memoir

Easter…1966 and Now

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: Today is a pile of Easter bits. I looked and it appears I haven’t really written about Easter since 2021 which was a spring still fraught with pulling out of the pandemic. At that time I wrote a bit about the family Easter/Passover traditions from my childhood there including glorious Easter egg hunts at my grandmother’s house. (That post can be found here and another from an earlier post about my grandmother can be found here.)

When weather permitted we were outside in her yard and finding Easter eggs and treats among the nascent tulips and hyacinth planted there. In retrospect it was likely my uncle who did the Easter planning since mom and dad were with us and my grandparents were already older. I think there was at least one year when weather did not permit and we did it inside.

My sister Loren and I back on Easter 1966.

As it happens, I have a photograph from one of those Easter Sundays above. It is not an especially good photograph but it is family history for me so I am stretching the point. I (on the right in the yellow flowered dress) would have just turned two and my sister Loren (in a very unlikely pink dress), would be a month beyond her fourth birthday. We are seated on my grandmother’s green couch which was covered in impossibly scratchy fabric, flowered wallpaper behind us and and window where in particular the blinds were not raised in my memory. The living room was always cool and dark. There was matching green figured wall-to-wall carpet on the floor there.

Somewhere in my possession is a photo of us all outside on an Easter Sunday morning and I am wearing a light blue coat and Easter bonnet I feel like I can still remember being very proud of. Perhaps we’ll have that one next year if found.

Loren, true to form, looks like she is only seated reluctantly for the moment this photo took. She’s smiling but I recognize her tightly wound energy – she’s ready to go tearing around. While meanwhile yours truly was more of a jolly lump who would go along with whatever. We never wore dresses, let alone ones like this, and if I had to guess I would say these were a single symbolic for Easter only wearing.

This photo hung in my grandmother’s house forever, actually right near the couch shown here if memory serves, and this snapshot shows its wear. I can’t remember if this is before or after the egg hunt. I suspect they did it first thing before we had time to ruin our clothing.

Mom and Dad, Loren and I in November 1964.

I found it in an ancient plastic sleeve and behind it is a photo I prefer of the four of us, above. Printed neatly on the photo is November 1964 which makes me, shown in my mom’s arms, only 11 months old here; Loren in the plaid coat is only three. Mom and dad are very young here, Betty about 26 and Elliott 36. They are in what appear to be matching trench coats (normal for dad, a bit unusual for mom, dad must have bought it for her) and I love the little plaid jacket Loren is sporting. This the same front yard of my grandparents, my mom’s dad, Frank, would have still been alive, now a bit barren for fall. We lived in northern Jersey then, about an hour’s drive, and would have come in for a Sunday visit. This is more evocative for me – I can feel the fall air and smell that yard.

****

Yesterday Kim and I shook the dust off a bit and went downtown. Ostensibly, I had new eyeglass prescriptions to fill and I dropped those off in the East Village but it was a gorgeous unusually warm spring day. I was pleased I decided to stop next door to the eyeglass store at Porto Rico Coffee Importers as my favorite Danish roast was on sale. Particularly with the expectation of rising coffee prices I stocked up.

I love his toes! look at the size of the Steiff button in his ear!

However I also detoured us to the John Derian stores where I heard there was a large display of Steiff toys. I was not disappointed. We were greeted in one store by the giant elephant below (I should have taken a close up picture of the Steiff button in his ear – it was enormous, consistent with his enormity) and at the one devoted to fabrics, by the even more spectacular nodding warthog! For me these were well worth the price of admission right there. All three stores were nicely done up for Easter with a lot of vintage bunnies.

This moving warthog greets you at the John Derian fabric shop!

John Derian and I seem to have a more or less separated at birth sensibility. I know where he acquires much of his antique stock (or at least the type of places) and how much he pays so I can’t really ever buy from him – the mark up is too high. That doesn’t mean I don’t like seeing what he’s found and how he’s put it together. I purchase this or that small item, sort of on the edges of what is available. Somewhere deep inside what I really want is to see his house which probably has all the really good stuff! Sadly I do not think an invitation is forthcoming. (Some photos of the shops to scroll through below.)

Lastly, a teaser, something I can’t remember doing before but we have the chance today. I leave you with this photo of Cookie atop box she has happily commandeered. It contains a major toy purchase so she won’t be enjoying it for too long as I plan to open it today and share the contents with you soon. To be continued as they say.

Cookie on the mystery box…

Belated Birthday Fare

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: As those in the New York area know, it was a freakishly warm day here yesterday, topping out around 80 degrees. As a result the denizens of this metropolis poured onto the streets in wrinkled summer garb (or simply lack thereof) all white bellied and sleepy like a city of Rip Van Winkles. Kim and I entered the fray and spent the day hunting small Pam pleasures as is our program for my birthday.

A February birthday girl, this year I was bedeviled first by Kim’s Covid, followed by my own – and then a distressing string of funerals and memorials, plus one wedding! The MoCA comics festival thrown in too. All this to say, yesterday was our first day in a long time when we were left to our own devices.

Old Good Things is chock-a-block full of antique fixtures and a lot of brass. My dad was a utter sucker for brass fixtures and I can only imagine he would have come home with one of these. My father’s daughter, I too was tempted…

I started our itinerary with a stop at an antique and architectural salvage store, way over on the westside of midtown called Old Good Things which I have been curious about. (Their website can be found here.) I follow these folks on Instagram and while what they offer is generally just too large for my living situation but I have always wanted to visit the store. I do fantasize about replacing bathroom fixtures, maybe a fireplace mantel in NJ and light fixtures as well, and it sends me musing. There is much wonderful furniture, with an emphasis on wooden cabinets of drawers which is one of my own forms of kryptonite, hard to resist. Still, these are very large pieces for the most part and I live in small spaces.

Two intriguing standing lamps that had just come into stock. They are being rewired so I have a minute to think about investing in them.

Notably there were a few rather comfy and wonderful leather arm chairs but all I could see were happy cat claws so I moved along. These two standing lamps which just came into stock and had yet to be rewired were of interest – we could use a standing lamp here in the New York apartment and the weird sort of jadeite on one interests me. They were pricey but I will consider them. A good standing lamp is hard to find.

Then we headed downtown for what I considered the main event – the Metropolitan Postcard Club show and sale. I have not been to one since before Covid when they used to take place on 57th Street at a rundown Howard Johnson’s hotel near 8th Avenue. It was then a much larger affair, easily 3-4 times the size of the group yesterday. However, this just meant I burrowed a bit deeper and a very patient Kim joined me in sorting through boxes of cat postcards, with a few of New Jersey thrown in for good luck.

It was held at a pleasant, small and essentially non-descript church in the West Village called the Church of the Village. About a dozen dealers had a large circle of tables and it was quiet enough that you could sit and patiently go through the labeled boxes. I flashed a picture of yesterday’s Felix card on a few dealers to see if they had ever had any go through their hands. One looked quite stunned and said no, the other gave me a knowing look and said he might have one at home. I gave him my card.

I left the show lighter in dollars but happily heavy in cards and I will commence a liberal dissemination of them here in the coming weeks. It was well passed lunchtime and our tummies called so we wandered over to the Old Town Bar on 18th Street. I had a craving for an old establishment and this fit the bill perfectly. We’d eaten upstairs not that long ago but for lunch were seated at a table in the back.

My view of the main room at lunch yesterday. I would like to be there when it is quiet enough to go around the room and read what is on all the walls.

After lunch we made a quick trip to Blick so I could buy some watercolor brushes and paper. My friend Eileen (@EileenTravell) gave me a very lovely birthday gift of a nifty watercolor set for my birthday and I hope to commence playing with them soon.

Thank you again Eileen! I hope to make some use of these.

The next real stop of the day was The Strand bookstore. Our original thought was that we would just pop in to look in used fiction. (Kim looking for Dumas and I for someone named Carol Brink. We just saw a somewhat obscure Barbara Stanwyck 1953 film based on a Brink novel called Stopever. The films was renamed All I Desire, and directed by Douglas Sirk. It is masterful film making and visually stunning, like many of his films although this one in black and white and not the signature saturated color. A good TCM write up of the film, with spoilers, can be found here.) We came up empty handed on both scores but decided to head up to the Rare Book Room.

We’ll see if this acquisition is more than good looking on the outside.

Kim and I more or less nibble at the edges of the Rare Book Room. We aren’t interested in the signed first editions, but instead make our way to a few bookcases of more or less random old books. I have scored several items at this venue, including some that lead me further down the path of interesting authors or series. Despite the name, some of these volumes are very affordable.

Very competent illustrations by someone named G. Demain Hammond R.I.

However, I did pay up a bit for the book I bought yesterday. Shown here, it is a very pretty looking, illustrated volume which helps its cause. It actually may not need any help. I looked up the author, Rosa Mulholland, and she appears to be quite interesting. She was an Irish writer, very prolific and also wrote under the name of Rosa Gilbert, her married name – aka Lady Gilbert. Rosa appears to have worked the side of the street of fiction I like so maybe more about her to come over time as well.

A frequent stop either to or from The Strand.

We wrapped up with a quick look in Alabaster Bookshop around the corner from The Strand. Still checking for Dumas and coming up empty handed. I like Alabaster although they focus more on recent books and art volumes and I feel like I haven’t bought anything there in a while. I always check their kids and juvenile books, but it is a somewhat diminished section. I always remember that had a charmingly grumpy calico cat I saw grow from kittenhood on there. Her ghost still wafts through and I miss her.

That was it, a wrap on another birthday, perhaps all the better for the wait this year.

Bum, 25 lbs Cat, Jackman, Maine

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: I felt a bit hoodwinked on this card as I suspect that it was slightly enhanced on the listing where I purchased it. I share it with you slightly enhanced here as well – it is a bleached out, over exposed image on the top half where the puss is featured. This was probably due to the travails of indoor photography and the challenges of photographing Bum.

Having said that Bum does not give the appearance of being difficult, wishing to move quickly, or for that matter needing to relocate any time soon. He looks perfectly comfortable on his perch atop the scale which (in theory because we cannot really read it) is advertising his advanced girth. A careful look reveals that he is parked on a Miller High Life tray for the purpose of the weigh-in.

They are staging the photo with the little fellow on a scale in what seems to be the luncheonette type restaurant attached to the hotel, formica topped table with a metal edge to service a faux leather booth. We can spy a heat register under the table. Close examination reveals that a large ashtray and an advertisement for something called Irish Cream share the table. (The Irish Cream is advertised by a woman in a long dress, decorated with clover leaves.)

Bum is a fine specimen of enormous tabby. While he is certainly hefty he appears to carry it well and in all reality is also a really big kitty. He has a nice bloopy nose which I always like on a cat. His tail is curled around him. He does manage to look right at the camera, somehow intuiting the import of the moment. 25 pounds seems to be the general upper end for cats and I’m not sure I have had any that approached it – although our enormous orange stripe Persian mix, Pumpkin, may have gotten up there. I don’t remember weighing him in his prime, but maybe pushing 20 lbs.

Feathers, 40 lbs of kitty! See post link below. Pams-Pictorama.com Collection.

Fat cats and recording their enormity is a sub-genre of cat photos in its own right. I have two in my collection I have written about previously, A Cat Named Boy (with the post which can be read here) and Feathers about whom a 2016 post can be read here. Meanwhile, Feathers claimed to be world famous and weighed in at an amazing 40 lbs!

While this is an unarguably lousy photo, oddly enough I found it in the collection of the Penobscot, Marine Museum online. Same bum burned out photo, at least as bad as mine, no further information. It is the only reference to Bum I could find, his fame faded. Meanwhile, the Jackman Hotel appears to be gone, unless it has become the Jackman Motel with shingled, cottage-style buildings. The argument against that might be that it also appears to be contemporaneous with the writing of this postcard.

Verso of the postcard.

This postcard was send on June 8, 1954 to Beverly and Barbara Meyers whose address was quite simply Delta, Pa. We know it arrived the morning of June 10 as far as Delta as it is stamped there as well. It says, Mon. June 7th, Hi, We are having a beautiful trip. We drove through the mts today. We will be in Quebec around noon Tuesday. Bum, the kitty is a beautiful sight, we petted him or I wouldn’t believe he is a real cat. Isabel and Ralph. I am glad they recorded having giving him a few pets! As hotel mascot, and in deference to his weight, we’ll assume he lived a pretty good life as the feline denizen of the hotel.

Despite the quality of the photo postcard we are nonetheless honored to have Bum, another lovely fat cat, join the Pictorama archive of cat record and fame.

Birthday

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Pam’s Pictorama Photo Post: Today is a somewhat rare occasion, a family photo post. I have done them before when I discovered some very early family photos (a few posts of those can be found here and here), but I am not sure I have done many from my own childhood – except maybe in passing to document a toy or a beloved cat.

Today is a photo my mom sent to me, matted and framed, as a surprise several years ago. A cousin had given her two photos of me and my sister as small children. She kept one, which hangs in the kitchen in New Jersey, and sent me the other. This one lives on a shelf in direct eye shot of my “home office” desk. I am looking down and on the left. So like us that Loren is running toward the camera and I am turned aside, a bit diffident.

Undated photo of Loren with our cat Winkie.

I don’t remember these matching outfits at all. We were rarely dressed alike, although photos seemed to be taken when we were giving the impression after the fact that it happened often. Probably the outfits were gifts and the pictures documenting our wearing them. These are the sort of typical dresses of the late 1960’s to be expected on little girls. Most of our time was spent in indestructible things like Danskin shorts or jeans. (I had a flowered pair of jeans in red and blue I was especially fond of a few years later. Very 1970’s fashion forward. They live on in my memory.)

We are in a yard I cannot identify – probably a long forgotten, not especially distinct yard where the cousin in question was living. There’s not much to it. Just the sort of suburban yard of my youth where we’d just run around with chasing each other and some imagined foe or friend until exhausted.

Loren with I believe Mitsy, a lovely little tuxedo.

I have also rarely written about my sister, Loren, before. I did a tribute to her rugby trophies a while ago (that post can be read here) but I have not written too much about her. Loren Butler (married name Feffer) was born on March 15, 1962 – two years my senior and a fact that I was unlikely to forget. Loren was definitely an older sister. She died after a long fight with breast cancer on January 20, 2003, just shy of her 41st birthday.

She was quite brilliant (a PhD in mathematics), did not suffer fools gladly, and was very athletic most of her life – she had a constant need to burn off her restless energy. Loren was also very opinionated (about all things), extremely generous and extraordinarily loyal. As my sister and fairly close in age, Loren and I had that weird symbiotic relationship that siblings have. Hatched over time in the same protective family bubble of early childhood, we shared experiences and a history that only we experienced together. (My brother Edward entered the story a bit later and adds another chapter to the Butler clan story.)

Loren probably about 1990 judging from the car she is driving. This photo also lives near my desk at home but was actually framed to take it to the office which somehow has not happened.

As we know, death means spending the rest of your life limited to a now one-sided dialog with that person. In this case many of my earliest memories were shared only with her – conversations in bed at night when we shared a room as small children, games and of course epic battles with each other. Her opinions (memories of real ones and now imagined based on her track record) play in my brain. These range from world politics to my most recent hair cut.

Someone contacted her widower about publishing some of her work recently while a recent wedding celebration of a mutual friend was a chance to hear a few stories I had not heard before which is always a good day.

It has been 23 years since I have been able to wish her a happy birthday in person. (For her 40th birthday I gave her gold hoop earrings, still hopeful that there was a future and that she would wear them for years to come. I have those now with most of her other jewelry.) However, she still lives large in my mind and a day doesn’t go by without thinking about her, so here’s to Loren on what would have been her 63 birthday.

The (Truly) Great ’25 Valentine Reveal!

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: There are a handful of traditions here at Deitch Studio and Pam’s Pictorama that we hold dear and none is so anticipated and celebrated than the annual Valentine Kim makes for me. A tradition that reaches back to our first year together (now a few decades back), today’s is an entry in a long line of wonderful drawings, all which have depicted me and illustrated my interests over the decades and placing me at the heart of my own Catland. (This includes frequent allusions to me as the jolly and of course benign ruler of the land, Queen of Catland. A few examples can be found here, here and here and other pictures below.)

A February 2020 edition. This too could be Margate! Pams-Pictorama.com collection.

This year is very special however. The idea grew out of a recent post some of you may remember devoted to review the splendid new biography of Louis Wain, Catland, which can be read here. Kim has brought to life my suggestion that there was a moment when Louis Wain and T.S. Eliot were living on different sides of the same beachside community, Margate, where I have noted, many people had photo postcards made posing with a splendid giant Felix the cat doll. (Some of those posts can be found here and here.)

Pams-Pictorama.com collection.

Kim has brought all these elements together. Rather than running into each other and meeting TS and Louis are both so wrapped up in their own views of the world they never see each other – although Felix loitering outside the photo studio arguably sees them both. They are both witnessing a (real) catburgler in action – for Eliot it inspires the poem Macvity the Mystery Cat (who appears to be reading about his exploits at the bottom) while Wain wanders off into a world of anthropomorphic kits which, around the perimeter of the picture range from jaunty to disintegrating, and forming Cubist cat delights.

A Margate Felix. Pams-Pictorama.com collection.

Louis is painting the very scene, or a variation on it, while some of his humanoid cats enjoy exploits swimming and strolling just out of the frame. Big white kitties standing on their hindlegs point at the scene with even more imaginative cats portraits above them. T.S. Eliot recovering from a nervous breakdown, meeting Louis Wain drifting off into his own world of ever morphing felines.

In some ways, this is the perfect melding of worlds, Wain’s, Eliot’s, mine and Kim’s. Bravo yet again my beloved Mr. Deitch!

T.S. Eliot
1888 - 1965

Macavity: The Mystery Cat (1939)
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw —
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime — Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair -
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it’s useless to investigate - Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
‘It must have been Macavity!’ - but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Birthday Week

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: I think the impression people may get is that I like my birthday, although the reality is actually that I am a bit ambivalent about it and have taken control of it to the extent I can. As my mother would say however, it is far better than the alternative. Years and years ago in my 20’s, I decided that I would try to take the situation in hand and create birthday traditions for myself and therefore be less disappointed in the enterprise. This has largely worked, some years more successful than others.

Those who have been down this road with me before know that my birthday occurs alongside Valentine’s Day (the great Kim Deitch Valentine’s Day reveal is here tomorrow – mark your calendars!) which posed challenges for the admirers and boyfriends of the young Pam Butler.

I was born in a snowstorm if not downright blizzard. Mom and Dad sussed out the situation pretty quickly and got her to the hospital to have me in the late afternoon (He was annoyed I interrupted his office hours, Mom used to say) amidst growing piles of snow. It frequently snows, sometimes a lot, on my birthday. I remember at least two whopping snowstorms in my early adulthood, stop everything kind of days, here in the city. And along with the snow, a myriad of plans cast aside at the last minute for alternative plans. I learned to lean local for my birthday.

Birthday traditions include trying to have a meal with my various other Aquarian friends. Currently this has whittled down to just a couple of favorites with folks moving or among the elder generation, passing. Still, they are always wonderful and I saw one friend earlier this week for dinner although have yet to set the date for the other – we’ve been known to wander into March too, spreading it out. Bygone traditions included spending the day with my late sister, Loren, and mom sending flowers or acquiring lavish cakes.

Kim and I will spend a day next weekend sort of gloriously wandering somewhere in the city next weekend. (I head to NJ for a clutch of doctor’s appointments there – and to visit the NJ cats who will help greet the new birth year on Tuesday.) Potentially we’ll be bundled up if the weather predictions hold. Snow is scheduled to start tonight and, after a brief melt possibly tomorrow, continue on through the beginning of the week.

This year, as declared in a post last week, I went on a bit of a vintage Valentine’s Day binge and while looking I came across today’s card which seemed perfect for me to align and honor my black cat, Valentine’s Day and birthday interests.

It is British and therefore the black cat is a lucky symbol – their horseshoe is also facing down whereas I think we usually portray it up (to hold the luck!) on this side of the pond. In addition to this smiling cat there is a four leaf clover, should we have any doubts. (There will be more about lucky objects coming next week so stay tuned.)

Back of card.

It declares: Upon your happy Birthday morn, I wish you Joy and Pleasure. And everything you’d like to have Heaped up in brimming measure! It has a spot for From at the bottom (what about To?) and someone has penciled in, as best I can tell, E. M. Pinder.

Thank you Eden Kennedy!

It has this interesting sort of deckle edge to the card and on the back it reads, Mrs. c/o Mrs. Plumb, 25 Hassett Road, Homerton and on the other side, For Minnie. The stamp is a halfpenny one and it was sent on March 7,1912, just short of 113 years ago. This makes its somewhat discolored state a bit more forgivable.

Beau, the black cat beauty to whom I refer.

In closing I also offer a birthday card from a friend that arrived in the mail last night. It looks remarkably like Beauregard, one of the Jersey Five. Makes an excellent case for a celebratory cat tierra, not to mention cape.

Concern for cats…

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: I used to say that I would like to retire to a cat farm in Connecticut. Now, far from retired, those of you who follow my story know that it does appear that I roughly run one in New Jersey in addition of course to the feline folks here in New York. Additionally, my work life is now very animal centric and I can say I find myself in a place where I can have some very catty days indeed. Today I am dedicating a bit of space to my feline friends understanding it may not be the cat’s meow for all readers.

Peaches sees a bird out the window. She is ever watchful of the outside perimeter.

Just last Friday at work I found myself having a delightful hour crawling around on the floor of our member’s lounge with two new visitors, such good kitties they were out of their carriers and investigating the premises. Their mom adopts special needs cats only and is able to devote time and resources to their care. They are remarkably well adjusted cats and sat on my lap for pets and purrs.

Stormy is most likely to be seen at meals.
Milty, grand old man, napping.

In general, unlike dogs (some actually seem to enjoy a visit to our premises – others less so) cats are rarely up for an actual visit when they are at the vet. This is certainly true of mine. If left with me in an exam room Blackie will immediately start to examine all possible exits for a getaway, first checking the perimeter of the room and gesturing to the doors – come on mom, we can make a break for it. I had another cat, Otto, an excellent jumper, who would look upward and the next thing I knew she went from my shoulder to atop high cabinets and had to be fetched by office staff. It is more than fair to say I meet many more cats these days, albeit those under the duress of being at the vet.

Beauregard who has recently discovered the pleasures of Zoom and sitting on my desk in NJ.

My work integrates daily thinking about cat projects as well – fund a cat recovery area in surgery or ICU anyone? Pay for some research? The largest number of patients are dogs, and frankly we care for many exotics (it seems to me I have seen a lot of guinea pigs coming and going lately and even heard tell of a goldfish). One day in the hall one of our staff rushed past me with a teeny, tiny turtle in a plastic tub. However, cats are far from uncommon.

Cats (dogs – and other animals) which need to be rehomed are sometime detailed and emailed to staff as it is, obviously, a huge network of animal people. This in addition to a daily dose of cat tales and woes on posts via the internet where adoption and loss seem to vie for attention. Lovely adult and senior cats who have lost their home due to circumstances changing – illness, death or indifference.

Sunny front door action at the NJ house. A prime morning spot.

As much as the New Jersey cats are tended and adored in my absence I worry about them. Although it has worked out better than I thought it would and it was definitely how my mom wanted it. I continue to consider it a work in progress.

Here in New York, Blackie continues to confound us with a newfound desire to drink water from the sink. I have had other cats develop this desire, but Blackie is single minded in his demands. Yes, he has had all sorts of tests run about it and even taking his diabetes into account it is unclear where the increased water intake has come from. In part, one cannot separate out the entertainment factor of making your human perform simple tricks such as turning the faucet on for you when you caterwaul. Still, there is definitely a corresponding urge and he also drinks considerable water from his shared bowl with Cookie.

Gus on the bed in NJ. He is one cat I think misses getting singular attention.

Blackie’s sister Cookie has become a more affectionate cat as she gets older. She is demanding in her own way (in fact we sometimes call her Demanda) but usually for pets, preferring morning and evening specially for those. Cookie is unusual in that she is the only cat I have ever known who truly likes having her tummy rubbed – like a dog. She will roll and stretch and request our attention for this. She and Blackie will share the bed during the day, but once I get into it at night she eschews it. Blackie has the job of waking us in the morning and only if we refuse to stir by about 6:15 will Cookie take matters in hand and race across the bed a few times to see if she can eject us manually.

Tummy rubbing time.

So this morning I find myself wishing I could give them all a home, but a bit overwhelmed by my own inherited menagerie at times. Wouldn’t trade my daily dose of cats however, although I am learning to appreciate dogs too – more to come?

Milton the Cat

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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.

January

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Pam’s Pictorama Post: January is a tough month for me. Personal ghosts swirl around me a bit this time of the year, with a strong dash of snow, sleet and extreme cold thrown into the misery mix. This year is no exception, but today I will focus on another anniversary and update those readers who are interested on my new job which also hit the one year mark last week.

I am somewhat fascinated by our proximity to the underbelly of the 59th Street Bridge and, as above, the apparatus for the cable car to Roosevelt Island.

I have been known to say that the thing about accepting a challenge is there’s always the very real chance you will fail – that is if it is a true challenge. Obviously we gauge our chance for success when we accept and enter into challenges, but really, a true challenge means that the specter of failure should remain front of mind.

I wrote at the one year point in my job at Jazz at Lincoln Center after leaving the Metropolitan Museum after almost 30 years. (Those separate posts can be found here and here.) I definitely had a tiger by the tail at that point and with that job. It was more than another year before I started to feel like I had it on the run and it took a pandemic to make me feel as though I really gained some ground. (One of the posts I wrote about the challenges of managing my team remotely during Covid can be found here.)

Spectacular rooftop view from the old office, but we were rarely up there.

The learning curve at Jazz was tremendous and the first year was just about immersing myself in the life of the orchestra, traveling with them and understanding them as well as establishing routines and process.

While the new gig at a large non-profit veterinary hospital is remarkably less dysfunctional, the challenge of breaking the code of the organization and fundraising for it may be an even higher bar. My biggest challenge is the difficulty of immersing myself in the life of the hospital. My office is not physically in the hospital and therefore I am only present when needed. Finding your way into a complex organization is hard enough but to do it from a distance is of course even harder.

Photo of the Jazz at Lincoln Center Orchestra on a lunch break while traveling through the south on tour in ’17. This was part of how I got to know them and the organization.

When I talk about success and failure, of course first and foremost is actually raising money and creating a dependable functioning machine for doing so. More science than art, a good fundraising operation should understand how and from where it gets money so that it is achievable each year, and that forms a foundation on which growth of contributed income can be based.

It is this latter piece I have not yet achieved. As I hit the one year mark I feel as though I barely know the organization and that I have yet to build even the shell of a machine, instead I have taken the year to study the existing process and procedures. I am sorry not to be further along, but remind myself that I signed up for a marathon and not a sprint and how can you improve on things if you do not understand precisely how they work.

The Ritz Diner is one of the few eating establishments near work I occasionally frequent for breakfast or lunch.

And while I have not cracked the code I did meet more of the medical staff over the holidays and I need to take advantage of offers to spend time in some of the services – a day in Surgery, in the ER and maybe an overnight in the hospital. There were offers of meetings and coffee and part of my New Year’s resolutions for the job has to be a regular schedule of these.

Exam room pic from Blackie’s first stint at the hospital.

Still and most importantly, taking it out of the abstract, some of you know that Blackie decided to stop eating in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. He did a long stint at the hospital about two years ago and recently we started bringing him there to care for his diabetes. (Posts about both of these Blackie events can be found here and here.) Despite setbacks in does still feel like I am in the right place at the right time for me.

For some things there are no real solutions aside from time and hard work and so here we go.

Photo of My Dad

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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.