The Hermit and the Fat Cat

Well, I don't have much in the way of anything new and exciting to report, although I figured that after the copper pipe post, you guys might want an update. The neighborhood has been quiet the past few nights - no crowds of hooligans in the streets, no firecrackers. The only disruptions to my sleep last night consisted of a catfight (in which Isis was quite interested. I'm sure she would've joined in had I opened the door for her!) and a forlorn dog who decided to sit in the street in front of my house and bark for a while. Other than that, nothing.

The man from the plumbing company, who will be installing my hard-pipe gas lines, came out yesterday. He said that just about everyone in my neighborhood is his customer, and that nearly all of the houses in that area have had their copper piping nabbed at one point or another. So, for those of you who felt that my copper was ganked solely 'cause I'm white, well.... no.

I haven't had much interaction with any of my neighbors as yet, although I smile and wave whenever I see anyone. The man who lives behind me helped me change out my lightbulb on my back porch. No, I'm not incompetent, just short and lacking a ladder. I also met a woman who lives down the street. Today, as I was closing the gate after backing my car out, a little boy at the house next door hollered something at me. As my car radio was blaring away, I couldn't hear a word he said. He repeated himself, and I turned the radio off. Then I could hear him, "That Prince you listening to?" "No, Modest Mouse." Man, I am so white.

Isis is doing well at fat camp, although she doesn't seem to be losing any weight. Her appetite has picked up since I first brought her over, so perhaps she wasn't eating initially die to nervousness. She's been having a ball exploring all the cabinets, shelves and assorted nooks and crannies, not to mention playing with her new kitty toy. She purrs a lot, and seems to be having far more fun than she's had in a while. I wonder how she'll feel when I leave for Korea and she returns to life with the other eleven?

Isis and her toy


Isis on the couch. (Chris, notice what else is on my couch!)

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crackheads and copper piping

This is absurd. I spent the morning cleaning my kitchen - I got a lot done, and it now looks a lot nicer. When I was cleaning the stove, I bumped one of the knobs for one of the burners. It's a gas stove, and it started clicking away, trying to light... but with no luck. I shut it off and tried the other four burners; nothing lit at all. Mom tried as well, also to no avail. (The stove lit just fine back when she bought the place.) So, we called out a man from the gas company. At first he just said that the gas had been switched off. He turned it on, and then said that it looked like there was a leak somewhere. Initially he checked all the lines in the house; they were fine. Then he went outside to look. He came back in after a few minutes and said, "Well, I have good news for you and very, very bad news. The good news that I found the leak. The bad news is that you have no plumbing under your house." What? "The crackheads done stole all your copper piping." Apparently all the tubing which carried the gas from the gas main throughout the house was made of copper, and (as I heard numerous times today) the cost of copper has gone up a lot recently. This is apparently a common crime. We discussed several potential solutions with the gas man, and we're leaning towards having "hard piping" (made of some non-valuable galvanized metal that no one ever steals) installed instead. This might end up running about $500, but it's better than reinstalling copper piping only to have it ganked by one of my lovely neighbors. Grrrr. It's oddly humerous, although annoying and expensive. We went by the police station and filed a report, including the smashed mailbox (did you know that's a federal offense?), the scratched windows (criminal trespass) and the copper piping (a felony) - although they didn't seem to have much hope for finding the perps. They did suggest that any time I felt threatened (did I mention the crowd of youths hanging out in front of my house last night shooting off fire crackers?) I should call 911. It seems to be the general opinion that if I could get my next-door neighbors (you remember, the ones who were stealing my electricity) to move out, the quality of the neighborhood would improve drastically. Supposedly, repeated calls to 911 might do the trick. Or it might not. We'll see. Tonight I'm going to try to spy on what's going on outside with a strategically rigged webcam. If I get anything of quality, I'll post it for you. (Also, the Officer we spoke with said not to instal burglar bars, as they're a fire hazard, and agreed with my mom that I should get a gun.)

First Night, Laura Walker, and the Crazy Cat Post

Well, my first night in my new house was pretty uneventful. I spent a lot of time playing with Isis and reading a book called Endangered Species, a mystery set on nearby Cumberland Island. The neighborhood definitely got to hopping around 10:30 or 11pm, with folks cruising by with their rap booming, and a lot of people hanging out in the street. But they all went to bed before I did – and it was certainly a lot quieter than living under the flight line for Lindbergh Field like I did for two and a half years! This morning, after observing how little Isis had eaten, I began considering Don’s suggestion that she might have an under active thyroid. That condition apparently contributes to lethargy, and this cat is a lot more lethargic than she used to be, back when she would race around in the yard like she thought she was a dog. We shall see; I’m keeping a close eye on her.

This afternoon, mom and I went to the Laura S. Walker State Park. It was my suggestion, as I’d never been. Mom warned me that there wasn’t much to do or see there, but we went anyway; she was definitely right. It was probably one of the least interesting State Parks I’d ever been to, and I’ve been to a good number. There was a gorgeous manmade lake... but no swimming was allowed (apparently due to the possible presence of alligators), and it seemed like quite a waste. There was a pool, picnic areas and a golf course, but not much else. It had two nature trails, but they were of the sort that meander through nature with ever getting to anything particularly scenic. I like my nature trails to have a destination – a waterfall or an overlook or something. We stopped by my house, played a bit with Isis and sat for a while on the front porch before heading back to mom’s house – time for dinner and a bit o’ blogging.

Serene picnic area, Laura S. Walker State Park

The have a nice beach area, with bouys and everything...
But swimming is prohibited!

I found this not-so-little guy in the bushes at my house.

Today I’ll give you the cat post. If you’re not a cat person, the rest of this post probably won’t interest you all that much. If you are, however, a cat person, please keep reading. And look at the pictures, too!

A visit to my mother isn’t simply a visit to Sandy Keeler; it’s a chance to commune with an entire entourage of cats. Yes, my mom is a cat lady – she currently has twelve. Is this a bit crazy? Yes. Do I have to live on large quantities of Sudafed and Kleenex whenever I’m there? Yes. Would we have it any other way? No. In fact, at least half of these kitties are my fault. My mom doesn’t have cable TV. She receives only one channel (PBS), and that one doesn't even come in all that well. However, twelve cats, each with a uniquely individual personality and history provide more than enough entertainment.

Koshka

I found Koshka during my Sophomore year of college, fall semester (1998). I was attending the University of the South (Sewanee) and at the time I was feeling rather depressed. Now, there’s nothing better for remedying a case of the blues than a cat. I spied Koshka, a scrawny orange fellow, standing in the midst of a large construction site (what was to become Sewanee’s controversial new dining hall) looking lonely and confused. I coaxed him out, and promptly stuffed him into my backpack (he was not pleased) and lugged him back to my house. It was campus housing, and technically, we were not allowed to have pets... although I successfully kept him hidden the remaining three months of the semester. (My house mates and the cleaning staff were quite wonderfully complicit in this endeavor.) At the end of the semester, I brought him home to mom. At the time, my mom lived a seven hour drive to the south in Lake City, FL. Koshka, who began to panic as soon as his first car ride began, began having diarrhea within the first thirty minutes of our drive. I was bumming a ride home with a friend at the time, and I’m quite surprised he didn’t kick us out at the Georgia/Tennessee border. I’m sure he thought about it! Koshka’s an old boy now, sluggish and clumsy, but he seems quite happy – and he always sleeps on my pillow when I sleep at my mom’s house.

Harry Orange Kitty

By my Senior year of college, I’d learned not to pet strange cats. When you see a cat from a distance, you can delude yourself into thinking it has a home. When you pet it, when you feel its bones protruding through its unfed skin, when it looks up at you and purrs, you know it’s asking for help. Suddenly you feel responsible for it. It was nearing the end of my last semester at Sewanee when I first saw Harry: a giant puff-ball of orange fur sitting outside the Russian House. He was so large that I thought surely, here was a well-fed cat. He must belong to my neighbors – therefore, I could safely pet him. It turned out that under all that fluffy fur he was nothing but skin and bones. Soon a car pulled into the driveway, frightening the cat; he ran and hid underneath the Russian House. I bought some cat food and began feeding him every day by his hidey-hole under the Russian House. I named him Orange Kitty, and by the time I graduated, he would come whenever that name was called. Unlike Koshka, Orange Kitty was a great companion for the car ride to Florida, although when he arrived at his new home, my mother refused to call him Orange Kitty. She christened him Harry (although I feel this is rather an inappropriate name for a cat). These days I call him Harry Orange Kitty – and he does come to it.

Jesse

When my mom was teaching at Lake City Community College, there was a feral cat living on campus, whom my mom named Xena. Xena popped out two litters of kittens before my mom was able to trap her and have her spayed. Xena returned to the wild, but her kittens stayed with my mom. The first of Xena’s kittens were Whiskey and Jesse. Whiskey, unfortunately, ran away following my mother’s move from Florida to Georgia, but Jesse is still around. He’s a sweet cat, quiet and shy, a short-haired black and white cat, whom you’d never guess by his temperament that he was named after Jesse James. The day my mom caught him (at the time he was a feral kitten) she nabbed him with her bare hands. And he ripped them to shreds, thus earning the name of a fierce fighter. Never again has he shown such temperament. He’s the calmest and quietest of the bunch.

Lefty

Tuffy

Dusty
Can you tell them apart? I can.

The second batch of Xena’s consisted of three orange and white shorthairs. My mom was apparently suffering from a bit of a western kick when she named them, because they received the monikers Lefty, Tuffy and Dusty. Lefty, so named because she can be distinguished from the other two by a patch of orange under her left eye, is both shy and head-shy (she cringes if you try to pet her head), but she loves to snuggle. Tuffy was always a tough (get it?) loner in Florida, spending most of her time outside, shunning people, and reacting with a snarl if one paid her too much attention. That all changed with the move to Georgia. Suddenly she became a fierce snuggler like Lefty, and she rarely goes outside. Dusty is similar in temper to his brother Jesse, although far more talkative. He has a disconcerting habit of joining conversations in such a way that you’re *sure* he’s trying to contribute something important... but what? I wish I knew.

Isis

One summer in Florida, my mother and I delivered phone books to a large portion of Columbia County. The job was exhausting, took forever, was conducted in the stifling Florida summer heat, and paid very, very little. But, we were both in need of money, and neither of us had anything better to do. We delivered phone books for about a week. On the last day, while pulling up to a convenience store for gas and something to drink, we found a skinny black cat nursing two tiny kittens. Of course, we couldn’t just leave them there. We used the phone book money to pay for shots and spayings. The mother cat was solid black with long and pointy ears. I still remember the vet’s first comment when he first saw her: “Wow! She’s got some ears on her!” Her ears gave her a decidedly Egyptian look. I would have loved to give her an Egyptian feline-goddess name, but to my mind, neither Bast, bastet nor Sekhmet make for good cat names. (Seriously, you’d end up calling the poor critter “bastard” or “sexy”!) Instead, we settled on Isis, the Egyptian mother-goddess. In the years since we fist discovered Isis, her body has filled out to surpass her ears; she now weighs over twenty pounds and is currently at “kitty fat camp” at my house. (See yesterday’s post.)

In memory of Shadow

We named Isis’s two kittens Echo and Shadow. Shadow was a fearless, spunky tabby who, sadly, was killed by a dog after only a few short months in our care. (The dog was immediately put down.)

Echo

Echo was solid black, just like her mother, and was just as fearless as Shadow. But oddly enough, Echo was the clumsiest kitten I have ever encountered; she injured herself numerous times. We’d only had her for about a month when she climbed to the top of a wicker cabinet, slipped, fell, and fractured her pelvis. She had to be confined to a cage for several months after while the bones knitted. To this day she has a funny walk, although it doesn’t slow her down one bit. She loves gallivanting around the neighborhood, flirting with the boy kitties (she has a special relationship with Tommy), killing birds and bringing their carcasses inside the house, and hanging out atop the wicker cabinet.

Tommy

I spotted Tommy on my way home from work one evening, back when I was working the deer job. I saw a cat run cross the highway ahead of me, and watched in horror as a pickup truck swerved towards it in an obvious attempt to run it over. The truck barely missed. The cat had run into a convenience store parking lot; I pulled in after him. I got out of the car, and saw him standing there, crying. I called him over to me. He was well-fed, and surely must have had a home. But, there were no houses nearby, and the cat was obviously in danger, so I took him home. We named him Tommy, as he was obviously a tomcat at the time. We ran ads in the local paper, but as no one called to claim him, Tommy remained with us. Unfortunately, after a month or so in our care, it became obvious that something was wrong. Tommy ate voraciously, consuming everything in sight, and drank equally, draining all the water bowls in the house (and there were many) before plunging his head into the toilet. At first Tommy gained a lot of weight, to the point that his skin was stretched taught, like a balloon ready to pop. Then he suddenly and rapidly began to lose weight. His hair began to fall out, and he began to suffer from bouts of diarrhea. I googled his symptoms, and the result was not good: diabetes. We took him to the vet, and our fears were confirmed. We expected to be advised to put him down. Instead, we were instructed on how to care for a cat with diabetes. We were told that with proper care, he could live approximately eighteen more months. That was nearly four years ago. Tommy receives insulin injections twice daily. As long as he has a bowl of food in front of him he neither notices nor minds. He’s the happiest cat of the bunch, and definitely the Alpha Male (despite the fact that “Tommy” is now a misnomer).

Tommy and Echo
(As an aside, Tommy and Echo have recreational sex. Both cats are fixed, so neither should have any hormonal need to do the deed, but they go at it periodically. It’s quite disconcerting. Who knew photos of cats could be sleazy?)


Ollie

In early 2003, our bit of hitherto unnamed road in Florida was named Olaf Glen by the county. Who was Olaf? Well, we called the county roads people and were told that the name had been generated at random by a computer. A few nights later, my mom came into my room. It was around four in the morning. She shook me awake hissing, “Jane! Get up now! We have a visitor!” I was pretty freaked out, although I should have known our “visitor” would be feline. He was gorgeous – part Siamese, with beautifully defined points and clear blue eyes. He was also the first stray to simply wander up to the front door and ask to be let in (with loud, yowling cries) of his own accord. He was unbearably sweet, the sort of cat who loves to purr, knead and drool all over everyone. We named him Ollie, short for Olaf, to give the street name some meaning. Ollie was also a tomcat, of the heavily spraying variety. Annoyingly, we’ve never been able to fully break him of this habit, even after having had him neutered. He’s lucky he’s so damn cute.

Catty
(Doesn't she just look catty?)

Cats eleven and twelve took their cues from Ollie and showed up on their own. They both arrived after my mom moved to Georgia. The first actually belongs to the people across the street. They had never bothered to get her spayed, and would simply cart her litters of kittens off to the animal shelter whenever she popped them out. Mom offered to take the cat to get spayed, and they agreed. You’d think that after that the cat would’ve hid whenever my mom came into view. Instead, she began hanging out on mom’s front porch. Mom named her Catty, partly because she took to hanging about during Hurricane Katrina and partly because she’s, well, catty. As in bitchy. She hangs out on the front porch (where mom feeds her) and defends it against the other eleven as if to say, “This is *my* porch. Get your own!” She doesn’t seem to realize that she’s the newcomer.

Ruffy

The other newbie arrived shortly after Catty. The first we knew of him was a cat fight in the front yard, followed by Tommy, coming in and bleeding. It took a while for Tommy to tolerate this newcomer, a fluffy, black cat, buff with muscle, a rival for Tommy’s position as Alpha-male. It also took a while before we were able to get a clear glimpse of this black phantom ourselves, as initially, he’d run off at the first sign of humans. But eventually he warmed up to us; food will tame any cat, given time. Mom named him Ruffy because he has a light grey ruff of fur around his neck, because (we thought) he was a rough stray, and because he was a bit of a ruffian. We later learned that he wasn’t exactly a stray. The neighbors to the right of us were an elderly couple. The Ruffy had belonged to the old man, who apparently doted on him. Then the old man died. The widow fed the cat, but wholly ignored him otherwise. As we’ve come to learn, Ruffy is an attention hog – I’ve never known a cat this needy for attention and affection. Once he decided we weren’t scary, he was all over us. He usually lives outside, sharing the front porch with Catty, although he comes indoors on extremely hot or extremely cold days... and then you simply cannot keep him off your lap!

Isis Goes to Fat Camp

I love cats. I have always loved cats. I would have no problem whatsoever living in a home with 12 cats except for one minor detail: I’m kind of allergic to them. Now, one or two cats and I’m fine. I’m not really sure how many cats it takes to bring out my allergy, but twelve is definitely over the limit. See, my mom has twelve cats. I love all of her cats (I’ll probably do a post just on her crazy cats in a day or so) but I’ve been living off of Sudafed and Benadryl since coming home, and I’m starting to develop a tolerance to said medicines, which isn’t good. Last night my eyes swelled up, so much so that I could barely see out of my right eye... and I figured it was time to go. No point in having an allergy-free house if I’m not going to use it. So, today I moved into my new home. Of course, I’m still going to be over at my mom’s house a lot (for one thing, I don’t have internet access at my house! For another, I haven’t yet gotten up the nerve to tackle the kitchen, so it’s still pretty unsanitary. Not to mention that I don’t have any plates or bowls or silverware or anything! I'm at my mom's house blogging right now...), but I’ve decided to sleep and shower and such over at my home.


It really is such a cute house...

Now, like I said, I’m okay with one or two cats. I figured it would be kind of lonely over in my new house without any pets, and as my mom has so many, I figured she could spare one. We talked about it and decided that it would be a good idea to bring Isis with me in order to put her on a diet. See, when you have twelve cats, the idea of regular meal times kind of goes out the window. Instead, there are bowls filled with catfood spread out all over the house, which are continuously refilled. Some of the cats are a bit more gluttonous than others. I don’t know if Isis is particularly gluttonous, or if she just has a low metabolism or what... but that cat is enormous! She weighs at least 20 pounds, and very little of that is muscle (mom does have an 18 pounder who is thick with muscles). It’s hard to control how much Isis eats without disrupting the feeding habits of the other eleven. But, this afternoon I brought her over to my house to begin a month long Kitty Fat Camp. So far, she seems to be adapting really well to being in a new environment: playing, purring, sleeping on my bed, etc. She’s probably enjoying being the only cat instead of one out of twelve. (And as the only cat to occupy both my attention and the cat toy... she's going to get a lot of exercise!) She’s definitely going to get a lot more attention this way. We’ll see how it goes with her diet. If it’s a food consumption problem, I hope that by the time I leave for Korea she’ll be down a few pounds. If it’s her metabolism or some other problem, I guess mom’ll have to take her to the vet after I leave. But for now, it’s Fat Camp. I’ll let you know how it goes.



Fat Isis

Left: Echo, Isis's daughter, fully grown
Right: Isis

Isis in my house: Fat Camp Day One

On another topic, I would just like to complain about people who buy things from Wal-Mart, damage them irreparably, and then return said things to Wal-Mart as if there was nothing wrong with them. I bought a lime green curtain panel for the window over my bed, only to get home and take the thing out of the package to discover that some enterprising individual had cut the thing in half, decided they didn’t like it like that, and then returned it. Now I have to return the damn thing. *Grrrrrrrr.*

the daily vandal

Apparently someone took a baseball bat to my mailbox last night :-(

July 4th-5th:Fireworks and Sapelo Island

Whew! It’s been a long couple of days. I’m exhausted and (unfortunately) coming down with something that’s giving me a wicked awful sore throat. But, I’ll try to post everything for you nonetheless. (I would just like to mention that this is going to be a very photo-intensive post. If for some reason not all of the pictures load - there should be 18 of them - right click on the spot where the photo should be and select “show photo”)

Tuesday morning (the morning of the 4th of July), mom and I went over to my house to work on cleaning and hanging up blinds. We discovered that there had been some vandalism done to the front windows of my living room. It was either simply malicious vandalism or someone trying very ineffectively to cut through the glass in order to unlock the window. We’re not sure how long that’s been there, since we’ve had the curtains in the living room closed for a while, and only noticed when we opened them to begin hanging the blinds (although mom says these scratches were not there when she hung the curtains). I’m starting to think seriously about burglar bars, although my mom seems opposed to the idea. Thoughts?

The damage to my front window.
The scratches aren't deep, just unsightly and unsettling.

Mom, hanging blinds

After spending the morning at my house and returning home for a short nap, we drove down to Frank’s house in Live Oak, FL to celebrate the 4th of July. Mom and Frank rode around on his new motorcycle (a Yamaha 650) while I explored the nearby sinkhole (something I pretty much do every time I visit Frank). After dinner, it was time for fireworks. Frank had invested something like $300 in fireworks, and his display was quite incredible.


Mom, decked out in 4th of July gear and new motorcycle helmet

Frank and Mom on the Yamaha 650

Frank, shooting fireworks off his porch.

After the fireworks display ended, mom and I drove back to Waycross. Why not just stay the night? Because we had somewhere in GA to be bright and early Wednesday morning. I collapsed into bed around 1:30am, only to get up at 5:00am (mom had it worse, going to bed at 2:00am and getting up at 4:00!) We left Waycross around 6:00 and drove east for about an hour and a half until we reached the coast. We had reservations to take the GA Department of Natural Resources tour of state owned Sapelo Island, and we had to be at the ferry dock by 8:00am. The day was absolutely gorgeous, and I took a lot of pictures of the sky, reflecting perfectly in the water.

On the way to the island, dolphins swam along side the ferry, leaping and playing in its waves. This isn’t the best picture of a dolphin by any means, although considering that usually when I try to take dolphin pics, I usually end up with a shot of the water where a dolphin used to be, I’m pretty proud of it. I actually took this one while standing in the bow of the ferry and looking down – he was swimming and leaping almost directly in front of the boat!

The island itself was very peaceful and beautiful. Back in the day it was home to a slave plantation, which grew cotton and sugar cane. It was owned by a couple different wealthy families before being sold R.J. Reynolds of cigarette infamy, who used it as his vacation retreat until selling it to the state of Georgia. (I learned that RJR died of emphysema. Hah!) While most of the island belongs to the state, there are parts of it which belong to the descendents of the slaves from the plantation. Nearly everyone who lives on the island is a descendent of its original slaves. Sapelo reminded me a lot of the setting for the book Mama Day, which is one of my favorites. Now I want to read God, Dr. Buzzard, and the Bolito Man.

Isn't it beautiful?

We drove around the island, and then toured the RJR mansion (if you have a group of 16 people willing to shell out $160/night you can rent the place out) and the historic lighthouse. Sadly, we didn’t have time to go to the beach.

The RJR mansion reminded me of an older, classier Graceland.
Too bad the reflecting pool was empty.
The place was surrounded by gorgrous live oaks...
although they made it difficult to get a decent picture.

The solarium was incredible.
What is now that brown floor used to be a swimming pool.
Can you even imagine?

The Sapelo Lighthouse

We caught the noon ferry back to the mainland and drove to the nearby town of Darien for lunch. Darien is a tiny little place (population roughly 1700) and didn’t have much in the way of restaurant choices. We stopped at a country restaurant called Granny Lee’s – delicious down-home Southern cooking. Afterwards, we began to head for Waycross. We stopped at several places along the Altamaha Waterfowl Management Area and saw (among other things) a mother and baby osprey!

Look at the little baby!

The mother tried to frighten me off. It worked.

Okay, I’m off to shower, gargle and rest... hopefully I'll feel better in the morning.

I have my suitcase!!

Yes ladies and gentlemen, my suitcase has arrived, hand delivered this afternoon! I must say that even though it was a tad inconvenient to have the bag delayed, its quick delivery was quite impressive – and a definite contrast to my lost suitcase experiences with Aeroflot (here and here). Hooray for Air France! Did I mention how yummy their airline food was? Anyway...

Nothing overly exciting in Jane news from Waycross other than the arrival of my suitcase. Mom and I spent several hours today working on my house. We went over there early this morning and unloaded the van-full of stuff that we snagged from Frank’s yesterday. We returned this afternoon and I worked on organizing the various boxes of my junk and mom worked on the living room - sweeping, mopping, arranging rugs and furniture, etc. Even though there’s very little furniture in the living room, it looks great. And, as it has the rug which was on the floor of my former home in FL for many, many years it feels like home already.

(We're going to have the curtains shortened, don't worry!)

We got that shelving unit from Kathy yesterday.
It's supposed to hold a TV...
but even my tiny TV only fits on the top shelf!

A long, hot, sweaty day

This morning mom and I got up at the crack of dawn in order to set out on a journey to North Florida before it got too hot. See, we were making the trip in her scary old 1984 ChevyVan, which (in addition to having a cracked windshield, windshield wipers that always work – except when it rains, and a rat and ant infestation) has no air conditioning. As it got up to nearly 100F today, I’m glad we left when we did, although it didn’t save us from sweltering in that van for several hours. Our first destination was Lake City, FL, approximately two hours to the south of Waycross. Lake City is quite possibly my least favorite place on the planet, although I swear it has the gravitational pull of a black hole. Even though I have few friends and no relatives (well, except the crazy estranged one we don’t talk to) living there, it seems that every time I’m back in the States I end up making a trek there. It’s like some sort of unholy pilgrimage. Anyway, mom and I trekked to LC today because her good friend Kathy was having a yardsale, and she promised to give us good deals on whatever we wanted, and to give us a nice, fancy shelving unit for free. Now, as my house is still essentially unfurnished, that seemed like a good plan. It would have been a better plan had it involved air conditioning, but what can you do?


Mom and her van

A close-up of my mom

We stopped at the Suwannee River in Fargo, GA

We arrived in LC after two hours on the road, and we were just starting to get sticky. As soon as Kathy saw us she jumped up and said to us, “Boy do I have a yardsale horror story to tell you!” It turned out that the mother and oldest sister of a good friend of mine (who shall remain unnamed, although I’m assuming this person will recognize her relatives as she reads this story) went to Kathy’s yardsale early that morning, bought a lot of stuff, and then drove off without paying for any of it. Kathy was quite upset. I gave her the name of the two women involved in the yardsale heist, as well as their phone number. I’m sure they were surprised when they received the phone call! But what should they expect? It’s LC after all; everybody’s all up in each others business. She spoke with the sister who denied everything, but who claimed she’d call back after her mother (who was conveniently “napping”) awoke. I wonder if Kathy will ever get her money? True, it wasn’t much, but it’s the principle. Especially since Kathy has allowed my friend and me to have joint yardsales at her house in the past!

After leaving Kathy’s we drove to a restaurant called Phish Heads Bar and Grill. I was pretty dubious about the place because A) it’s called Phish Heads; B) it’s in LC; and C) it’s located in a run-down old strip mall. But to all you people still living in the LC Pit, it was actually pretty tasty. And the small spinach salad for $2.99 is actually quite large and very delicious! Anyhow, the place opens at noon on Saturdays, and we arrived at 11:50am. We decided to wait, and soon we were joined by several other people. My mom recognized one of the women and said, “Oh hi Delores!” The woman gave her a really confused look and asked who my mom was. Mom clarified: “I’m Sandy Keeler. We used to sit in the pew in front of you at St. James Episcopal Church.” The woman shook her head and said no, although she confirmed that her name was indeed Delores. They spent a few minutes trying to figure out where else my mom might know her from and then my mom asked if she was Delores Porter. Turns out she’s a Delores SomethingElse, although according to my mom she’s a dead ringer for Delores from St. James. Bizarre.

After lunch we drove from LC to Live Oak (about an hour to the west) to visit Frank and to get the remainder of our stuff out of his storage shed. (When my mom moved from FL to GA last year, she moved into a smaller house. She put the stuff she didn’t have room for into Frank’s storage shed. Well, soon it’ll be stored at my house. While this does mean I get a nice bookshelf and two nice end tables, it also means that I get to store a lot of crap I don’t really need. Ahh well.) We loaded our stuff into the van in the sweltering heat (this was probably while the temperature was at its peak), and I photographed some passionflowers growing in Frank’s field. Then, after some coffee smoothies, we drove back up to Waycross (another two un-air conditioned hours). Along the way we took a couple of dirt road “shortcuts” through some desolate pinewoods.


Passionflower

Passionflower

The long dusty road as seen through the cracked windshield.

Upon returning home and not discovering a suitcase waiting on the doorstep for me (no worries, we gave them my mom’s address, not mine!) I called Air France. Supposedly my suitcase arrived in Atlanta around 1:30pm today, and it should be in my possession sometime tomorrow. We shall see.

From Russia to America

[This post is cross-posted with From Russia With Blog]

My last full day in Russia was, in many ways, a normal day. I went to the AH, spent some quality time on the internet, and hung out with Brooke, Youngmee, Kelli, Misha, Layla and Asya. We ate leftovers from the previous day’s party and (for the most part) just sat around listening to music, talking and enjoying each others company. At the end of the day (after Kelli and Layla had gone home) the rest of us took one final walk together down Bolshaya Moscovskaya to Pushkin Park, around the cathedrals and then back to the AH, at which point it was time to say goodbye. The others were going off in a different direction from me, so I waved them goodbye from the sidewalk as their marshrutka drove away. While I know that I *will* see these people again, it is so unfathomably strange to think about not seeing them on a daily basis and no knowing when I will actually see them again in the flesh.


Misha, me, Youngmee, Brooke

Brooke, Youngmee, Misha, me

My last evening at home with Nina Mikhailovna was no different than normal – other than the fact that all of my possessions were packed into two giant suitcases and one large carry-on. And I set my alarm for 3:00am instead of my usual 10:00am. Luckily for me, Nina M. set her alarm as well, as I managed to turn mine off in my sleep without waking up. I was awakened at 4:00am by Nina M. The AH had arranged for my ride to the airport to pick me up at 4:30am. I was already feeling stressed about my lack of time to make my final preparations when my ride arrived at 4:10! Ahh well – I made it out of there alright, and I don’t *think* I forgot anything. Kelli rode with me to the airport, as her sister was flying into Sheremetyevo about an hour after I took off. Unlike my last trip to the airport (which took something like six hours and had me checking in while my plane was boarding...) this trip was uneventful and we made it to the airport in record time. Of course, this meant that I got to stand around for two and a half hours before they let me check in, but better early than late!

I flew from Moscow to Paris on an Air France flight operated by Aeroflot. I was a little leery of traveling with them again after the last time, but what could I do? It turned out that the plane from Moscow to Paris was a much nicer plane than the one I flew in from Poland to Moscow back in August. Definitely newer, cleaner and classier. The French influence, perhaps? Anyhow, I’d heard some horror stories about transfers in the Charles du Galle airport in Paris, and I was glad that I had a three hour layover. While I do admit that the airport was confusing to navigate (I’m sure it’s impossible to do so quickly, although supposedly they’re installing a new transit-train which should improve things) I actually enjoyed my time in the airport. All of the staff were incredibly friendly. It wasn’t just that I’d come from eleven months in surly Russia. These people were far more outgoing, friendly and helpful than pretty much anyone I’ve ever encountered in a service industry. And it didn’t hurt that a lot of these friendly and outgoing people were also hot, flirty French fellows with sexy French accents.

By the time I got on the plane I was feeling pretty exhausted, and as soon as we boarded I passed out. As such, I didn’t realize until we were approaching Atlanta that we had taken off from Paris an hour late (which is kind of odd, considering that we boarded on time). Every one around me seemed to be feeling frantic, worrying about whether or not they’d be able to make their connecting flights in Atlanta. Meanwhile, I felt calm and relaxed, and took a bunch of pictures of clouds. (I would just like to mention that the food on Air France was DELICIOUS. I usually tolerate airplane food just fine, but I’ve never in my life considered any of it to be delicious. Well, this stuff certainly was a tasty treat – two incredibly yummy meals.)


This was my view.
The splotchy discolorations are from ice crystals on the window.

Again, my view.

When the plane landed in Atlanta, before they let us off, there was an announcement. “Passenger Jane Keeler, please see a Delta Ground Staff representative for a message.” Great. (Delta is partners with Air France, BTW) As soon as I stepped off the plane, there was a man waiting at the gate with a sign bearing my name and my message: “Your mother is going to be late. Please wait for her.” Um, okay. Where would I go, anyway? I went through passport control and then to baggage claim. My big ass green suitcase arrived promptly... and then I stood and waited and waited and waited for my black one. You know, the one that didn’t make it to Moscow on my way *to* Russia. Just as I was getting ready to go look for someone for some assistance, there was another announcement. “Jane Keeler, please see a Delta Ground Staff representative for a message.” Of course, my thought was yes, yes, I know; my mother is going to be late. But it turned out that this message was, “You black suitcase is still in Paris.” WTF?! I had a three hour layover! How did the bag not make it on the plane? But, they told me exactly where to go and what to do in order to get the bag tracked down and shipped to me. (Yes, unlike LOT Polish / Aeroflot, Air France / Delta delivers.) Anyway, I emerged from the pit of the airport and found my mother, who had arrived before me anyway due to the delay of my flight. Then we stood in an interminably long line at the lost luggage counter so I could file my claim. Supposedly my suitcase will be delivered tomorrow. I hope!

At that point it was after 9:30pm Atlanta time (5:00am Vladimir time!) and both my mom and I were feeling pretty wiped out, although we began our trek down to Waycross nonetheless. We drove for about an hour and a half, and stopped to eat at the one thing in south Georgia that’s open at 11:00pm: Waffle House! Our first attempt to eat at a Waffle House was thwarted by the fact that the first one we stopped at was closed. WTF? Waffle Houses never close! But apparently something was being done to the floor, and it was closed for the next two hours. But never fear, there was a Waffle House at the next exit. Thus, my first meal upon returning to the States was an incredibly greasy grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of grits with cheese. No wonder so many Americans are obese. Even though it was pretty late, the restaurant was packed, probably due to the fact that the other one was closed. As a result we were in there for an hour. So, two cups of coffee and way too much grease later, we got back on the road and drove for something like three more hours; it was shortly after 3:00am when we pulled into my mom’s driveway. I dragged myself inside and promptly collapsed into bed. That’s 31 hours after I was awakened in Vladimir by Nina Mikhailovna, folks.

I expected to sleep for something like 15 straight hours, but annoyingly my body still thinks it’s on Vladimir time, and I ended up getting up around 7:00am. My mom and I got dressed and set out to my new house, so I could see it in real life for the first time. Mom seemed really worried that I wasn’t going to like my house or that I would be disappointed with it or something, but I love it! Granted, Terry (our contractor) is still there doing work on it, and afterwards there’s still going to be a lot that needs to be done (cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, painting over all that horrible wood paneling, and refinishing the living/dining room floor) but the house is really wonderful. Not to mention that I have a green couch (more olive than lime, but still awesome) and the world’s largest kitchen. I simply cannot fathom why someone would build a kitchen that’s that enormous. Not that I’m complaining or anything; it’s just strange. I’ve got a dining table and chairs set up in the corner of the kitchen and they hardly make a dent in the space. I’m going to use the “dining” room as my office. The neighborhood definitely isn’t the best, and I hope the fact that I’m the only white person for miles doesn’t cause me any problems, but I love it.


My house :-)
That's Terry the Contractor's truck out front.
I'll get a decent pic of the place someday when it's not parked there.

There are Js on the shutters.
Unfortunately, because of where my head is,
it kind of looks like a T in this shot.

Apparently, I live on the corner of Ass and Ass.
Luckily, I find this highly amusing.

I was standing in my kitchen door when i took this.
Thes space in the foreground is supposed to be the dining room,
but it's going to be my office. The living room is in the rear.
Be sure to note the green couch!!

Reverse shot: from the front door in the living room,
facing the office and the door to the kitchen.

My bedroom, complete with $20 bed. Yard sales rock.

Isn't this kitchen ridiculously big?
You can't even see all of it in this picture!

Hell, just this part alone would be a big kitchen.

After seeing the house, we went out and purchased some things for it: two fans (for the living/office rooms), a mattress cover, and cleaning supplies. Then I returned to my mom’s house and took a very lengthy nap.