Train a child the way he should go, and when he is old he will he will not turn from it.  Proverbs 22:6

Two months ago, this talk started about China. Mikos and Jenny had been invited to visit Tsingtao Beer Brewery in Qingdao, China. This was a trip of a lifetime with all expenses paid, staying at five-star hotels, so how could I say no to watching Maddie and Will? In the meantime, another storm was brewing with Sonja and Russ planning a trip to Minnesota to celebrate Russ’s grandfather’s 90th birthday. These trips collided to form the perfect storm of babysitting. My grandchildren not only come with real luggage but they bring their dogs as well.

Our grandchildren are involved in way too many things. Maddie has play practice, Will has soccer practice, Maddie has soccer practice, Will has basketball practice, Lucas has soccer practice, Cubby has soccer practice, and all at different times, and thank God, different days.

Day One: I was looking for the brush to apply my eyeliner when Cubby came running into the bathroom, saying, “Father Leonard fell down! Father Leonard  fell down!” No sooner does Lucas come running in to contest all that Cubby said. Cubby was jumping up and down, his already big eyes getting bigger as he screamed again, “Father Leonard fell!” Lucas was yelling at the same time, wanting me to listen to what he had to say. In frustration to calm Cubby down, Lucas slapped him across the face and called him a liar. I wanted to laugh but I was confused. Father Leonard is a priest and dear friend of mine; what were these kids talking about? I told them both to calm down and one at a time, to tell me what happened. Again the screaming over each other started. I got up and said “Show me!” They ran ahead of me and opened the French doors to the back yard; there on the ground was our fountain, the statue of St. Francis of Assisi not Father Leonard, with all of the guilty kids pointing fingers at each other. There were no sibling alliances; it was every man for himself.  Just like the authors of the four Gospels, the kids all had their own version as to what happened. Only God knows the truth, and on judgement day the truth will be revealed, with God determining the guilty party. I thanked God no one was injured.

St. Francis suffered a blow to the head, leaving parts of his cerebellum in the shrubs.

This fountain weighs about 300 pounds, and Maddie and I had to put it together before Papa got home. This was difficult job because we had to connect the tubes for the water.  Lucas helped with the tubes while Will and Cubby nervously watched. With a lot of heave-hos, we did it! Once St. Francis was up and running, we noticed more damage, so I made those rug rats look for the parts that were missing.

Hours passed and we had a project to complete. St. Norbert Parish’s, filling  backpacks was under way. I picked up two backpacks for us to fill. Maddie spearheaded the project by checking and comparing prices for school supplies, and found that Target had the best prices. We loaded up the SUV while Maddie separated the items to be purchased into two groups. Will and Lucas were team one and Maddie and Jacob team two. It did not take long before Will and Lucas started acting up and running around like wild boars. After a few threats, they sorta of calmed down. A woman and her daughter looked at us like we had the plague, Maddie overheard them say, “Here they come, let’s go another direction.” I so much wanted to explain that these kids were not my children, but they disappeared from my view.

We got home and completed the loving project. Lucas came to me later and asked, “Grandma, who’s going to pay us back for all the stuff we bought?” I reminded Lucas that we did this for Jesus and that He always pays us back in different ways. I told Lucas that a sweet lady, Doris from our  ministry blessed me with a generous amount of birthday money, and we used that blessing to fill the backpacks.

We waited several days to tell Papa about the fountain, as the kids  were terrified to face Mike. I can’t blame them, because  Mike gets upset about half-full bottles of water all over the house and is always yelling, “Is anyone watching those kids?” It is never a good time to break bad news but I had to tell Mike. He was his usual self, at first a little angry, then he thanked me for telling him.

^“Even a child is known by his doings, whether his work be pure, and whether it be right.” Proverbs 20:11

Our first trip to the Big Apple was in the early 80’s. As soon as we exited the taxi, there in broad daylight was a dead body in front of the entrance to our hotel. The police had just arrived and were investigating the matter. Before the man’s body was completely covered with a white sheet, I could not take my eyes off deceased person. To the New Yorkers, this was just another day and business as usual; no one seemed to really be overly concerned. This left a hard impression on me and it was difficult to shake off.

Mike and I settled in our room and could not wait to explore the sights. Not 10 minutes in our walk did we witness a crime. An attractive, well- dressed black woman grabbed a handbag from an innocent bystander and ran away with the purse in tow. Mike just looked at me and we both changed our direction. It was not that we did not want to get involved, it was that we were afraid. It did not take long to pick up the spirit of the detached New Yorkers.

We walked for miles until we finally reached Bloomingdale’s . This store is the original iconic heart of shopping in Manhattan, and all I  wanted was to be carrying a small, medium or large brown bag from Bloomingdale’s. Mike gave me a time to shop and told me to meet him at trendy restaurant called “Yellowfinger.” He pointed to the eatery, but I was too caught up in the overwhelming sights and sounds of my newly  discovered best friend Bloomingdale’s, so I was not paying attention. I wanted to experience every inch of Bloomingdale’s. I was about ready to try on some clothes when an older sophisticated sales clerk looked at me and said, “Honey, do you want to get mugged?”  “No,” I quickly answered. Then she took my handbag and gave me a tutorial on how to carry my purse. “Keep it in front of you at all times and whatever you do, not look up.” I still carry my handbag like this today.

It was time for me to meet Mike, but I came out another door on another avenue. No cell phones yet, so I reverted to panic. There are way too many exits to Bloomingdales and I was lost. I did not serve the Lord the with such fervor, so prayer was not even an afterthought. I did what came natural, cried and got really upset with Mike. After about an hour I finally made it to Yellowfingers. Poor Mike was so worried about my whereabouts, but I still have him and earful. I suffered from PMS back then (premenstrual symdome) but Mike referred to it as (pissed-off-at-Mike syndrome).

It was in 1985 when we took Mikos and Sonja to New York for the first time. It was summertime. Mikos was about to enter junior high and Sonja was 9 years-old. Mikos was going through braces and in the stage of too cool to be seen with his parents.  I made an appointment for him to have his braces tightened the day before the trip. For the first few days it was as if I had intentionally asked the orthodontist to make the braces extra tight, and  Mikos held me accountable because he could not eat due the brackets being too constricting. I’d look at him and  just roll my eyes; through most of his adolescence that was my reaction, my voice being mostly in a screaming mode during these formative year but this helped with Mikos be becoming a fine young man.

I heard of this boutique  “Belle France” on the chic side of town that I wanted to visit. The front door were kept locked so you needed to be buzzed in. This was a stuffy store with sales people trained in snobbery. We walked in and my eyes gravitated toward the sale rack. Mike was helping me pick out  dresses, then I picked a dress with a white collar that was two sizes too small. Why? I still don’t know, perhaps I was trying to impress my husband. I had a handful of dresses to try on, the dressing room was an ample size, and the full-length antique mirror added to the charm of the store, so I was happy.  I tried on the white collared dress and something went terribly wrong. I got stuck. I was hyperventilating and did my best to free my arms, but the dress was more like a straitjacket. My arms were contricted and any move would cause the dress to rip.  In the meantime the sales lady kept asking me to come out; Mike too was adding to this already stressful situation. I could not breathe and thought this was a terrible and embarrassing way to die. When I opened my eyes the white collar was all I could see, and  I felt as if it was strangling me. This struggle had lasted several minutes when I finally called for Sonja to come into the dressing room. At first she laughed at the sight, but I explained that I could not breathe. In Sonja’s words, ” Mommy this happens to my Barbie Dolls all the time; you just need to put your arms straight up and I will pull it off.” Out of the mouth of babes, what wisdom, she was right and I was freed from the white-collared dress.  By the time I was done,  I looked more like I had a wrestling match, because my hair was a mess and my face was flushed red. I developed a phobia for any white-collared clothing, and I get claustrophobic in dressing rooms. I did purchase a dress that day, but not one with a white collar.

From Battery Park, we could see the beautiful Twin Towers proudly displaying their grandeur. Who would ever in a million years have thought that one day these beautiful skyscrapers would be so violently  taken down? I had forgotten about this photograph; it is sad to think that my grandchildren will never experience this breathtaking view.

We did all the tourist stuff like a carriage ride through Central Park, a boat ride to the Statue of Liberty and a purchase of a Cabbage Patch Doll for Sonja, and we also attended a Mets game. Washington D.C. was our next stop.

Philippians 1:6 And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.

I’m still evolving; thank God for that!

I love cats!

Psych

A cat was always around for as long as memory goes back. But of all the cats from those childhood days, one stands out above the rest — Psych. Short for Psycho. And he earned it.

Psych was wild. He attacked without warning, drew blood without remorse, and seemed to enjoy every second of it.

One afternoon we walked a few blocks to a nearby baseball field to play. Psych followed. An open field offers no refuge when a cat is hunting, and that’s exactly what he was doing. He chased us down, one by one, biting and scratching until he was satisfied. My sister Norma’s friend Jackie was with us that day, and she got the worst of it. That was Psych’s idea of playing — all fun and games until something darker took over.

Jackie ended up at the doctor’s office and never quite got over her fear of him. We, on the other hand, loved Psych anyway and kept taking the abuse.

One night he was crying outside the bedroom window, so we snuck him in — knowing full well it was forbidden. He repaid us immediately. Silently. All we could do was cover our faces and try not to make a sound. That night taught what it means to scream silently. Jo, Norma and I took turns peeking out from under the covers to track him, three kids held prisoner by a nine-pound beast. By morning, when Psych had finally worn himself out, the damage was done — arms scratched, dignity questionable, but somehow the love for that cat still intact.

Toby

Toby was my son Mikos’ cat. He moved with us from Santa Barbara to Whittier, to the Valley, and finally to Orange, where we call home today. Mikos loved that cat.

We were planning a short weekend getaway to San Diego. As I pulled into the driveway, Toby caught my eye. I figured he’d run out of the way — they always do. But for some reason he ran toward the car instead. I had no idea what happened until I noticed Toby in the bushes, shaking his head. When he turned, half of his face was gone.

I called Mike screaming — “I ran over Toby’s face!” Mike rushed home and we scrambled to find Toby before Mikos got home from school.

Mikos found him first. We rushed Toby to the vet and were told he needed reconstructive surgery and would be on pain medication for the rest of his life. The rest of his life ended that day.

Blanca

Blanca was our next cat, but she had a habit — urinating in shoes. Most unpleasant doesn’t quite cover it.

Once, Mike was getting ready for a trip and pulled out his suitcase. Blanca had gotten to it first. I remembered reading that baking soda would clean it up and kill the smell. What a mess that turned out to be. Mike’s black suitcase was now covered in white powder — and still smelled like cat urine.

Barney Bernard

Barney Bernard Ciriza was one of my favorite cats. Mike, however, had major issues with him — and for good reason. Barney Bernard sprayed everywhere and eventually lost his indoor privileges entirely.

One evening Mike and I were on our way to a party when I asked him to stop at the store so I could pick out a birthday card. When I got back to the car, Mike was shirtless. I didn’t know what to think, so I said nothing. Then he asked, “Do you know why I’m not wearing a shirt?” I answered, “No, not really.” He said, “Because the cat pissed on my shirt.” Needless to say, we were late for the party.

Then there was Halloween night. Some amateur Satanists failed at an attempted animal sacrifice. Barney Bernard came home with his chest torn open about four inches. The vet stitched him up and sent him home. Barney Bernard being Barney Bernard, he survived.

He didn’t survive what came next. Barney Bernard died on the same day Mikos graduated from college. Our friends from Colorado were in town and fed him tripas — Spanish for cow guts. He fell victim to a coyote not long after, and the thought still lingers that the smell of those tripas got my cat killed. I cried for days.

Mookie Mariano

Shortly after Barney Bernard’s death, Mike and I went to a pet store and came home with Mookie Mariano. Mookie loved us and showed it in his own way — birds, rats, and rabbits, delivered with great pride.

He was the smartest of all our cats and had one rule: entry through the upstairs bathroom window only. Late one night, half asleep, I heard him crying outside and let him in without thinking. He walked in carrying a rat the size of a small country. We cleared out of the room so Mike could set up traps. For three days that rodent ate carefully around every single one of them.

I finally posed the question to Mike — “What if the rat is pregnant?” That did it. Mike went upstairs to take matters into his own hands. For about fifteen minutes I heard slamming and banging. He finally came back downstairs, proud as a man could be, prize catch in hand.

After fourteen years, we had to put Mookie down. He had developed an abscess that made eating too painful. The vet prescribed medication, but Mookie refused to take it. The abscess won.

The day I took him in to be euthanized, I was in tears. I looked at him and said, “Mookie, you were a great cat.” He looked back at me, and I know — if that cat could talk — I would have heard, “Was?”

That day I made a decision. Every cat from that point on would be an indoor pet.

Maxine Mew

For years we shared our home with two cats, both belonging to our daughter Sonja. How they ended up permanently with us is no mystery to anyone who knows how these things go.

Maxine, the pesky one, was Sonja’s college cat. When Sonja moved back home for a season, Maxine simply stayed. She was nineteen years old and suffered from a peculiar contradiction — devouring her food only to lose it all moments later. She was not a spiritual creature, and when her time finally came, she would most likely spend the rest of eternity in purgatory.