Cats, Uncles, and Oceans

My family got a harsh lesson in compassion, humility, and life and death this week. And at the same time, a chapter in our lives and ties to the past came to an end. On Thursday, we put our cat Gypsy to sleep. She was our only real pet, besides countless attempts at fish, for fifteen years.

In October, Gypsy started making a strange smacking noise. Something was clearly bothering her. A few weeks later, the roof of her mouth started swelling. The vet put her on prednisone and we hoped for the best. But the growing tumor was stronger than the drugs. Over time, she started drooling and eventually began to rub her mouth on any sharp corner, obviously trying to ease the constant irritation. The vet had warned that her quality of life would deteriorate and that we would know when it was time to consider humane options. After marked weight loss and a dramatic increase in bleeding, a bad thing for a solid white cat, we realized that the time had come.Thursday afternoon, the kids said their goodbyes and we took her to the vet for one final visit. I was very impressed by the compassion and class demonstrated by the vet’s staff. But after saying our own goodbyes, an IV was inserted and she slipped off to a final sleep.

In emotional times, it’s easy to find connections that aren’t necessarily there or ordinarily sensed. Gypsy’s death could have been seen as symbolic of other surrounding foundations that have serious cracks and structural failures. Without a doubt, she was seemingly a final “living” connection to two important people from my past.Gypsy was one of dozens of kittens that were born underneath my grandmother’s house. One of nine sisters, my grandma Mullis was as country as country could be. She introduced me to “eggs and brains” and “souse meat”—don’t expect me to explain it here. Look it up for yourself. I refused to eat them then, and I still do. But she also always had cats, a constant source of entertainment for me as a child. In 1994, on the afternoon of my Uncle Harold’s funeral, we coaxed several kittens out from under the back of my grandmother’s home. Gypsy was the one carrying a chicken leg and growling at her siblings to keep them from her prize. I should have known then that she was going to be trouble.

My Uncle Harold was undoubtedly my favorite uncle during my childhood. He was retired militar, having served in the Air Force in Korea and Vietnam. He lived in Florida—on the beach where he owned a motel, no less—and always brought the coolest gifts back to Georgia. At an early age, to my mother’s dismay, he taught me to hate green beans and that a slice of cake could serve as a complete meal. When I was in elementary school, he moved to the Florida Keys to live in a boat. The ocean always seemed to call to him. And he loved cats, too. His favorite and most memorable cat was named Ten Speed. Suitably, Ten Speed was every bit the character as Uncle Harold. He would have liked Gypsy.

I think it was very appropriate that Uncle Harold died of a heart attack swimming in the ocean, a place he dearly loved. A few years back, my grandmother Mullis passed away, too. She died in a sad room in a nursing home. Suffering from Alzheimer’s, she probably died not knowing anyone around her. Oh that she could have instead died swimming in her own ocean.

Goodbye Gypsy. As far as I know, there’s no theological basis for pets finding their way to heaven, but I hope they do. I’d like to think of her playing right now with Ten Speed and Uncle Harold while Grandma looks on.

Memorial Day

So it’s Memorial Day and I picked a heck of a way to celebrate. Around the country folks are breaking out the grills, going to baseball games, and taking the first dip in the swimming pool. But for me, it’s a stomach bug. Instead of a cheeseburger or bratwurst, I’m trying to work up the courage to try some Jell-O. But I did find a way to remember. I’ve been watching war movies all day.

There were some really amazing epic war movies made in the 1960’s and 1970’s, including two that I watched today—Battle of the Bulge and The Longest Day. Films such as these, and Patton and Midway, served to wrap history around the glory and patriotism of American warfare. They were woven around decisive battles. And they demonstrated the heroes of Americans defending freedom. Sadly, after Vietnam, a majority of the war movies, albeit few in total, spent more time criticizing parties, policies and administrations. These films did much to erode the respect for soldiers bold enough to climb into a B-25 or charge a pillbox on Omaha beach. Thankfully, that trend took a major turn when Saving Private Ryan and Band of Brothers emerged in recent years.

Americans seem to always be looking for a hero—the next hero. Sports stars, musicians, and even a few politicians seem to be common fodder for the next American “hero”. Unfortunately, we as a country need a “Memorial Day” to remind us that true heroes fill the pages of the history books of American warfare. And, of course, new heroes are serving in Iraq and Afghanistan today.

So on this Memorial Day, I lift my glass of Sprite high—yeah, clear liquids for me for a while— to the soldiers of yesterday and today. Midway is coming on in a few minutes. With a cast like that, I’m sure I can muster the courage to pop open a strawberry Jell-O.

A Long Weekend

What a weekend. Sometimes I can’t imagine what other folks do with Saturdays and Sundays—watch television, sleep in, or play with their cat. I can't remember the last time I went out on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon to play golf. And at times like this afternoon, I envy them the moments of rest or solitude.

This past week, I picked up an unexpected wedding to photograph. That was a pleasant surprise, but nerve wracking considering I didn’t meet the bride until Friday night at the rehearsal. So after consulting with the bride and watching the rehearsal Friday, I spent most of the evening packing up my gear. Saturday , I spent six hours shooting the wedding, rushed to the wedding of a friend’s daughter, and then played with the band for the wedding reception. Thirteen hours in dress shoes. Four hours in a tux. Three hours playing trombone. And six hours with two Nikons hanging around my neck. By ten o'clock Saturday night, I could barely walk.

Sunday brought no rest. I spent the morning playing keyboard at church and then rushed off to a luncheon. Then I spent two more hours on stage with the Grapevine. But I did get some time to play with a fisheye lens and get some shots of the band for the Website. Oh, and did I mention that it rained?

So why do I do it? Why do I spend so much time chasing hobbies—probably because they are passions. They bring an outlet for creativity. And maybe because they take me to a place I can’t otherwise find in the reality of everyday life. Sometime soon I need some downtime, a chance to shut down and contemplate a few of those realities. But for now, it’s time to hit Photoshop.