Little Orphan Freddie, Part II

Following all good advice, I had intended 

to introduce Tizzy and Fred slowly. 

Best laid plans...... 

No sooner had I set the cardboard shelter 

carrier down in the apartment, out popped 

the baby! Poor Tiz. In an instant his sedate 

"only cat" life changed forever. Freddie 

immediately got into everything Tizzy thought 

was his alone. Litterbox, water bowl, napping 

spots,toys, nothing was sacred. What Fred didn't

poop in, lick or sleep in he marked with a rub 

from his little gray chin.

I heard a thunder of hoofbeats and thought, 

"Omigod, Tizzy's trying to kill the baby!!" 

Looked up to see a frantic Tizzy zoom past 

with Freddie hot on his heels.

More excitement than dear TZ had seen his 

entire life that far. At least I knew little

Fred could take care of himself.

Little Orphan Freddie, Part I

Sweet Freddie came into my life as a noisy

adorable little orphan from the Morris Animal

Shelter on Lombard St. 

I went there 6 years ago looking for a cat friend for 

3 yr old Tizzy. The kitten I originally wanted was 

already spoken for, so the volunteer led me to the 

next room. There was a great ruckus coming from 

a lower cage where an adorable bundle of gray and 

white kitten was hanging on his door with all four 

paws, yowling at the top of his lungs and sneezing.

"MEOW, MEOW, GET ME OUTTA HERE!! ACHOO! 

ACHOO!" 

Peeling him off the door, yowls and sneezes turned 

to loud purrs and sneezes. Love at first sight, from 

his chutzpah (chutzPAW?) to his little "ink smeared" 

nose and gray chin. Only his not so cute name, 

Carson, had to go. Combining my affection 

for le cose Italiane with his affection for silly puns, 

brother Ted suggested il nome, Federico Feliney. 

And so it was that next day, newly neutered and still 

sneezing, little Freddie came home.

Baby Freddie licking his tail

**Stay tuned for Part II

Tizzy's Nutty Mum

Nutmeg, Tizzy's Mum shortly after having her kittens 9 years ago this summer.

Introducing, Tizzy's Mum, "Nutty". Well actually,

Nutmeg. Nutty was hardly grown herself and about 

to be spayed, when she ran away from home. She 

returned a few weeks later older, wiser (?)and 

pregnant. That was 9 years ago in Las Vegas. 

(Details remain in Las Vegas).In her delicate 

condition, she rode shotgun cross country to 

Philadelphia in a truck driven by her human, 

Mark C. Not long after, in the back of a walk- 

in closet in Mark's Mom's apartment here on the 

37th floor, Nutty's babies were born. My Tizzy, 

brother Silver and sister Jasmine (Jazzy) and 

a sweet little marmalade sib who sadly didn't 

survive. Nutty reminds me of the Madwoman 

of Chaillot. Small, elegant with long silky black 

and brown tortoise shell fur, small black feet 

and a fabulous plume of a tail. She shuts her 

huge khaki eyes and her face disappears. 

Mysterious, elusive and beautiful.

FYI: Silver, Tizzy's huge handsome silver tiger brother, 

rules over a kitty commune at the house of Hairdresser 

Michael. Jazzy, their gorgeous tan and black tiger sister 

lives with her Mum who is only a year older. They play 

wrestle and chase each other. Great friends.

He Also Eats Grapes

Tizzybean

What kind of a cat won't touch real tuna, 

salmon, chicken or any sort of meat, but 

jumps on my knee, sticks his nose in my dish 

of GRAPES begging for a peeled taste?

There's also the dried peaches............

Welcome Spring

watercolor, Carolyn Croll

                                                                                                     

La Mia Epifania Italiana

On the way to my epifania, that day in Spoleto.

One day on my first visit to Italy (the now 

famous one-time-only trip led by Tomie 

dePaola that included a stop at the Bologna 

Book Fair), our gruppo had gathered in a 

small piazza in Spoleto to rest and enjoy 

some gelato.

I began watching two old Italian men talking

to each other. The first ended his comments 

to the other with a poke in the chest asking, 

"Capisce?"

The other replied then poked  his comrade

in turn, repeating,"Capisce?"

In a flash it dawned on me...... capisce must be 

an ITALIAN word, not Yiddish as I had always

believed.

Now wait.... I came by this life long delusion 

honestly. My Grandparents' generation

spoke Yiddish to each other (especially when 

children present were not supposed to 

understand). I had the sounds of all the 

kinahoras, shana maidelas, zhi gazindts, 

zhi gezundts and mishagases planted 

firmly in my head.

It turns out that when my Mother was a girl 

and her parents ran a corner grocery in their 

immigrant neighborhood, my Grandmother 

freely added words she fancied from other 

people's languages to her vocabulary 

without attribution. 

Thus, in my late 30's, 3500 miles from home 

and anyone familiar with this back story, my 

dear grandparents long gone, I had one of the 

biggest heartfelt epiphanies and knee 

weakening laughs of my life.

Later, I asked Mom why she never told me 

about capisce being Italian. She replied, 

"You never asked!"  

Pardonnez-Moi

Yesterday, a neighbor stopped me saying, 

"You speak French don't you?"

Have NO inkling what gave her THAT idea. 

She needed something pronounced correctly. 

Yikes!! I can make true French speakers cry 

with my attempts.

Only on rare extreme emergency occasions

have I jumped a language barrier, tossed 

syntax, case, tense and shame to the wind. 

Like that day tour to Oxfordshire and Blenheim 

Palace from London some years ago. 

A French family, une grandmere, grandpere, 

petit-fils et une tante were on the bus

and clearly didn't understand an English word 

our guide spoke.

At first, I kept silent, only wanting to enjoy 

the trip. But the guide was brusque and 

increasingly agitated at French family 

members quietly chatting while she held 

forth about the sights.

When we alit just below Bladon Church, 

where Winston Churchill is buried.

The French folks were clueless. 

No idea where we were or why. 

Sidling up to the Aunt, as we walked up 

the hill, I tossed caution and pride to the wind.

"Excusez moi, Madame" I said. "Winston 

Churchill est mort dans cette eglise"

("Winston Churchill is dead in this church.")

OK, I just couldn't remember the French for 

cemetery -cimetiere - on such short notice. 

La Tante immediately spread the news and 

much to the disgust of our British guide, 

I became the French family's new 

best friend.

At Blenheim Palace I related how "La Reine 

Anne d'Angleterre a donne cet chateaux aux 

John Churchill, le premier Duc de Marlborough 

pour (hmm, how do I say "defeating"?) drawing my 

finger across my throat - les soldats de Louis XIV!!" 

My reward for courage and nerve was 

an ice cream cone avec mes nouveaux amis

and un grande "MERCI !" as I left the bus 

at Marble Arch back in London.

Who knew 2 years of barely passed high school French

would come in handy one day.

Wherein, Of The Green...

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face:

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until 

we meet again,

May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Old Irish prayer-

One of my favorites..........

Modern Life Lesson

Turns out the problem was not

the need of a new mouse.

Computer Mortis set in yesterday.

Do not ignore slowdowns and freezes.

Lesson learned.

Too late happens without further notice.

My unexpected contribution to the

struggling economy.

First post on my shiny new Mac.

A Cat & Mouse Tale

Sweet Fred to the Vet first thing this gray misty morning.

Not happy confined in his wheeled carrier.  

Plaintive cries advertising his misery through the town.

Stopped at the Apple store on the way home. 

"Need a new mouse," I told the man.

"Meow!!" wailed Fred.

A quizzical look.

"For my Mac, not my Fred".   ;-)

    

First Sign Of Spring

Hungry baby pigeon chirped loudly, giving away its

hidden nest among some pipes near the ceiling in the

Whole Foods parking lot.

One feathered parent fed the big noisy baby.

The other stood guard below.

Shoppers passed by, thankfully, paying no attention to all

the chirping.

For The Birds

This charming Russian folk art bird house 

found while I was preparing to illustrate

The Little Snowgirl.

An enchanting home for any little bird that fit 

through the hole under her chin. 

 Pavel, the Woodcarver, made one of his own.

Then the birdhouse stood outside his and 

Caterina's house and a bird moved in.

None of this is in the written story. 

Something to entertain myself and maybe

the reader.

 

I made these "Little Snowgirl" matrioshka dolls.

They go with me on school visits. 

Starting with Pavel, the children like 

to guess who is the next doll nested inside. 

The last 2 are the hardest to guess. 

The birdhouse and the little bird.

Kitty Crochet

I should be writing, but I've been crocheting.

Something I haven't done for a long time. Very Zen.

Here's my attempt at a little cat for a new baby

I know who is on the way.

I could do this every day............