Farewell

I remember you, my sweet friend, the day I saw your furry little face looking back at me from inside your kennel. You stared defiantly, daring me to walk away. And, of course, I couldn't. And so began our time together.

You stayed with me through the coldest winter in 50 years, keeping my feet warm as I slept through the night. You greeted me everyday with that kitty smile, that demanding meow; "I'm hungry," you said. Yes, I had to clean up plants that you knocked over and vases that you broke.....but that was who you were. You were naughty, playful, furry.

You were always accepting, always there even when I was at my lowest point. You knew when I was sad and quietly came up and snuggled next to me on my beat-up couch. You made me laugh when you attacked your bowl of cat food like it was a wild beast. You'd shake your mouthful of crunchies as if you had a mouse in a death grip.

And then you bravely made a 17-hour drive with me, scared at first, but gradually accepting. You stayed at my feet for most of that long drive, meowing helpfully every so often. For a confirmed house cat, you made the transition to outdoor cat beautifully....now when I think of you, it is roaming the yard, your puffy tail waving out behind. No matter how far away you were, you always heard me call you and would come tearing around the corner to find me.

Most of all, I remember how you looked while you sat at the top of the stairs out back. You had your sweet little face turned towards the sun, sitting quietly with your furry white chest puffed out with joy. I will always recall how happy you looked as you oversaw your outside domain. That is how I shall remember you.

Ferdinand, you were a comfort to Dad when he was in pain, you were a source of laughter to Mom after a bad day, and you were my little gift. I'm so happy to have known you. I am thankful that your funny little face was peaceful when they found you, because that is always how you made me feel. Farewell, little guy. You will be missed.

In the beginning...

I was 10 years old then. I had never been on a sail boat before, much less one that lazily traversed the shores of the British Virgin Islands. This was the first time I watched the stars without so much as a streetlight to interrupt them.

There were new ports every night, new tastes, new people at every stop. At one of the ports, there was a cafe on the beach. I remember torches flickering and our waiter wore a black-and-white striped shirt. There was music coming from speakers behind the bar, a few people were dancing on the sand.

Our waiter saw me, ponytail bobbing to the music, eyes bright and curious. In a lilting Caribbean accent, he asked me for a dance. Eighteen years later, I still remember the feel of the breeze on my cheek and the sand beneath my feet. It was the beginning of a love affair with travel. This experience paved the way for many adventures to come.

Medication vs. Parenting

Adderall: the newest designer drug for unruly kids. It seems like some parents would rather turn their child over to a powerful drug, then find out why their son/daughter is acting the way they are. However, the lines have gotten so blurred that parents can't tell the difference between a child in need of medication, or one who just might need more attention.

The alternative is to spend more time with their child. Instead, I see 8-year-old boys who are too comatose from Adderall (fill-in other ADHD drug) to even respond to a simple question. They just stare, uncomprehending in a drug-induced haze. I wonder if just a little extra discipline (and God-forbid, love) would do far more than a little white pill in an orange bottle?

I'm certain it is less expensive to sit and read a book with a child, look into their eyes while you talk to them, then to pay a co-pay at the doctor. And I'm also pretty sure that it is a good deal more satisfying.