshelf since then. Not that particular copy, mind you, for I will give books away quicker than keeping them. I release them into the wild, to spread joy and happiness. The books come to me in some manner or fashion, so I send them out again.

After getting out of the military, a small used book store was within walking distance of my apartment, and they would trade three for one on books. Another bookstore across town had a bargain bin full of used books for a quarter. So for seventy-five cents I could get a book from the walking distance bookstore.

I learned that people selling books at yard sales would surrender a box of books rather than keep them, and I could get books I wanted, or needed by trading them in. I would look in the local paper and map out the best route to take in my quest for more books from yard sales.

Sadly, I don’t read as much as I once did, and paper books are slowly going the way of the dinosaur. I’m listening to an audiobook right now, and like listening as I work out at the Y. It’s not the same, no, and I miss the long hours I would spend lying to myself about stopping at the next page, or chapter.

Today, as I write this, is the first of April, the birthday of science fiction and fantasy author Anne McCaffrey. She wrote “The Dragonriders of Pern” series and I got hooked on them. After the fifth or sixth book I burned out but I still remember looking for one of the books in the series and finally finding it. No matter what you do with a computer, nothing will ever match finding a good used book in a store that has a dog snoozing behind the counter as the owner reads a real book.

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – The Rites of Ticks

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Early Warning, this essay has not been fact checked so it be interesting and funnier. I did my own research. I Googled until I found things that agreed with what I wanted.

I was bitten by a tick, removed it, then flushed it down the toilet, along with some of my blood. There was a case of a murderer who killed a woman in her apartment, and a tick was found with his DNA inside the bedroom where she was murdered. I can see a sweating defense attorney cross examining a tiny arachnid on the witness stand.

The flushed tick came up in a conversation and a friend told me ticks don’t drown. That led me to having a vision of my septic tank with a layer of writhing ticks at the bottom.

This led me to doing a Google search for how long ticks can go without food and one species has, so far, gone twenty-seven years. But their life span is three years in some cases. This is why fact checking this is problematic.

Up until three or four years ago, ticks were never a real problem here in this part of South Georgia, but now, I have to hose myself down with chemicals to work in the yard. The yard, not the woods, and it’s getting worse. The dogs and one cat are on preventives, but there are a lot of ticks out there right now.

At some point, millions of years from now, alien archaeologists are going to dig up my septic tank and discover a concrete pit with a thick layer of fossilized ticks at the bottom, buried in human waste. Why did ancient humans build these structures? Was it religious in nature? Why did they keep so many tiny bugs in these pits? Were these creatures pets? Was some ritual performed, and many of the members of the religion bound to bring one as a token of their spirituality? An alien describes to the others the ritual of blood, where members of the sect travel long distances, bring a small jar or bottle, containing the Holy Bug of Blood, and lovingly placing it into the pit with the millions of others, and then burying it. It would be regarded as a sign of piety for a human’s blood to be found in many pits, and the investigation would begin to discover if humans traveled long distances, and why some locations showed no sign of the ritual being performed at all. Did wars break out over this, and some places at odd with those who refused the ritual?

Or perhaps, humans kept their DNA in these creatures and buried them hoping they would gain immortality in some way. I can see the aliens now, scratching their heads, both of them, with all seven hands, wondering how the ticks got there.

And then one discovers a tick has survived and is attached to his fifth leg. The alien screams in horror.

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – I don’t do traffic

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I was once on a double date, my friend Mark and his wife Sandy were in the front seat, Mark was driving, and I told him, “That guy in the other lane is coming over,” and Mark took his foot off the gas about the time the other car changed lanes and almost hit us.

Everyone was impressed but the truth is, I worked in traffic for most of my adult life and you get an idea of what drivers are going to do before they do it. Or you get hurt.

It’s not fool proof, because fools are getting more foolish by the day, and you can’t trust anything but a concrete barrier when it comes to stupid drivers.

I have seen some strange sh!t.

When a contractor hired someone new for flagging traffic, I would talk to them for a while, get to know them, and try to figure out if they were going to get killed, or get me killed. Flagging traffic does not take a lot of intelligence, but it cannot be done by anyone who isn’t smart enough to be afraid of traffic.

New Guy told me he was nervous, had a bad feeling about the work. It was a side road, not busy, and I told him just keep your eyes open and don’t turn your back on traffic. I was walking back to my truck when I heard the log truck lock his brakes down and the squeal of rubber on the road made my skin crawl.

New Guy ran.

Not just away from the scene, but down the street, to the nearest store, found a pay phone and called his wife to come get him. The skid marks were one hundred and nine feet long.

Had a guy pull a shotgun on a flagger one day and two cars behind him was a deputy, who was not amused. They got the driver for DUI and threatening someone with a gun. That flagger quit, too.

Ronnie and I were sitting on my tailgate on a Friday, eating breakfast and drinking coffee and it was the last day of the project. Ronnie didn’t do traffic control because he ran the tack truck, which sprayed hot tar out at 350 degrees onto the road so the asphalt would stick to it. But the next Monday Ronnie was trying to stop a semi as they unloaded their equipment and the truck hit him.

Someone called me and told me there had been an accident involving an asphalt crew and wanted to know if I was the project manager. I told them no, I had a crew that finished that Friday. They told me who the contractor was and I waited to find out who had been killed. It was Ronnie.

I stopped taking chances in traffic after I retired. All chances. Any chances. I won’t go to my mailbox if traffic is coming. I rarely pass anyone. I avoid Interstate.

I remember the guy that pulled up on a bridge we were building and asked if he could go on through. There was a seventy-foot-wide gap to the other side and a creek in the middle.

Idiots are getting dumber and I am getting slower. That’s why I don’t do traffic anymore.

Your favorite stupid driver story…..go!

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – Aqaba Thomas lost and found

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Aqaba Thomas, when he wants to be picked up, will run right at me, as if being picked up and carried around, is an urgent thing. He’s not allowed on the table, but if I pick him up he won’t be on the table, that message is clear, isn’t it? I bend over at the waist, he gets two paws on my right shoulder, and I lift, catching both his back paws in my left hand. We’ve done this before, he and I, and he knows to keep the claws in, knows I got him, and knows he gets picked up and carried around.

Some of this is heat. It’s early in the morning and he wants me to hold him close so he can be warm. Aqaba Thomas, the Cat Unexpected, leans in hard, and purrs.

Some of this is he wants me to carry him around to the windows, so he can see out while he’s being carried around. The back deck is nice, and he likes looking, the bedroom window shows the yard, but what he really likes is the front door. He likes to look out of the front door and see the porch. I turn my body, blocking his view and he bats me lightly with a front paw. I turn so he can see and he wiggles a bit, yes, right there. The body language is subtle, but Aqaba has trained me well.

He looks down at the porch at the spot it began. His first food bowl was there, and the water bowl, too. He was at eight pounds when he came in, and is at thirteen now. He was lighter when I started feeding him on the porch, and he would stop, look up at me, inside the house watching, and that is how we met. He knew who I was, and knew I was feeding him. That’s how it begins in cases like this. “Hi! I’m Mike and I’ll be taking care of you today.”

Aqaba remembers this spot. This was the beginning of home. He likes being here, at this spot, with me. I’ll hold him until he wiggles a bit, a sign to move on, and he purrs all the while.

He rubs faces with me before I put him back in the cat tree. This, too, is how we do it. It’s his way of showing he appreciates the ride, the warmth, and the moment. This is his way of saying he remembers what was, but this is what is.

The connection between an animal and the person who rescued him is undeniable and runs deep. Aqaba Thomas remembers being lost, and cannot forget being found.

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – The Little Girl and the Orange Cat

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I can’t remember the first time I saw her, or for that matter, the last time. She was a little girl, tiny, and stood beside the road waiting for the school bus with the other children, five or six of them, and she waved at me. I waved back. So, every morning, five days a week, she would see my truck, she would wave, and I would wave back. Some of the other kids did, too. But she never missed a day, if she saw me.

Of course, some days she was not there, playing sick, actually sick, skipping school, holidays I didn’t get, and some days I was playing sick, skipping work, and sometimes writing.

Late August I would look for her, and she would be there, and wave, and I would wave back.

Then went on for years. Literally, it went on for years. The first time I saw her I was still married, Bert was an only dog, and my future uncertain. As far as I could tell, the first time I saw her she was in the first grade, and that too is an uncertain time.

Years later, I noticed she was wearing a skirt that was, well, uh, too short. That’s when I realized she had grown up in front of me, one workday at a time. She started wearing her hair fixed up nice, she was growing upbut she still waved.

Maybe it was high school, or she went later in the day, or maybe her family moved. But she was gone after a summer. The next year she was still missing. I never saw her again.

About a mile from where she once lived, a cat appeared, many years after. It was a dark orange cat, deep richly orange, and the cat would haunt one yard and another across the road. It never waved at me, but I did blow my horn one day when it timed the run across the road too close.

Today I saw a flash of orange a mile from where he usually haunts, on the side of the road, and that was that. I went back, just to make sure, traffic buzzing by and people blowing their horns at me. But the orange cat was dead. Dead, dead, no possibility of life at all.

 I wonder if the little girl, full grown adult by many years, likely a mom with kids of her own, maybe a graduate of some school somewhere that handed her a piece of paper saying she was smart and could make good money. That’s what I hope. That’s what I want. I also want her to be out there somewhere and telling people she remembers an ancient man, likely dead of old age years ago, who used to wave at her in the mornings, before school.

There’s hope in every child. Every tiny human has in them the endless possibilities of life. I hope her parents never lost sight of that in her. I hope they did right by her.

Outside cats, however, especially near a road, are always living on borrowed time.

Take Care,

Mike

Friday Firesmith – Troupville

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Troupville no longer exists as a town, but a Historical Marker, rarely read, will tell you it was once the County Seat of Lowndes County. The government of Troupville tried to pry concessions from the railroad company to allow them to come through Troupville and so the railroad went through Valdosta whose government was willing to sell their souls to get a railroad. Valdosta flourished and Troupville became a good place for a Historical Marker.

Troupville Road still connects Quitman with a major State Route going into Valdosta, and the once sleepy little backroad is getting crowded. The road is narrow, with even slimer shoulders, but more and more houses are popping up along the twelve miles of asphalt.

An Industrial Dairy has twenty-four hours a day bright lights going on so what once was deep night no longer exists. Their machines prowl the road during the day, rutting the sides of the paved road, and causing traffic problems. Industry cannot be stopped.

Spec houses have sprung up, with subdivisions and houses with small yards here and there, eating up farmland and the wild areas, and forcing deer to feed on the side of the road, when they aren’t crashing into cars.

The state built a bridge, a concrete bridge, over Millrace Creek back in the 50s, when a lot of construction was going on in America, and that was when the Interstate projects began. They just replaced that bridge a couple of years ago, and it won’t be long before they either widen the road or four lane it.

To me, it’s an alternative route from US84, which was four laned back in the 1980s. I remember it being one of those roads if you got behind a slow-moving tractor or something like that, you might be stuck for an hour or so. Now, it’s a highway I avoid and risk tractors and deer to keep away from cell phone distracted idiots traveling at speeds unheard of back when Troupville was trying to extort the railroad.

A woman friend of mine used to ride her bike the length of Troupville Road and back again, every Sunday morning but a man followed her home one day. This was back in ’92, right after I left the area for the first time, but she called me and told me about it. She moved away not long after, in search of someplace safe for women, but unless she left the country, I do not think she found it.

When I first moved to Hickory Head over twenty-five years ago, I met a moonshiner who told me would ride his horse down Troupville road, and he’d stop at a farm to water the horse. The owner of the farm had a daughter. Eventually, the two met, and he courted the woman, and they got married. He went off to fight in World War II, and when he returned, three years later, she had a one year old child.

He never quite got over it and never went down Troupville Road again.

Take Care,

Mike

friday Firesmith – Treed

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(Gremlins got hold of this, sorry for the delay ~ Mikeco)

Twenty years or so ago doesn’t seem like a long time anymore. I mean, the actual time is a chunk of years, but it doesn’t seem like it was that long ago, even though I know for a fact it was. The Big Pine had dropped one of its lower limbs, still green, but just hanging there. Large and a protentional dog killer, I set about wondering what to do about the hanging limb.
I had a rope, three-fifths jute, and decided the thing to do would be to toss the rope up to the limb, pull the tossed end all the way over, and from there, pull one way then the other until the limb broke. Nothing says, “This will utterly fail,” more loudly than the plan going according to, well, plan.
Got the rope up first toss, pulled the end down, made a loop, pulled it tight, and spent two hours pulling one way then the other, and the limb did not break. I had no choice but to leave the rope connected, so I pulled and pulled and pulled, for weeks, nay, months, and the limb never broke, and it actually stayed green for the longest time. Finally, the limb fell.
Well, most of it, a three- or four-foot dead section was still up there so I tossed the rope again, made a loop, repeat, rinse, repeat. Even the dead part of the limb didn’t want to come down.
I had a plan.
My plan was to leave the dead section alone. But to get the rope down, I was going to clip the rope with a .22 and break it. I fired ten shots and got close two or three times. My neighbor came over to check out the shooting so I let him try. He got close with one out of ten shots.
My neighbor’s wife came over, carrying a small child. Her husband held the child and she brought the rope down one her first try.
That child is twenty-one years old these days. Her parents have long since divorced, but I don’t think the rope incident had anything to do with it.
Today I went out on the tree, which is still floating, to look at that limb. The part where the rope was attached is still there. It’s odd to see that limb up close. The lower part of that thing dangled for years it seemed, and blasting away at the rope to get it down is the most South Georgia thing I’ve ever done while sober. I haven’t seen the formerly married couple in years, and wouldn’t recognize the daughter if I saw her.
The tree dying is a great sadness for me. People have come and gone in my life, but large trees are supposed to outlive me. I had good times with my neighbors, but the husband was a hot mess and did things he should not have. It is not my place to judge a man in regard to what sort of father or husband he was, for no one knows but the husband and wife what has happened. It’s easy to hide hypocrisy and tell you only bad men lose good women, but I won’t. But I do think I have lost women who were good women, and like the tree dying, was at a loss as to what I could have done to save what I loved.
That makes me no better a man for losing the tree, or the woman.
Take Care,
Mike