Pam’s Pictorama Post: Kim had the excellent suggestion this morning that I might consider each of the cats individually for a post, starting with some of the New Jersey guys (and gals). Peaches was featured in a post (which can be read here) not that long ago so this would be the second of the lucky kits seven to be in the spotlight. (My father’s wonderful cat Red who died not that long after him was featured in a post here.)
Beau, Gus and Milty waiting for breakfast one morning.
Milty, as he is generally known, is the most senior, if somewhat titular, head of the New Jersey manor. He is, by our best guestimate, about 21 years old. I’m afraid I don’t have any photos of a young Milty. As you can see, he’s an almost tabby, white with copious tabby spots, a sort of every cat.
Milty achieving pets on the arm of the chair.
He came to my mom as a tiny kitten rescued in Newark with a terrible long cut down his back. Because of that, I guess, he came to mom with the moniker of Knifey which she thought was an awful name and hardly described this genial little ball of fluff. He was found and rescued him on Milton Street (Newark Harrison Plaza to be precise it would appear) in Newark and Mom went with Milton as his name, Milty most of the time. Meanwhile, his back injury was so severe that he had to be isolated away from her other cats for a few months while it healed.
My parents were still in the (very large) house I grew up in and Milty had a room upstairs where he spent his first few months. That was a rough and tumble house of more or less five cats at the time, but eventually Milty found, and probably occasionally fought, his way into the milieu.
It was, I believe, not long after my sister Loren died that Milty came to Shrewsbury Drive. It also became a tumultuous time with my folks packing up that house ultimately and leap frogging to a rental before moving into the house I have now. So while a new kitty is always a thing of joy I think things like hurricane Sandy followed by my parents packing up and moving overshadowed his arrival somewhat. He slipped quietly and seamlessly into the life of the Butler household.
Winsome putting her hat on him on a whim last year.
Milty was always a pretty easy going guy. Slowly he moved up the ranks of mom’s cats over time and there was a moment where it was just him and two others before mom went on a cat acquisition streak not much more than two years before she died, bringing their number to five.
Of all of the cats, Milty is the friendliest and in fact actually demands to be petted by all comers to the house – sitting by you and reaching out with a tapping paw gently. He has a good memory for the regular visitors who pay attention to him and runs right to them. He does not discriminate by age – he is perfectly willing to let Anaya, Winsome’s granddaughter age 3, have her first, tentative cat pats with him. His fur is amazingly soft and he has gotten fluffier, not less so, with age.
Milty in the livingroom.
He is a bit of a grump and tyrant these days when it comes to food. If given his way a stream of cans would be opened for him ongoing throughout the day. He has the annoying (for the other cats) habit of eating the first wet bits out of every dish as they are put out – taking the best moist bits off the top. He drinks copious (truly vast) amounts of water daily and is said (by mom) to have tumors in his stomach. In the mornings that I am there he meows loudly and urgently for his breakfast until it is served, he and Beau eat first there.
Milty is demanding for attention as well and sits on the arm of your chair and gently grabs your arm, just a few gentle claw paws, for pets. Unfortunately, he is not a well behaved lap cat and the claws are in play for starfish paws and he tends to get moved along. He is the top ranked puker in the house and has other occasional accidents, not surprising I guess given his age and other factors.
Peaches smiling and giving Milty a pat.
He enjoys a surprisingly good relationship with essentially all of the other cats. (He has no use for the New York cats when they visit but that seems fair. He mixed it up with Blackie on our last visit, marching into the bedroom one morning to see where breakfast was. He also swatted a friend’s dog who wandered into the house with him one evening.) I tend to find an odd combination of cats curled up with Milty. The most surprising is Peaches, our most feral and generally resistant feline. I frequently find her curled up with him while giving me a somewhat defensive look. Gus also likes to sit with (or sometimes on) Milts and Milty never appears bothered. He is the Switzerland of cats.
Gus horning in Milty’s perch.
High jumping was never his thing – the awful long cut on his back perhaps – and he generally stays near to the ground now and rarely gets up higher than a low chair. Aside from that he is surprisingly spry and greets all visitors like the retired mayor of a small town who sits out in a sunny rocking chair on the front porch of the general store or post office. He expects a certain amount of recognition and fealty.
In some ways I feel bad for Milty as he never quite got to be a singular favorite with a devoted individual tending him. He has been loved but a bit generally by many. We’ve had a few scares with his health and know that at 21 for a cat his time is likely melting away. However, he seems utterly content as the figurative king kitty in the house of Butler.
Pam’s Pictorama Photo Post: I found this photo in New Jersey while looking for something else over the holidays. I found a cache of photos there of my father and his cousins when they were very young and spending summers in a tiny, bucolic enclave called Cottekill, in Ulster County, New York where the family had a house. Some of those photos showed my grandfather quite young with my dad as a tiny tot and many of the three children at play.
I don’t know why, but somehow I never saw this particular pile of photos. And I am sorry not to have found them to puzzle over with mom while she was still alive. Photos from Dad’s family somehow didn’t make it into the family rotation. Actually my parents mostly kept pictures of their life together in the house and ones from their past dribbled in over time, but were not always examined it seems. Although a cousin brought mom a pile from her side of the family which we were able to examine during the last years of her life.
Dad’s memory, never good, was sort of a Swiss cheese hit or miss before he died and I don’t know how much help he would have been in identifying anything anyway. As interesting as I find those photos of him as a babe or small child, this is a rare shot of my father as a young man and I can’t think of another from this time in his life so I have brought it back to New York with me.
Frankly, it is not a great photo, bad exposure and poorly printed, messy edges with some bit of another photo bleeding into the left side. The composition is not great – the photographer could have fitted dad into the frame better. Presumably it was taken by one of his friends, perhaps also learning the craft of still photography at the time. Dad appears to be noodling around with a piece of film editing equipment. (On subsequent study – is that a press camera seen from the side?) For me my interest is mostly that I don’t have other photos of him from precisely this time. It is undated and there is nothing written on the back – may I just say, neither side of my family ever made notes on their photos.
A photo of mom from about a decade later.
My father did his undergraduate degree at NYU in history and, after a stint in the army during the war in Korea where he was stationed in the Arctic and learned to film maneuvers. He later used the GI bill to get his masters degree in film at Boston University. I wonder if this shows him, plying his new trade, in an apartment somewhere in Boston, although it doesn’t really have the look of a student apartment – drapes on the window and paintings on the wall.
The objects on the table are too indistinct to really see. I believe the paper in front of him is likely the booklet of instructions for the device he is using – that may be a roll of film next to it. He is dressed in a rather natty button down shirt and vest and a watch with a leather band which predates the metal Rolex one I inherited (and wear) and remember him best as wearing.
Dad in an undated photo on a motorcycle he rode across country.
Dad always dressed well and he liked clothes and shopping – my mom didn’t so I assume I got my interest in those things from him. (I have written about his mom, Gertrude, before who collected jewelry and was always well dressed. A post devoted to her and my inherited interests can be found here.) The only real surprise is that he never wore a striped shirt in my memory. His closet was a perpetual sea of light blue and white versions of this shirt (pink might occasionally find its way in) which I might inherit to mess around in once the collars and cuffs frayed. It is a bit beyond my imagination to think of him wearing stripes, but evidently they are something he grew out of.
I have a photo I have written about before of dad a few years later, astride a decaying motorcycle he rode across the country. (That popular early post can be found here.) I like this one to help fill in the dots along the timeline of his life and I plan to put it in a frame and bring it to my office. There it will reside next to a much beloved picture of my mom I rescued recently where a young Betty Butler is holding Snoopy, our first cat as a family. Mom and Dad would meet about five or more years after spot on the timeline I assign to this picture.
Unlike some family photos I have unearthed, this one doesn’t really have stand alone quality as a picture to recommend it so thank you for indulging me a bit if you read this to the end.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: We are (mostly) packed and at the ready to head to New Jersey this morning. It is still pitch black out as I write this, but here in New York we got our first snow flakes in a long time yesterday. I think the ground was too warm full there to be a frosting of it out there, but we’ll see what Monmouth County has, if any.
Although there is a certain feeling of routine to it, this is only the second year we are spending in New Jersey for the holidays. We are still finding our stride with it. While there are packages of gifts and essentials, I usually take the opportunity to move a few bulky items to the house there while we are packing up a car.
Christmas breakfast with Eileen Travell yesterday before leaving town. I gave her this pretty little blue and white bowl.
Rides With Cash is a car service I have used since I commuted frequently during my mom’s last illness. (I posted about it previously here.) Jeff, the proprietor, brings his unfailingly wonderful Aussie, Cash, with him and I get a dog cuddle in as well. Now that Cookie and Blackie share some of these rides they are less thrilled with Cash but the car is large enough for a generous separation of cats in carriers and dog!
Cash sitting in the front seat during our summer sojourn.
Although more frequent commutes from New Jersey in recent years has mentally shrunk the distance between the two locations, bringing the cats and going to stay is still definitely a maneuver which requires forethought and planning. Somehow the holidays got away from us this year and I feel a bit like we are going to land in a heap. Blackie’s Thanksgiving holiday illness set us back a bit schedule-wise and there will be a holiday card reveal tomorrow while we are still sending out the bulk of our mailed cards! (Apologies in advance to those of you who don’t like your surprise ruined.)
We had our annual Top Dog Gala at work last week. We honored the NYP’s K9 unit and the dogs we care for on the force.Centerpieces complete with usable leash were for sale at the end of the event.
Blackie is better, although he required yet another trip to the vet this week – puffy eye. We aren’t sure but maybe his sister socked him, or he got something in it which made him rub it a bit raw. He is somewhat demoralized by gooping three times a day and I’m sure this trip out of state will get on his last little cat nerve. (It is finally getting light and it has indeed snowed and there appears to be a half inch or so on the ground.)
For those of you who are new to the fold – five additional cats await our arrival in New Jersey. My mom left me her cats who continue to reside in the house there where they are cared for. Our visits mean a house full of seven cats. What was my mother thinking?
All staff holiday party. My colleagues had spent the day in the lobby playing Santa and Elf to visiting animals who could have their picture taken.
For all of this, going there for the holidays is very soothing for me . Like many folks, I feel the loss of family and friends most keenly at this time of year. Being in the area I grew up in and being around the people there mitigates it somewhat and blunts the blow of the sharp edges. I know it is asking a lot of Kim and the cats who would much rather stay in New York. However, going as a family and having everyone I love together in one place for a few weeks is special to me.
So, a brief entry today an unsuspecting Cookie and Blackie to be placed in their carriers shortly. More from the other side. Let the holidays commence!
Pam’s Pictorama Post: The other evening I was meeting a former colleague and we were discussing the shifting sands of the office place – he who now works entirely remotely for a national not-for-profit and I am who am still adjusting to life at an animal hospital where many things are different. The conversation somehow turned first to mail (I am struggling with the local post office) and then to handwriting. I told him that when I worked at the Met I handwrote many notes and that I hoped over time that when people saw the envelope they would recognize my handwriting immediately.
The verso of a postcard from a prior post – sometimes the writing is half the fun, other times indecipherable.
Even less than a decade ago mail was a much bigger part of my job. This area in fundraising has had a continued contraction and, while I am far from an expert, I am struggling to find its place at work as older supporters still like it but it is expensive and you can lose money. Direct mail aside, my days at the Met were packed with notes written – a constantly dwindling pile of cards atop my desk for notes to attach to things, my business card and stacks of cards from the museum’s shop which I worked my way through with birthday wishes and other occasions. For years all of our invitations were handwritten and stamped. We did them at home and were paid by the piece – I helped pay for my trip to Tibet by addressing envelopes when we opened the new Asian Art Wing there.
At the Met we had a mailroom which collected our piles of mail and delivered ours to our office. I have learned over time that this is a luxury in offices.
Our Top Dog Gala invitation this year. We are celebrating the work of the police dogs and this handsome German Shephard is representing for it.Invitations have printed envelopes now.
At Jazz I immediately noticed fewer written missives, as well as less time on the telephone – everything was pretty much online and email including invitations. If not a dedicated mailroom, an office manager did distribute mail and bring it to the post office daily. Covid interrupted even that and mail stilled to a full stop and barely ground back into use in the post-Covid work world.
My office today slots mail into boxes in the main hospital building which we try to pick up daily. Somehow I have never gotten the swing of mail pick up there (due to construction it moves around) and we tend to stamp and mail things from public boxes or a trip to the post office. It isn’t true but sometimes I feel like the only person who produces mail beyond the occasional mailing of things like Gala invitations.
Very recognizable Louis Wain signature as per yesterday’s post!
However, what we really touched on the other night and what has stayed in my mind since is the memory of handwriting I have known. I recently had to go through check registers of my mom’s for tax purposes and spending the day immersed in her (slowly deteriorating) handwriting made her and that final year together very real again.
I have only a few samples of my sister’s writing, although it was a neat distinctive cursive I would recognize anywhere – she had the habit of looping the bottom of her capital L’s backward as part of her signature. I never asked her about that.
I saw less of my father’s handwriting than other family members, but certainly would recognize his signature. Somewhere I have a few letters from him, written while he covered the Olympics in Sarajevo. Meanwhile my maternal grandmother had a round script that would come with birthday cards, some of which I still have.
Autographed books, always with a picture, by Kim here and below.
There are those folks whose handwriting I realize I do not know, or only have an inkling of, like my father’s parents who died when I was fairly young. (To my brother Edward, I am realizing that we never correspond with handwritten notes. I don’t really know yours although maybe I would recognize it if I saw it?) I have friends whose handwriting I can see in my mind – some former colleagues and others like my friend Suzanne who is an artist and whose very round writing is distinctive in my mind’s eye.
Kim’s handwriting and his signature are of course well known and very recognizable. Legibility in his line of work is essential. He eschews my cursive as hard to read. (There was a time when I was younger when I corresponding in a tiny neat print, but I found it labor intensive for my needs.) Recent trouble accurately reading numbers people have written on things has reminded us of the importance of neatness – not just for cartoonists, but for all of us. After all, first and foremost, it is a form of communication.
One of the nice things about living with Kim is he continues to receive (and send of course) letters and packages in the mail. We get more real mail than most folks.
I especially like this one for Shroud for Waldo!
When I was in college I remember a professor at the beginning of a course talking about how handwriting was a mark system like any other, one we use constantly and defines us. (She also pointed out that how we dress is another visual vocabulary all our own and I think of that sometimes when I put on make-up which in some ways is the closest I get to painting these days.) However, handwriting is the one that is intimately tied to who we are and is our very own – obviously like finger prints our signature can be used to identify us in a court of law; it is that singular.
Of those folks like my mother, father and sister who are now lost to me the thought of their writing, coming across it or remembering it, makes me miss them all the more. However, it is a comforting odd bit of us that we keep, thoughtfully or unconsciously, and remains in the world long after we are gone.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: In some sneaky way our electronic devices missed us while we were on our now annual New Jersey summer sojourn. The electric toothbrush, although charged, stubbornly refused to start upon our return, followed by the new outlet in the bathroom which oddly now seems incapable of operating so much as a nightlight let alone a hair dryer. (In all fairness, after 30 years of owning this coop, the outlet had technically died the first time several weeks before we left last summer.) The dishwasher threatened to go south on us, but has agreed to continue working as long as I commit to smaller loads, although that will make them more frequent. (And I admit to a strange compulsion to always fill it to the utmost before running. I will need to get over that it seems.)
However, last Saturday night while I was wrapping up my reading before turning out the light, Kim asleep next to me and Blackie at my feet, a loud, long crackling noise came from the living room. Blackie and I looked at each other and he raced off into the dark of the apartment, but nothing looked amiss and I continued on, turning out the light and went to sleep. The next morning the television in the living room was dead.
In retrospect, this is not the first time I have heard that noise during the demise of an electronic appliance. Years ago I had a clock radio that made that noise and started to smoke which landed it in the tub of my apartment after unplugging. (If you live in an apartment anything potentially combusting usually ends up in the tub. Probably not really a great idea, but often the best you can figure out in the moment.)
To my reckoning the toothbrush and the television were both reaching their four year anniversary – honestly I am looking funny at my Fitbit watch (sometimes it just dies before being coaxed back to life) and my phone (not holding a charge), which share similar acquisition dates. (All of this more precisely etched in my memory because it was as we were coming out of Covid and things like acquiring a new television or phone were just a bit trickier.) In my way of thinking, the masterminds of planned obsolescence have arrived at the four year mark as the shortest time possible which is unlikely to invoke costly (for them) warrantee coverage or truly shrill outcry. It is just over the line of long enough.
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Televisions have turned the corner into a whole new world. There are a myriad of different kinds which required learning at least a little about. They are despised by many who now use their phone, computer or tablet for whatever streaming consumable they prefer. Or they have extraordinary needs for maniacal fidelity and massive size.
To care only nominally about the definition, let alone to want one to fit comfortably on a table in our studio apartment, is suddenly to want something exotic. Out of the usual also means, probably not in stock and needs to be ordered. In my desire to be efficient I have ended up with one slightly larger than I am comfortable with and which swamps the former tv table I inherited from an early apartment rental and have dragged through a few moves.
Meanwhile, putting aside the group who want massive home theaters, I encountered a fair amount of skepticism about purchasing a television. Aside those who, as mentioned above, just watch things on various hand held devices, there is another whole group who eschew it entirely. In all fairness, I think Kim would happily remain without one as he mostly reads in his spare time in the evening and on weekends. When he wants to watch a film he’s happy to sit at his desk and watch it on the computer. I have other friends who haven’t owned one for years and frankly are surprised I would bother.
I love this show, which seems to be intermittent at best. They tour very old homes that need rescuing.
Television and I go way back to my childhood. As I have written about previously, my dad was a cameraman for ABC news and although the family media addiction started with non-stop news radio (my uncle worked for that CBS radio affiliate) it morphed over time to owning many televisions. So I watched it a lot as a kid – sometimes the whole family but also alone. It was the background of my life until I went to college and I entered a period of several years that went into my twenties without one.
However I was living in New York and cooking professionally when I fell down a flight of stairs at work and was sent home to rest, flat on my back, for several weeks. My mom sent me a tv and I got the cable hook up and was reintroduced to owning one. I got an extended chance to see what had developed over the previous four or five years (admittedly not much) before returning to the insane hours of restaurant cooking and never being home. (While I was recovering I got a call offering me a much better job cooking for a young chef named Jean-George Vongerichten for a restaurant he just opened in New York City at the Drake Hotel which I accepted with the caveat that I needed to finish my bed rest.)
I was rarely home and awake during that period – in fact I had a boyfriend for awhile who was also a chef and we had opposite shifts. It was like a silent comedy I later saw from Russia about rotating schedules like this sharing a small apartment in Moscow.
Ultimately the career in cooking ended with arthritis having started to snake up my back and hips and the boyfriend was disposed of for other reasons. I went to work at the Metropolitan Museum in the bookstore. Clearly all that would be another post!
I was there from the very start!
Eventually the TCM movie channel was established and frankly for decades my television rarely changed channels. Aside from the occasional disaster (natural or political) which might send me over to CNN, or a period where I needed to see breakfast tv (local news and weather before heading out the door) my set could have been a single channel. This is largely true still today.
However, when March of 2020 hit and suddenly the world shuddered on its axis with the first of the pandemic we watched a lot of news in the beginning. Given world affairs we continued to watch it a fair amount but the sheer number of hours home meant my old friend TCM, but also a new interest that had slowly been developing in what I call Home shows.
A sort of low budget show with very historic homes in the Massachusetts area.
I have always liked to look inside houses. to me they beg to tell their stories. I especially like old ones, the older the better. But in general I like to see what all houses look like inside versus outside. Sometimes I am amazed that ones I find ugly on the outside are quite beautiful on the inside. I like to consider what it would be like to live in them. I am interested to see the light and the views from the windows and what the yard looks like. And yes, I like to think about what it would be like to live in a house rather than a one room apartment. I liked big budget shows, but find interest in the more homespun ones too. I enjoy pondering the very concept of home and what it means to different people.
Like my television watching, I come to my interest in houses honestly. My parents bought houses and renovated them and rented them for a period of years – really mom since dad’s job was more than fulltime. She had a great mind for this and liked both the acquisition and the renovation of them. Her approach to it remains with me after many years. She wasn’t a moving walls around kind of person, but she went into every home assuming renovating the kitchen, floors would be redone and it would be painted. Smart small things.
When mom ultimately looked for a house for their retirement she was a bit broader in her thinking and knew she would be adding a handicapped accessible bath for herself and a things like that. She had limited mobility already so another friend and I did the leg work and as her surrogate I got to look at a lot of houses before we found the one she and dad purchased and I inherited last year.
So during the pandemic year I found great comfort in watching a never-ending, forever unspooling reel of home finding and renovation. In short, the only drama was which lovely house would they pick and what would it look like when it was renovated. Would the young couple choose the house in the country where they could raise chickens? That really suited me fine – life had enough drama and I wasn’t needing more
Home Town was a favorite during the pandemic year. Who knew how many lovely old homes could be bought for a fraction of the value of my NYC studio in Laurel, Texas?
In this way I got to tour lots of old houses (which frankly I would probably have left more intact than most of these folks – I don’t have a passionate need for spaces to be huge and open as seems to be the fashion) and given the high stress of my job (fundraising for a performing arts organization’s survival during a world wide pandemic shutdown) I found great comfort in it.
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Fast forward about a year and during mom’s final months of illness, about the last six months of her life, I pretty much lived in New Jersey. (Posts from that strange time out of time can be found here and here.) There are many televisions (large, wall mounted) in that house and my mother wanted CNN on 24 hours a day. All her nurses knew better than to change the channel and incur her wrath. Oddly my father also watched news constantly at the end of his life. My mother explained that it was her only connection to the outside world which makes sense. I do wonder about this and if it is something about getting old or particular to them. Will I ultimately cast all aside for 24 hour news?
Anyway, during that period the noise from mom’s care and the constantly changing shifts of nurses contributed to the insomnia I had developed during Covid when I would frequently get up at 3 AM and start working out of anxiety. (I would often discover the Wynton Marsalis was also awake and we’d work via text for awhile. I’d go to sleep for a bit and wake up around 6:00 and start all over again.)
I still find this show especially soothing. I think it started in Canada and slowly found locations in the United States. A lot of episodes seem to cover the south but NJ featured occasionally. Manhattan never!
I began sleeping with the low hum of HGTV, usually a benign show called House Hunters where folks were shown looking at three houses and choosing one. This would cover the sound of CNN booming from my mom’s room and do a lot to help me sleep through shift changes and folks coming and going. I slept with my phone next to me and if they didn’t want to come and physically wake me up the nurses would call if they needed me.
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It’s been more than a year since mom passed and I have changed jobs. A new job, settling her estate, inheriting a house and five cats (not to mention some oral surgery which has tormented me on and off since January and doesn’t promise to wrap soon), has made this year tough in a different way.
A pending Presidential election means a certain amount of checking in on the news which we all know is not good. I work on an open floor office currently so I no longer listen to music at work and I miss that. All this to say I unabashedly like having a television and catching a few truly mindless hours of Home shows in the evening before bed.
I confess and openly acknowledge that I would read and sleep a bit more if I eradicated the habit. However, as a life long habitue of television I say the heck with everyone else, I intend to own one (as soon as I can successfully have the one I purchased installed – that is another long, but boring tale) and watch it for the foreseeable future.
Pam’s Pictorama Photo Post: At first I wondered, as you may be right now, why this card ended up in my feed, until I realized that the woman perched on the back of this motorcycle is holding a tiny kitten in her lap. He or she, a cute little tabby, is snuggled in on the lap of that nice white dress. Although it may not seem so at first, it is indeed a cat photo.
After a bit of consideration, I realized that this seems to be a celebratory photo. Perhaps it was the purchase of this nice new Indian motorcycle, shiny chrome on the handlebars. (Am I wrong in saying it does not yet have its front light?) The fellow is in a suit and tie with a straw hat, perky but not really motorcycle riding ready. The woman, in her white dress, sporting a pretty locket and kitten perched on the back, is the real point of this though. Her feet off the ground, she is jaunty! Her black stockings and shoes – we can just about see them swinging around the kickstand. They are both grinning. Or could they have just gotten hitched?
This is a photo postcard and like so many, it was never sent, but instead kept in mostly pristine condition.
For all of their jollity, the landscape where they are posed is a bit bereft of charm. There is some sort of industrial tower in the background with a few low wooden buildings and trees off in the distance. Closer in is what appears to be a whet stone on a foot activated stand, some indistinct farm equipment near it, further obscured by what appears to be a thumb print in the chemicals used to print this. On the other side there appears to be a chicken or maybe a goose in the background and a field planted with rows of something.
Somewhere there exists (or did) an early snippet of home movies of my mother’s mom and dad, newlyweds, on an early motorcycle. I think they were either on their honeymoon or it was their honeymoon although I have trouble imagining that they rode that motorcycle from New Jersey to St. Louis where his family lived, which is what I believe they did shortly after being married. (I must try to find someone who knows that story.) Anyway, that would have been a couple of decades after this, although not all that many. My grandfather was an engineer and all things mechanical and in motion were his thing. He repaired outboard motors for extra cash, but just seemed to always be tinkering successfully with things. Frank Wheeling, he died young but I do have adoring memories of him from when I was a tiny tot. My guess is he would have liked this motorcycle. (To find a post about my dad as a young man on his jalopy of a bike go here.)
I myself have only been on a motorcycle a few times as a passenger and I did find it sort of thrilling. This motorcycle seems almost closer to the electric bikes we see today. Kim and I have eyed them with a bit of interest, but I am not sure I see a way that we will end up getting to enjoy one unless someone offers us a ride – I don’t think either of us really has any business trying to drive one solo. But I confess, they are tempting and I although I am ambivalent about driving a car these and various scooters (a neighbor in the city has a pink Vespa!) do appeal.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: This photo postcard makes me think about my mother who loved ducks, geese and swans. Frankly she was less romantic about chickens which she grew up around although she bore them no ill will and being a vegan did not eat them nor their eggs. Mom did tell stories about her childhood and how they roosted in the neighbors trees and would occasionally torment her on her way to or from school.
It’s a pity this photo was poorly made, overexposed and with an odd sloppy line of poor printing at the bottom. (I have improved it some before sharing with you.) However my mom would have liked this card.
Those things notwithstanding, it is a compelling image and caught my eye online a week or so back and I purchased it for the house here in New Jersey. It is a photo postcard and was never used.
Photo of a photo of the house I grew up in.
As some readers know, I grew up in a house on an inlet of a river here, the Shrewsbury River. It was within walking distance of the ocean and as a result my childhood was full of time on the water – swimming in the ocean and walking the beach or crabbing off our dock or taking a rowboat out in the backyard. Mom’s nascent passion for animals first took the form of cats and dogs, strays and kittens that needed home.
However, later in life mom started feeding a flock of swans inhabiting the secluded inlet near our house. Then, slowly, she started helping out with an injured swan, goose or duck. Before long she was traveling to fetch a stranded pinioned one here or one that swallowed fishing line there. Betty became the go to for injured waterfowl for not just the surrounding counties but even in the surrounding states. Swans and geese that could not be released back into the wild were placed in areas in New York and New Jersey with appropriately large water bodies where food would be available and people would care for them.
A dahlia also on the hummingbird path of nectar.
Betty fought for these birds as well as other animals – helping to shut down puppy mills, purveyors of sick dogs. So many rescued bunnies found a home in our backyard that they were all so tame they would come right up to you if you sat out in the yard. I would come to New Jersey for a visit and the guest bathroom would be commandeered by a swan. Even at the same time, a rescued cat might be healing in an upstairs room. Somehow it all seemed quite natural at the time. Or at least it was our normal.
Strawberry plant currently on the deck which seems to be a happy stop for hummingbirds.
In her last years mom had a commanding view of the deck and the yard from the chair she spent virtually all her time in. It was planted for the explicit pleasure of birds, bees and butterflies. However, it wasn’t until after her death that I started spending time outside here and on the deck and began to realize how successful she was. Furry bees buzz busily everywhere, but especially early in the morning and evening. Hawks fly overhead, but sparrows, robins and a host of other birds amass. Bunnies of the more shy variety nibble greens in the yard – I think they and the chipmunks eat more heartily when unobserved, or so it seems from the consumption of my berries and veg.
Front of the NJ house earlier this week.
Most notably I never knew about the hummingbirds. I have loved the idea of them from the first I learned about them in sixth grade, but it was years before I saw one in person. I used to try to temp them to feeders with syrup water concoctions. It turns out that they love this yard! They appear to have a path from my dahlias, to a strawberry plant with bright red flowers and then to two Rose of Sharon trees (one white and one purple) that technically belong to my neighbor but hang heavily over my side of the fence. and amazingly enough, if I sit quietly on the porch long enough, one will pause en route, pausing, suspended in front of me in greeting.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: Today is an oddball post – I wish to introduce you all to Peaches, the second youngest, female cat of the New Jersey tribe of five. She’s also one of the meanest cats I have ever met. Perhaps considering her story she has some snark coming to her. I will let you decide.
Most readers know that in April of ’23 I inherited a house and five cats from my mother. At her behest, the cats continue to reside here where someone cares for them and the house when I am not here, as Deitch Studio in Manhattan is still our home base. This presents some logistical problems, but fewer than I might have expected when my mother first presented this request, as it became clear that her time was limited.
Shown here with Hobo, our outdoor visitor. They look so much alike! Seems impossible that they are related – Hobo lives too many miles away. But still…
For some background, my mother had briefly whittled her cat family down to something manageable a few years ago when she adopted, first, an all black kitten (Beauregard or Beau) from an agency in Newark, but then followed in rapid succession by two who came to the backdoor (Gus and Stormy) and Peaches whose story I am going to tell today. After the acquisition of Stormy (the youngest) I did request that she stop acquiring cats as it was clear that these were indeed going to end up being my cats.
Our holiday card featuring the whole family (including Hobo) for a quick cat reference.
Unlike the others who, as outlined above, either came through the front door via adoption or showed up repeatedly and starving at the back, Peaches was acquired sight unseen. My mother loved to tell the Peaches acquisition story.
Prized spot in our bedroom.Forbidden territory when the NYC cats are here.
At that time, now about three years ago, my mom had a cousin living with her. They had both grown up in a nearby town called Long Branch and her cousin inherited a house there, but lived with mom for a few years. Word was, back near her house in Long Branch, a friend heard a cat meowing over several days and had called Animal Control to find out what was going on and get the cat.
Seems somehow this cat had gotten away from the mother and the litter and was trapped in a basement after falling down a hole. Poor little thing was starving and crying.
Peaches does play with toys.
My mom knew that it was likely that a feral kitten would ultimately be put down as unadoptable. She called Animal Control in Long Branch as soon as the cat was picked up and told them not to put her down and that she would take it.
I guess the guy said, Lady, you don’t want this cat! It is the meanest cat we’ve ever had to catch. So wild we had to use a broom handle to move the carrier with her in it! And of course mom said she didn’t care and wanted the cat.
She very much enjoys watching the activity on the deck where chipmonks and other critters have been known to roam. Recently I found what I think were groundhog muddy tracks across it so quite a show.
She arrived and was christened Peaches for the woman who had heard her and called Animal Control originally. She entered our house at the time as the youngest and only female cat of the house. To my knowledge no one has ever actually touched Peaches since she came to Oxford Avenue. She hid at first and then slowly assimilated to the extent that she would hang with the pack of cats but keep a wide birth (six or more feet) from any human.
Left to her own devices (which she largely is) she seems quite content.
Over the past several years she has thawed slightly. She now willingly sit in the same room as us, sometimes quite close. When I am feeding them she will come right up to me but if I try to touch her or get too close where she is curled up she will hiss, spit and growl. On this trip however, she “accidentally” jumped up on the arm of my chair and stared me in the eye for several long moments before panic set in and she flew back off. I was as stunned as she was.
Milty and Peaches.
She has one outstanding cat friendship in the house, with Milty, our most senior cat. I will occasionally find them sleeping together. She’ll go over and gently groom him once in a while. It seems like an unlikely pairing, but I am pleased she has a compatriot among the cats.
This just the other day. Happy Peaches.
There have been days this summer when I have caught her rolling and stretching happily. I think she is a contented cat in general, even if her interactions with the human population are limited. I used to joke with my mother that in ten years when Peaches was happily installed on my lap being petted we would look back and remember how we couldn’t get near her. I am less sure of that future, but she’s one of the Butler family cats now to stay.
Pam’s Pictorama Post: Sometimes where my nose leads me surprises even me so I assume it must occasionally raise an eyebrow for my readers. While I have many tributaries I pursue on a regular basis, sometimes I am gob smacked by something I didn’t see coming or ever really think about before. I assume in a time before the internet I would have found my odd bits at flea markets and antique stores that have been pushed out or disappeared.
Smidge of paint loss but nice!
However, Ebay, Instagram and Etsy are among the places I buy from now, but Instagram is the one most likely to surprise me with something I didn’t know I needed. I will be scrolling through my rather perfectly delightful feed curated to present me with cats, kittens, antique jewelry and clothes, some antique toys, ephemera and furniture.
The one I didn’t buy. Maybe still there if you have to have it!
Once in a bit something like this vase strikes me and I think, Huh. I don’t know why, but I really want that. There was another, larger, one with figures on it that was the one really being offered, but I could see half of this one is the same photo so I asked about it. I only just stopped short of buying both, but size and cost made me decide to control myself.
Peering in the top.
This vase is about 9 inches high and is ceramic with some tooth to it – bits of sand probably in the clay making it substantial and heavy. It appears to have been thrown on a wheel and then hand painted. Weirdly there is something about it which reminds me of the (admittedly much less impressive) pots I threw or hand built back in high school and college. I never would have thought to paint a scene like this on a pot though, although I did paint too.
Water scene on one side.
The style of the landscape reminds me a little of paintings by my great aunt Jennie. She was self-taught and at one time her paintings hung throughout our house. At some point they were offered to and taken by my cousins who were closer descendants. I always liked them and although it was hard to argue with the thought gesture I missed them.
Many, if not all, were landscapes copied from the American Paintings galleries at the Metropolitan Museum. I was shocked when I first visited and saw them although it made perfect sense. Strange to know them so well for having lived with the copies all those years. I could see how much better the originals were but I missed hers. In particular there was one with a path between birch trees. I tried but failed to find it on the Met’s website. This Kensett below is in the same spirit.
Kensett rom the Met’s collection.
I have a distinct memory of showing her a package of plastic cowboys and Indians someone had given the tiny tot me to entertain me for a day at my grandparents. There was a garish sunset on the cardboard top where the bag was stapled together. She admired it and asked me if she could have it to make a painting from and I agreed. (Such an oddly distinct memory. As an aside, thinking back on it now it also seems odd that my parents purchased endless such bags of cowboys and Indians for us, and racing cars. I think soldiers seldom if ever. There never seemed to be a question about a little girl circa 1967 or so, routinely playing with cowboys and Indians. I’d like to say that this was a statement on the part of my parents, but it just wasn’t – unless the not thinking otherwise was a statement of its own!)
This bit has some paint loss unfortunately.
Having lived most of my adult life in a Manhattan apartment, the concept of cut flowers from my yard is a relatively new and very welcome phenomena. Suddenly it is as if I never really understood the full usefulness of vases. I mean the occasional bunch of posies from the bodega or gift of some extra thoughtful person and you need a place to put them. But the extreme pleasure of clipping a bit of what is blooming in the yard and having it in the house is a new one.
There sadly is some paint loss on one side. Shipping may have made it a bit worse. I am putting it in a quiet cat free space – to the extent that exists in this house.
Dahlias from the yard which would look pretty good if I thought it could hold water!
I deeply suspect that this vase is no longer water tight. There is a hairline crack in the bottom which makes me unlikely to try it. I can easily imagine how nice it would look with some nodding peonies or spring roses from the bushes in the yard might look. I am, however, quite content with this just as it is!
Pam’s Pictorama Post: A few different things conspired to prompt a rather wonderful childhood memory recently. The first was our friend Bruce bringing over a bag of Ranier cherries – the ones that are sort of orange fading to a bright red, rather than the dark maroon of the more common ones. Despite the story I am going to tell, I somehow came to gobbling cherries late in life, but have eaten them with an abandon to make up for lost time. I generally buy the dark red ones, but cast no shade on the Ranier variety.
The next things was this little device shown at top – a cherry pitter. I also use it for pitting olives. I was in New Jersey a few weeks back and realized that I only had my decades old one, acquired in cooking school tucked happily away in our New York apartment.
Not much to look at yet it is perfectly adequate for these two tasks and if you are trying to cook with either cherries or olives it is a much needed and appreciated tool. To be without it means any chance of a perfectly sliced cherries or olives for decorative effect will likely not happen. I promptly ordered the contemporary equivalent from Amazon. I searched cherry olive pitter and there is was. The beauty of the internet age. I sent it to NJ and it was waiting for me when I got here on Wednesday; it is a decidedly zippier, upgraded version. A happy summer of cherry and olive pitting awaits.
Meanwhile, the memory in question was one of an annual cherry picking at my grandmother’s house. She had an enormous Ranier cherry tree in the backyard. In retrospect as an adult I don’t think I realized that cherry trees got that big. It required a proper ladder to get to the top.
Was actually a bit hard to find a photo online of a large-ish one. My grandmother’s was much larger than this!It makes me remember it being in bloom though.
Anyway, the kids, spouses of kids and grandkids were all assembled and we picked cherries all day. There were sea green plastic buckets I can still see in my mind and we filled them with those orangey red cherries. My grandmother would then take them and cook them down and can them. They would supply pie filling and get spread on toast for the rest of the year and long winter ahead. (Mom’s mom who I have written about before here with a historic photo of that yard – sadly the tree was in the other direction and would have been tiny!)
These are exactly as I remember them.
Oddly, I don’t remember eating them off the tree. Now, I was at the time probably the youngest family member of the team, probably about five or six at the time I am describing before my brother was born. Perhaps my mother, always a worrier, didn’t want me eating pit filled cherries. I can see her fretting about that. Anyway, I didn’t and somehow didn’t really get into the swing of eating cherries until I was more or less an adult. If I were able to visit that tree today I’d be popping half in my mouth as I went, eating my body weight in cherries off the tree.
On one of those days I remember it ending in, if not a barbeque at least a picnic. (My Italian grandmother wasn’t really much into barbeque – she liked to cook her food on her stove and in her oven and make the table grown with delicacies which were not of the grilled burger variety.) I wandered around and found my way to a small tree. Much to my horror, as I touched the tree I was immediately covered with ants! I screamed the way only a small child shocked by ants can scream. It took a minute for mom to figure out what was wrong with me, get them off and set me right. (Tree must not have been well to be full of ants, but I don’t remember much about it.)
Dusk on the deck with the fairy lights on. Deck (and lights) had to be completely redone last fall – boards were all rotted! This is my first evening of return on investment! Well worth it.
Perhaps that memory came back to me because as I write this I am sitting on my deck in New Jersey, in the evening of July 4. Next to me on the fence I share with my neighbor, I discovered a huge and evidently industrious ant colony. I can see those hard working fellows even by the dim light of my fairy lights out here. Do ants ever stop and rest? These don’t appear to as I spotted them early this morning and they are still at it.
On of the solar lights I have around which I love!
A gentle boom, boom of distant fireworks is going off, but not enough to bother either me or the five New Jersey cats who have had their dinner and are largely sleeping. Fireflies have come out and look like miniature versions of the fairy lights. (People ask me if we still have fireflies and I am glad to assure them we do – have they really disappeared from places?) The mosquitoes, whose enthusiasm for my flesh has been somewhat tempered by some spray will chase me in soon. But my first evening on the deck this year and I guess summer has begun.
The back gate! Newly installed light here also last fall – so we have a bit of light coming and going at night. It is motion activated.
Pam's Pictorama 