Sunday, November 29, 2020

August 4, 2010

Wednesday. Still bummed about Dad’s exit from this mortal coil.

Dreamed about him during my morning snooze. I’m walking through tall grass somewhere, when I see Dad, just sitting at a bus stop. He chats for a while, pointing to some birds and talking about “his birds.” Then he stands up again and says he has to cross the river. A bus arrives, and he boards. At that point, I woke up.

I know, the symbolism is obvious. But there it is.

When you’re a kitten, you’re carefree. You know that Mom and Dad are there to protect you and see that your needs are met. Then you grow into adulthood and you figure wow, I’m independent now. I don’t need my parents.

Then a parent dies, and it hits you: you really are on your own. You knew this, but you didn’t know it. Dad’s not going to protect you from coyotes and small children, and Mom’s nipple bar is closed. You’re going to have to fend for yourself in a difficult world.

I spent a lot of time today staring out the dining room window. 

Grandma was here today, making applesauce. The early apples are coming in now. The orchards surrounding Beauneville produce a remarkable cornucopia of apples. For pink applesauce, Beauneville cooks use Early Redbirds; for golden applesauce, they prefer the ancient Yellow Transparent. Grandma uses the local Beauneville Golds or tart Gravensteins. 

For eating apples, Beauneville denizens savor the tender and juicy American Summer Pearmain; the cute Carolina June;  the beautiful and historic Chenango Strawberry; the modern Ginger Gold; the greenish-yellow Hightop Sweet, known to the Pilgrims; the Lowland Raspberry, a Russian apple known in Germany as the Lievlander Himbeerapfel; the patented Pristine; and the distinctively bright red William’s Favorite. 

Down at the cider mill, they take all of the Bell’s Favorite and Yellow Horse apples they can get. And, of course, there are plenty of apples for pie: the Moses Wood apple from Maine, the aptly named Spice Sweet, and the strikingly beautiful St. Lawrence.

Beauneville denizens are mad about apples.

Chatted with Pia later in the afternoon. The Ericsons have invited the neighbors over a week from Sunday to celebrate Surströmming Day. Pia says they have a can of Mannerströms, the Rolls-Royce of fermented herrings. They also have a couple of cans of Oskars​​​​ Surströmming. I believe that’s the Fiat of fermented herring.

Anyway, I can’t wait. I like to eat fish. Pia says I may be in for a bit of a surprise, though. I don’t know what she means.

Roderick practiced hard today. Lots of scales and long tones and orchestral excerpts. Mollie came over after dinner to play the piano reduction of the Crusell while Roderick played the solo. Lots of work to do, but they made it through the first movement without a complete fail.

All for now.


Sunday, November 8, 2020

Journal Entry: August 3, 2010

Tuesday. They buried Dad today at the Kitty Rest Haven. I left some catnip on his grave.

Mr. Bassett Horne returned for lunch today, without Cora Anglaise. The Lake City Phils are doing Eine Alpensinfonie this weekend. She’s at the bottom of the double-reed pecking order at the Philharmonic, so she has to go get the lupophone.

Such a damn nuisance. All because Richard Strauss didn’t know how to write for the heckelphone.

There’s some exciting news: the Lake City Youth Orchestra has an opening for a clarinet this year. Auditions are in six weeks. Mr. Horne thinks that Roderick should go for it.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith think it sounds wonderful, but Roderick hesitates. He's never auditioned for anything and isn't sure if he's up to it. Mr. Horne says he'll coach him every week until the audition. He also let him in on a secret: he’s one of the clarinet judges, so he knows exactly what they will want him to play.

Ain’t meritocracy great?

After lunch, Roderick grabbed his clarinet and they set up again in the living room. I assumed my customary position on the ottoman. After scales and an etude, Mr. Horne showed him the symphonic excerpts he should work on for the audition: Beethoven Fourth, Brahms Third, Tchaikovsky Fifth.

Then they discussed what solo to play. Mr. Horne told him he should never bring the Mozart Concerto to an audition. Everyone's heard it a million times, and they’re sick of it. Also, the judges know it intimately and they’ll catch every mistake. Much better to pick some obscure piece by some composer nobody knows. He suggested the first movement of Crusell’s Clarinet Concerto No. 1.

I looked it up in Grove. Bernhard Henrik Crusell was the most significant and internationally best-known composer from Uusikaupunki, Finland. If obscurity is a virtue, Crusell is a goddam saint.

After Mr. Horne left, Roderick ran over to tell Bibi he’s working on something by a Scandinavian composer. As if she gives a shit.

Anyway, the die is cast and Roderick seems pretty excited. Six weeks to prepare!

Gets my mind off Dad.

All for now.


Journal Entry: August 1, 2010

Sunday. Still reeling. I thought Dad was going to pull through.

Chronic kidney disease. He should have adopted a better household. The Fulbrights are lousy cat-minders. They gave him way too much red tuna. That shit’s bad for you.

Why don’t they have kidney transplants for cats? Or dialysis?

Shit.

A few months ago Dad suggested that we go mousing down by the river. Just for fun, of course, we don’t eat the little fuckers. Mousing in town is off-limits because, you know, we have that treaty with the Mouse King. Mice down by the river are fair game, you just have to contend with the feral skanks that live there.

Anyway, I said no. I was “busy.” Damn. I don’t even remember what I thought I had to do. I should have said yes just to humor him.

Well, now he’s gone.

I didn’t even have a chance to say a proper good-bye.

All for now.


Journal Entry: July 31, 2010

Saturday. I’m numb.

All for now.


Sunday, November 1, 2020

Journal Entry: July 30, 2010

Friday. Dad crossed the river this morning.

I always thought we would have a parting moment. I’d be right there with him, holding his paw with mine. And he would say something like “Harold, be a good kitty. Take care of your mother and sire many kittens. I’m crossing the river now. Some day, we’ll meet again on the other side.”

But no. When I got there this morning, he was already stone-cold dead. Dr. Kindly wrapped him in a blanket and put him in the back of his 1955 Nash Rambler Cross-Country station wagon. Mom meowed mournfully.

Dad will be buried at Kitty Rest Haven. There will be no funeral or memorial service, that’s not a thing with cats.

I don’t feel like writing anything else, so...all for now.


Journal Entry: July 29, 2010

Thursday. There was a break in the rain this morning, so I threaded my way past the puddles to see Dad. Really loopy today. He kept talking about “his bunny.” Mom explained that with Dad too sick to chase after rodents, a local bunny grazes in the Fulbright’s front lawn. In broad daylight. In full view of Dad, who thinks the bunny is a pet.

In the late afternoon, Mr. Smith drove Roderick and Molly out to Puddlewood for a chamber music concert. I decided not to go because I didn’t want to miss foursies, and the program didn’t sound all that interesting. Schoenberg, Webern, and Berg. Meh.

All for now.