Pertisau, Austria; Off To Vienna Tomorrow, Then Home on the 4th

Pertisau, Austria, hugs Achensee, an alpine lake about 3,000 feet above sea level in the Austrian Alps.  Approximately 500 people live in Pertisau, Tirol (Tyrol).  The picturesque homes and shops have the traditional flower boxes and stenciled designs near windows, all very similar to the lifestyle in Bavaria, Germany (which Tirol (Tyrol), an Austrian state, borders,)  If you've seen The Sound of Music you are inside a postcard with me.  No one would think it odd if the von Trapp family walked down the village street singing "The Hills Are Alive with Music."  For they truly are.

This is our second trip to Pertisau.  This morning Dick and I hiked the trail that follows the lake.  And what a fabulous morning it was -- the soft sun, the emerald green lake, the alpine mountains, the wildflowers along the trail, and the fresh mountain air.

Yes, I have photos for you and long to share them.  But this must wait until we return to the States.  Which will be August 4th.  It's hard to believe we've been on the road almost two months.  For awhile time seemed to stand still.  We neither knew nor cared which day of the week it was.

When we lived in Skopje, Macedonia (or Former Yugoslavia Republic of Macedonia, whichever name floats your boat), we transited through Vienna.  So, it will be nice to enjoy a couple of days re-visiting old haunts.  

Upon our return, we're attending a wedding at The Homestead in Virginia, not far from Richmond.  I remember when Jenny was a toddler (which sometimes seems like yesterday).  She's marrying a very nice young man, and we wish them life's every happiness.

In the meantime, I want to thank you for your comments, for hanging in there.  I've got a bit of catching up to do with your blogs and plan to do just that after the wedding on the 7th. I'm looking forward to seeing what you've been doing.  All of you have such interesting blogs.  And, a year later, there's a comfortable rhythm that warms the heart.

Until then, I'd like to share with you a quotation from Friedrich Nietzsche that the hotel posted this morning at breakfast:  The hurry in human life is a flight from oneself.    XOXO, Kittie  

A Statue in Thermopylae, Greece

A larger-than-life bronze statue of a Spartan icon, King Leonidas I, stands in an eclipse near a wide, long, and dusty plain in Thermopylae, Greece.  The king's raised right hand holds a javelin.  The downward left hand grips a shield.  A Spartan helmet, with its now famous Mohawk swoop, covers the warrior's head.  Otherwise, King Leonidas I stands naked.  The Spartan king fought naked.

Leonidas died at the Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC, more specifically, at the Pass of Thermopylae, where, in the combined area of mountain pass and lower plain, Leonidas and his 7,000 soldiers held off Persia's King Xerxes and his 2,641,610 soldiers for several intense days.  When the ferocious fighting ended, only two of the 7,000 Greek soldiers survived.  The victorious Persians, though, eventually tasted defeat at the Battle of Plataiai in 479 BC., where history also changed course.

But, for the moment, I'd prefer not to trod another war-torn path, but remain at the Battle of Thermopylae, one of history's most studied and respected battles.  However, without the drama of war, the Pass of Thermopylae rises above the extended battle plain below and appears more a snapshot of Greece's spectacular mountain scenery than an extended setting for one of history's bloodiest battles.

The battle plain below, large enough to hold over two and a half million men, lies flat, like a discarded remnant, as if Mother Nature had created a rugged masterpiece and dropped the scrap of land to perfect a turquoise-blue sea to lap the peaceful shoreline.  If not for the Battle of Thermopylae, an historical quirk, the long plain would simply exist, neither pretty nor ugly, just there, a wall flower among Greece's more imposing battle sites.

But, trapped and out-numbered by Xerxes, Leonidas refused to surrender, basically said to the Persian king, "If you want me and my men, come and get us," and, so, Xerxes complied.  Leonidas and his men fought to the bitter end with heroics that earned the Greeks dictionary definitions of honor, valor, courage, and bravery, definitions that have since translated into the world's various militaries with equal respect.  For there are times when something so powerful occurs even sworn enemies agree to agree.

So, today a statue of Leonidas faces burial mounds and thousands of soldiers who died on that dusty plain.  Behind Leonidas, in the far distance, a modern highway and parallel rail tracks cut through a land that once ran scarlet with blood.  This morning, however, the hum of fast cars and heavy trucks whirs like gnats on a hot day. Save for an occasional chirping bird, diesel- and gas-powered modernity is the only sound one hears.  For it is hot.  Perspiration runs from the brow like a salty river.

I look at the statue of Leonidas and wonder about history's enormity: The millions of men gathered to kill, the armada of ships in the sea needed to transport the soldiers, the why of it all.  True, the Peloponnesian Wars eventually followed the Battle of Thermopylae, wars that produced innovation and change modern military leaders follow, but the Battle of Thermopylae seduces today's warriors primarily for the raw courage that prevailed.

Historians like to point out that most wars or significant battles began because of economics or a need for land, truisms that socialists say exist today.  However, the Battle of Thermopylae happened because it could.  Leonidas and Xerxes didn't really want to fight each other.  Attempts to prevent the conflict didn't work because Leonidas and Xerxes had nothing else to do.  As my husband, a military history hobbyist, said, "Warriors don't pick olives."

So the armies fought.  Men died.  And time moved on.

Sad, actually.

Greece's Navarino Bay

Greece's Navarino Bay, near the western tip of Peloponnese, offers more than spectacular Mediterranean vistas, pristine beaches, olive groves, and white stucco houses with red tiled roofs.  The sun-drenched bay, with its turquoise-blue waters, shimmers not only beneath open blue skies but within Greece's heart.

On October 20, 1827, at the Battle of Navarino, naval forces crushed a fleet of Ottoman ships, an outcome that ensured Greece's independence after 350 years of Turkish rule.  History documents this rule as harsh. The Ottomans governed with a cruel whip.  Greeks lived in abject poverty under tyrannical conditions, free only to dream about tomorrow.

Three and a half centuries is a long time to hold onto a dream, to work toward throwing off the master's yolk, to retain one's identity, as an individual and as a country.  But this is exactly what happened.  After the downfall of the Ottomans, the Greek culture re-surfaced, wiser and stronger, determined not to be subjugated again, by the Turks or anyone else.

The Greek language, once a language that traveled the Mediterranean -- and beyond with Alexander the Great, retains its purity, if localized to Greece these days, still, though, a remarkable feat after 350 years of linguistic onslaught.  The Turks had worked to erase the language from the world's lexicon.

Unlike in Bosnia, where, basically, an entire country converted to the Muslim religion to avoid mass slaughter, Greek Orthodox Christianity thrives throughout Greece. (To be fair, the Ottomans didn't threaten the Greeks as such; however, lifestyle improved greatly if a Greek converted.  Few did.)  Regardless of one's religion, the fact that the Greek people preserved their spirituality deserves a certain respect (about which I'm not the first to write -- but more fully understand now -- as historians have long linked the Greek's preservation of their religion to much that is Europe today, not necessarily in a religious sense.)

However, I think the inner determination to retain core beliefs, all the while occupied by a voracious empire, speaks volumes about the strong character of the Greek people.  (And I would write the same if the Greeks had occupied Turkey, if the Turks had retained their identity under such brutal conditions.

Because the character of the soul is more than a religious symbol.

Because wanting for the sake of wanting destroys an individual, brings a country to its knees, as it destroyed the Ottoman Empire (and others throughout history).  It is the recognition of needs greater than simple wants that fuels the forward motion that protects society from itself.

As such, from occupied to free again (for Greece has a deep history, a rich history that gave birth to democracy and rational thought and so much more), the country's genealogy continued, families held together by stories of tragedy and hope, a freedom attained, a dream realized, a tomorrow that shimmers like the waters in Navarino Bay, mostly calm and inviting, but sometimes a bit harsh -- for Greece struggles, like other countries, with today's recession -- but always, the waters in Navarino Bay lap the shore and whisper the dream that lives.

In an era of globalization, we can still be who we are, not robots made in some factory in China, cheap goods sold on a mass market, made to fall apart after the first wash, imitations with a commercialized logo that screams for attention.

So, as I sit in a quiet lobby in a lovely hotel in Peloponnese, I am rejuvenated.  Regardless of nationality or religion, regardless of the day's challenges, regardless of fears that work to mute the soul, our ancestors whisper that dreams live.

If only we'd listen.

If only we'd want more of what can't be bought.

If only we'd get our hands dirty from doing our own work, honest work that laps the soul, like the waters at Navarino Bay.

Arivederci, Italia!

Arivederci, Italia!  Tomorrow evening we sail to Patras, Greece, two nights and a day aboard a Greek ferry, slicing across the Adriatic Sea.  New memories await.  And, to be honest, I possess the traveler's eagerness to explore new frontiers, to experience Peloponnese's Mediterranean terrain, to visit Delphi and Sparta, to sip the local wine and nibble green olives, to walk quiet villages, to feel what is and imagine what was, how it all came to  be, this miracle called democracy.

But I'll miss you, Italia.  Your serenity.  Your beauty.  The patient and understanding lifestyle.  The optimism:  How piave, rain, nourishes more flowers than floods; how food feeds the soul, not just the body; how doing nothing can trump doing something.


I'm going to miss morning walks down narrow lanes, the afternoon siesta, the after dinner strolls in the piazza with my husband, and, later, sitting on our balcony, mesmerized by the moon's white shimmer on calm waters, enthralled by twinkling lights on cruise ships that approach Venice, and, talking into the night, about this and that, nothing important, just enjoying each other's company.


And, of course, our four trips into Venice or nearby islands, like Lido Beach, where the Duke and Duchess of  Windsor frequented, or Burano, the quaint and colorful island where lace was made (but now imported from China), or Murano, the home of that magnificent glass, still made locally.  Since this is our fourth year at the same hotel, we've come to treasure the routine:  Bus No. 5 to Punta Sabionni and the ferry ride to the day's adventure.


And returning to our hotel room, tired but pleased with the day, happy to crawl into a book.  Readings this year included Thuborn's Shadow of the Silk Road (almost brilliant); Harris's Pompeii (contrived); Ericksson's Girl with a Dragon Tattoo (too dark); and Gregory's The White Queen (interesting).  I learned from each.


We also rode the bus to Treviso, into the countryside, to an old Italian town, locals gathered in the sleepy piazza, eating pizza, drinking beer.  We walked the side streets, ancient streets filled with shops, probably like they were hundreds of years ago.  But too many shops had shuttered, also the reason too many locals gathered in the piazza.  Italy's economy struggles.  Unemployment's high.  House after house is for sale.  New buildings stand empty.


And I wish I could say that the situation with the Russians at our hotel had a happy ending.  It doesn't.  Last night, at dinner, tempers flared over the food grab.  It wasn't pretty.


Nor has the pool been peaceful.  There's no lifeguard, but international signs say No Diving, No Running, No Soccer Balls, No Topless.  Only the latter has been followed.  Small kids run alongside the pool, everywhere, actually.  Older kids dive into a rather shallow pool.  Teenagers play rough with a soccer ball, yelling to each other.  One father decided to make a game of tossing his kids into the pool, turning and flinging them into the water.  On-lookers complained, worried about injuries.  Management's intervention had no effect.  The Russians continued to do as they pleased.  This morning, some guests checked out early.  They'd had enough.

For we've also had a problem with crime.  Last week, at 0235 and 0315, someone tried to gain entry to our room.  We flipped on the lights and started talking to scare them away.  It worked.  However, several rooms in the hotel next to us had been robbed.  Police out front that morning.  A desk clerk said police are looking for three Russians on our floor who'd checked out that a.m., before the police arrived.

The other night, fake whistling like birds awakened us, and others, at 0300.  Police out front that morning.  


More police this morning.  Someone robbed the money exchange in the piazza.


True, Italy has a pick-pocket reputation.  And, it's not totally unfair.  One has to be careful.  However, this is all a bit much.  I mean, this is a very nice hotel, not exactly cheap. Nor is there a downtrodden beach area along the strip.  Everything looks respectable, very neat, very clean.  Then, again, according to the lady at the money exchange, the couple who robbed her looked very respectable.


Sigh.  


I still want to visit you again next year, Italia.  Ti amo.  I love you.

The Italian Language Sings

The Italian language sings.  This was the topic of after-breakfast conversation around a table on the hotel's terrace.  British friends said that when they're shopping, back in Liverpool, and happen to hear spoken Italian, they stop briefly, just to enjoy the language's beauty.  "We haven't a clue what anyone's saying," Brian said, "but, for a few moments, we want to get lost in the beauty of a language that sings."

I couldn't agree more.  Sometimes, when I'm walking, I'll pause on a bench simply to hear the beauty of passing conversations.  I love how the vowels stretch, how phrases roll higher, then down into a sentence that mellows out, like a bell that tinkles, the last sound a dainty reverberation that soothes the soul.  I can't imagine a really angry person speaking Italian and retaining the anger.  Of course, it must happen.  People are people.

Still, for the wandering tourist, snippets of conversation here and there, greetings in stores, background commentary on television, all merge into a language of beauty, a language that sings "Co me va?" (How are you?) with such purity one has to feel good or at least better, if only for a moment.  And, sometimes, it only takes a moment for a day that has started out poorly .... kids crying, a rough e-mail ... to turn around, for a smile to reach upward.

The hotel solved the problem of the disappearing food last night by bringing out more food: a second round of beef (like one sees at huge receptions), more lamb chops, huge piles of French fries, more pasts, double the cut fruit selections, increase ice cream flavors, and so on and so on until one looked at these mounds of food with a weakened appetite.  For it's not normal, I don't think, for this much food to feed what in reality are few people, about 100.

But, not knowing the increases would appear, others didn't rush to stand in chow lines, but held back, maintained a firm grip on the leisurely pace of dinner traditions.  This is a part of the Old Europe it took centuries to reach.  No one was going to forsake tradition for a lamb chop.

I can't say at which precise moment it happened .... perhaps the sight of so much food had a sobering effect, that no one in the room starved ... but civility returned, the rush abated, and order prevailed.  That one could feel a certain sense of harmony blessed a pleasant evening.  Except that there are murmurs prices will rise, that this hotel will be too expensive next year.  However, I don't think this will happen.  The British and the Germans and the Austrians are the hotel's core guests. Some have been returning yearly for decades. Without this nucleus, occasional Russian groups can't keep the hotel afloat.

A reader asked if I knew thirty-three from the Russian Federation read my blog?  And, in a roundabout way, if I worried about the political correctness of what I had written?

Yes, I knew about this readership, am grateful for their support, and have sometimes wondered who they were, what they did, where they lived in Russia (I've always wanted to visit Siberia, romanticized a reader lived there).

About the political correctness, no.  Actually, hell no.

When a group of people assumes others don't understand their language and makes ugly comments that can be understood, this is a xenophobia that can be called to task.  I wish I could say I'm alone in this but am not. A couple of weeks prior to leaving the States, we had lunch with a Russian speaker from one of the former Eastern Block countries.  Mariyan complained about the same issues I have written about but hadn't yet experienced.  "They give us all a bad name," he had moaned.

And I understand this helpless feeling.  Wasn't it Graham Greene who wrote about The Ugly American?  I can't say Greene was wrong.  Oh, but the times I saw my countrymen/women behave overseas in a manner they wouldn't think of doing back in the States and felt a sense of shame.  Time has seasoned most Americans to tuck their manners into the suitcase when traveling.  Still, the problem often persists, The Ugly American who needs to get his/her act together.  I'm not personally insulted when others are reprimanded.  The Russians I've known aren't either.

Like Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage...."

Italy Charms

Italy charms.  Slowly.  Like a flower whose scent drifts, pulling you into an orbit of beauty, where bad happens in another place, another time, like yesterday's newspaper, left on a terrace table, the English gaining my attention, the headlines so dramatic, so far away I recoil from what threatens and walk away, preferring the scented beauty, the Italy that charms, the Italian language that seduces, like a lullaby, into feeling safe and secure.

After four lovely days in Munich (which I'll blog about after returning to the States, for something interesting happened which I'd like to share, hear your input), we're into our routine at Jesolo Beach, an hour's ferry ride across the bay from Venice, Italy.  It's a tourist area that shuts down in winter, reverting to the gray emptiness expected from a narrow peninsula victimized by seasonal winds and heavy rains.

In the meantime, tho, the sun shines in a cloudless blue sky, tourists wander the town's shaded streets, beach devotees have claimed lounges or locals go about morning errands.  The atmosphere is peaceful, very relaxing.  Dick's out by the pool, content reading a Daniel Silva novel, half-shaded under his umbrella.

I don't like sitting in the sun, umbrella or not, even with sunscreen, a hat, and so on.  I enjoy exploring side streets, taking photos, and walking and not really thinking, just absorbing.  Around noon, Dick and I meet at a   beach hangout popular with Italians (for most of the tourists here are Italian).  He usually orders a beer and a panini.  I don't order anything.  There aren't any calories in what I pinch from his plate!!  That sip of beer, too!

What I've noticed most about the area, is how generational the lifestyle is.  Sons work with fathers in the small shops.  Grandmothers push strollers (prams).  Long-time friends gather in the piazza and talk and laugh.  Small kids know to endure the pinch on the cheeks, the kisses, the exclamations about how beautiful they are.  Dogs know to flatten down, to wait until they can return to being dogs, tails up, paws moving, styling and profiling.  It's Italy.  Everybody and everything looks good.  Not a speck of dust on constantly washed cars.  Store windows sparkle.

Our hotel serves dinner at 7:30.  It's the only hotel in the area to include breakfast and dinner in the daily price.  Dinner includes a long salad bar, a soup and pasta bar, and a buffet of fresh vegetables and grilled (while you wait) meats and fish.  Dessert consists of a table filled with mouth-watering tortes, with a parallel fruit table, the cherries, strawberries, and melons that are in season.  One can top off the fruit with gelato.

And, so, for a week we enjoyed a leisurely paced routine.  Until a large group of Russians checked in.  Now, no one knows what to think.  Not just us, the lone tourists from the United States.  But the numerous Brits and Germans and Austrians.  We've begun to gather and compare notes.  Decide what to do.  When there's only one thing to do:  Come to breakfast and dinner earlier, change our leisurely routine.

If not, there's little food, with the hotel staff scrambling to find fillers.

It's beyond comprehension that a group of people can put so much food on plates (for each balances more than one filled plate), move as a group, not following the course order, piling on the really good stuff (for a menu is posted daily).  And they eat it all, every crumb, scraping plates clean, as if an eating marathon exists.  Then, they leave.  With the rest of us sitting there, wondering, what the hell was that all about?

There's a bit of sympathy, that that many people are that hungry.  But sympathy only goes so far.

For those of you new to my blog, my hub and I lived in Macedonia for two years.  I learned to speak Macedonian fairly well.  Some Macedonian laces Russian (or vice versa).  So, I understand a bit of these Russian conversations.  In short, they don't like us, look down upon us, enjoy talking about us.  By 'us' I mean those of us from the West, be it Austria or Germany or England or the United States or wherever.  I wish I could list exceptions and say this couple or that person was very nice.  I can't.  They move as a group with a group mentality.  Nothing individual here.  Not even a response to routine greetings in their language.

I wish I could say that this is the experience from one tour group.  Not so.  Out desk clerks say it's the same with Russian tour groups everywhere here.

And the Russians shop en masse, flush with euros (oil money), buying high-end designer items with the same abandon with which they fill dinner plates.

So, where am I going with all this?  Nowhere, really.  Except to say that I, like other hotel guests from England, Austria, and Germany, am a product of the Cold War.  We're a bit taken aback by this East-West divide we're experiencing.  For there are guests here from European countries who speak Russian.  I'm told overheard conversations get harsher when one understands Russian fluently.

One can't buy Paradise.  Reality always slips in.

A Cheshire's Tale

Before today's story, I'd like to warmly welcome my new Followers.  Thank you, from the heart, for showing an interest in my stories.

And bear hugs to those of you who've stuck with me these past months. 

To everyone I'd like to say that if you don't see comments from me on your blog, please leave a comment so I can link back to you.  Some profiles lack a link.

When the Geek Squad set up my blog last July, there were Those in my orbit who expressed surprise that I would do such a thing, that I should settle into my years and crochet afghans.  Well, I did crochet afghans, six, to be exact, one as a gift, and five for a charity that benefited a Katrina relief program.  So, now, back to blogging. 

Thank you for your concerns about my smashed finger.  You truly lifted my spirits!!  Because, trust me, there were moments when I was quite angry at myself for being stupid not to watch more carefully what I was doing.

But a positive side of waiting is that I had time to think.  About today's story.  It's a ghost story.  I was a bit nervous about sharing a ghost story.  I'd rather be in Blogville than a Looney Tunes cartoon, if you catch my drift.  But what I wrote is what happened.  And, as President Clinton once said, "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."  And, so, I will.

So, Mundo I hope you enjoy this post.  Mundo is a Follower who lives in beautiful Indonesia.  Perhaps you've read his comments.  Mundo commented that my post about Wendy hit home, that Wendy could have been his cousin.  That touched me. So, when Mundo requested a ghost story (he blogged about perhaps having a ghost near him), I decided to let my healed fingers rip across the keyboard.

* * * * *

The ball of downy white fur mewed softly.  Moist blue eyes, sweet and trusting, turned toward my coos.  When a tiny paw reached for my finger, I cradled Chessy in my arms and rocked her asleep.

My little kitten grew into a brown-faced Siamese with sapphire-blue eyes and pointed ears.  Soft mews became stronger, never shrill, more like a feline drawl that floated on Hawaii's gentle breezes. 

Especially in the afternoon. In 1971, with few buildings air conditioned, afternoons meant the island paradise felt suspended in slow motion.  Birds circled lazily in open blue skies.  Bees snoozed in tropical gardens. A mellow sun streamed through open windows. Breezes off the Koolau Mountains carried the sound of silence into our Kailua apartment.

Chessy had been my Valentine's Day engagement gift, a bundle of joy that had added a kaleidoscope's sparkle to the diamond on my finger.  And while my fiancee, a captain in the United States Marine Corps, worked at the military base near Kailua, Chessy and I utilized my free time from teaching trice-weekly adult education classes to explore the lush stand of trees and flora near our apartment building.

My agile Siamese loved the spirit of the hunt.  Nothing stirred natural instincts like a mouse scurrying among the leaves.  Nimble paws ran and jumped ahead of the mouse, and, with back arched, blue eyes ablaze, ferocious hisses drowned pitiful squeaks.  Until the hunter walked away, not interested in the kill.

When a lone bird came into view, Chessy crouched low, brown and white markings the perfect camouflage, muscles taunt, ready for the lunge.  Then, she'd meow.  And the bird would fly away. 

Chessy possessed a hunter's appetite but an angel's heart.
 
Sometimes we'd sit in the shade by the apartment complex's pool, Chessy on one lounge chair, me on the other, umbrella up, under an overhanging tree's branch.  I'd fold over the towel beneath Chessy for additional shade.  As I did for myself. 

Since we were usually the only visitors, my pool-mate objected to lying around with nothing to do except watch me read. I worked to ignore a mewing brouhaha.  What I couldn't ignore, though, were the dramatic Sarah Bernhardt flourishes where Chessy covered narrowed eyes with a paw and howled.  So, we'd leave, the victor's tail up, blue eyes triumphant.

Chessy followed me everywhere, tail up, eyes watching, nose sniffing or paws racing when I'd break into a jog.  And when Chessy wearied of adventure, she'd stretch on the forest floor and stare at me, until I scooped her up for the return trek.  But the clever beauty would squirm free and sprint ahead with Olympian resolve, all the while glancing back to see if I followed.  I did.

Like every feline who'd ever walked the earth, Chessy had her tricks.  We understood each other perfectly.

Of course, with Hawaii being the land of Aloha, love snared Chessy.  I returned from an evening class to find her and another Siamese sprawled on the bed, their paws circling into coy flirts.  Startled by the intrusion, the suitor raced through the apartment, out the louvered window, and down the steps, never to be seen again. 

Unfortunately.  For this muscular dude wasn't a surfer bum but a prized show stud who'd fled masculine Nirvana for Chessy's modest pad. Fliers promised a $200.00 reward for the gorgeous hulk's return, a fortune in the days of cinder block bookcases.

However, the next day's scheduled visit to the veterinarian's clinic revealed Dick and I were expectant
grandparents, the exact opposite of the visit's purpose.

At my exasperated sigh, the vet apologized for not operating when I had requested and waived the appointment fee, an appreciated windfall that led to financial dreams:  How pedigree kittens could pay off a school loan, give us a honeymoon trip to Australia and New Zealand, perhaps buy a real bookcase. 

Oh, but the dreams were big - no, huge! - for Dick and I were young, and love swirls in dreams.  Those magical dreams where hearts thump and eyes sparkle and life's energy pulsates through your very being, those magical dreams where you look into open blue skies and think, Oh, God, yes!

However, the blessed event momentarily dashed fanciful dreams.  Chessy gave birth to five wiggly meows.  The sleek beauty had indeed fallen for a surfer bum, a live-for-today Tom with bold, black and white Aloha shirt markings who had strutted into the neighborhood. 

But Dick and I fell in love with the babies, just as Chessy had.  She doted on her kittens, smothered them with licks and warm nuzzles, and, just as Chessy followed me everywhere, five black and white kittens learned to follow their mother throughout our two-bedroom apartment. Soon, like goslings, the tonga line ventured onto the lanai (balcony).

Fortunately, Dick and I had five friends who wanted kittens.  For once the kittens reached the lanai, Chessy grew aloof, almost turned on her babies. 

After the kittens departed, I thought the apartment felt empty.  Not Chessy. She jumped onto the green sofa and meowed for me to join her for a nap, as she had done before the babies were born.  Relieved to be free, Chessy stretched her long, muscular body against my side, put her head on my shoulder, and fell asleep.

As such, time passed.  Dick and I married. The Marine Corps decided we'd move to Virginia.  And this was fine, except we didn't know what to do about Chessy. 

She had developed the annoying and destructive habit of not using the litter box.  Toiletry deposits appeared in shoes, behind the sofa, on the sofa.  We (and the vet) tried everything to break this habit, but stubbornness prevailed. 

Even though Dick loved Chessy dearly, I sensed she had become jealous of him, the husband who left on deployments that lasted weeks and returned for brief days.  For there were times, on the weekends when Dick was home, that she had meowed for us to take a nap, only to watch me leave with Dick.

When I closed the lanai door, Chessy would curl into a tight ball, face hidden, her back to the world.

But, at evening's end, when Dick and I pulled into our parking slot, we'd see our watch-kitty waiting patiently for our return (for she knew the sound of our car, could exit through the louver window).

The three of us would walk toward our second-story apartment, the light evening filled with meows about where we'd been.  But when we reached the steps, Chessy would stop. I always carried Chessy up the steps, her sweet face nuzzled into my neck, her soft purrs the perfect sundowner.

So, the day before we had to schedule Chessy for a flight to the Mainland, for we had no choice but to leave Hawaii, Dick and I sat at our small kitchen table and debated the options.  A friend with a large yard desperately wanted Chessy. 

Just as desperately, we wanted to keep her.  But her toiletry habit had become impossible.  My heart tugged.  As much as I loved Chessy, I wanted her to feel free, not restricted to what a townhouse offered.  For we'd be living in a cramped townhouse at the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia.

Our decision was that if Chessy used her litter box in the morning, she'd fly to the Mainland.  Just to make sure Chessy understood the ultimatum, I turned to my feline shadow and admonished, "Do you hear that, Missy?" and burst into tears.

The next morning, Chessy had used her litter box.

For 14 years, Chessy moved with us, whenever the Marine Corps issued orders, and there were many moves among the various bases and installations. Chessy adapted to Dick's erratic schedule.  Dick learned that Chessy like to have her ears scratched. And, so, the years passed. Chessy, like us, acquired a few grey hairs, suffered dental problems, and nursed aching muscles.  But we adapted.

Tired as she may have been, Chessy always greeted guests and followed them into the living room, watching, waiting, sometimes talking (as Siamese do) until the party's crescendo overwhelmed feline sensibilities.  Our hostess would then retreat to the kitchen for party treats:  five shrimp (boiled without salt, then peeled) and nine small potato chips.  After a big water slurp, eager paws raced upstairs, jumped onto the bed and slept the party off.

When my husband wasn't deployed, Chessy slept at the foot of our bed. 

During most deployments, Chessy slept curled up with me, as she had in Hawaii, with her head on my shoulder. 

When her body ached, though, and she had to stretch -- for Chessy now had a kidney problem -- Chessy would lie in the center of the bed and wait for me.  Meows encouraged me along. 

Finally, I'd turn off the lamp, snuggle under the covers, and reach for Chessy's extended paw.  When she felt my touch, she'd meow softly, curl her paw around my fingers, and I'd drift off to sleep.  And I was blessed.  Because whatever the military threw at me, I could handle the challenge. The night's demons never shadowed my sleep.

The vet assured us Chessy wasn't in pain and could live for months with a decent quality of life. But her failing health meant she couldn't accompany us on the long haul.  We had Marine Corps orders for back-to-back overseas tours:  Six months in Rome, Italy, and three years in Nairobi, Kenya. 

I sobbed buffalo tears when Chessy flew to my sister's home in Houston, Texas.  Before Dick and I left for Rome, I'd call my sister to hear Chessy's meow. I'd hang up the phone and try not to cry, not to sob tears that gushed from the soul, rolled down reddened cheeks, and splattered the tablecloth.  But I did.  Every time.

Still, life had to go on.  Our first year in Nairobi, Kenya, we joined friends for an Easter service at a traditional African church.  Traditional, that is, in the sense that the steepled church had a mud brick floor; open windows where white crocheted curtains fluttered; old, hand carved wooden pews with a patina that glistened in the morning sun; and an African choir that sang in Kiswahili.

It was during one of these hymns that the morning's peacefulness gave way to a sudden tremble.  I felt dizzy, nauseous, and broke into a sweat.  Concerned, Dick asked what was wrong.  My hands were cold; my face was ashen.  I didn't know what was wrong.  I didn't know why tears suddenly fell.  I didn't know until later.

Because, while the choir sang, Chessy had died.

At the news, I was devastated, pained beyond tears, hurt where I didn't think hurt existed, to the very core of all a warm paw had touched.  I ached -- do you hear me? -- I ached to hold Chessy one more time, to see her tail up, to know she was happy.

Gradually, though -- as anyone who has mourned knows -- I picked up life's thread and wove Kenya into my days.  When the time came to leave, I felt nostalgic before the plane lifted up.  If ever there had been a place that had nurtured my sense of freedom, it had been Africa, a curious statement, I know considering some of the continent's Orwellian habits.  (But live in Africa and you will understand.)

And, so, we returned to Northern Virginia and the Washington, D.C. environs.  At this point, very accustomed to moving, I soon had boxes unpacked, except for two boxes of miscellaneous items in the bedroom.

Knowing that we'd move again in a year, and ready for a mid-morning break, I flopped onto the bed. I debated whether it was worth my time to unpack the boxes when a shadow on the floor in the near distance caught my attention.  Curious, because sunlight filled the spacious room, I sat up.

I didn't know what to think when this shadow, now brown and white, swirled into the shape of a cat, and looked about, as if a transformation had occurred.  But, no, the room looked the same:  Dresser over there; comfortable chair in the corner; boxes where I had left them.  The sun streamed peacefully through the windows.  Nothing moved.  Except the shadow on the floor.

And when this cat ran in circles and jumped and caught its tail and rolled on the floor, I knew what was happening and relaxed into the moment.

So when this brown-faced cat jumped onto the bed and moved towards me, I held out a hand to touch a paw I couldn't feel but which shadowed through my hand.  I then felt a whoosh of air as the cat jumped over me and onto the floor. 

I watched as Chessy walked into the wall, tail up, and disappeared.