September 24th, 2007


The Princess and The Pea

I was raised on fairy tales, though I'm not all that sure if it was an influence of my mother or my father or neither. They are both pragmatic, logical, Aristotelian.

My father's mother was a great one for romance and fantasy, I think, and that may have turned him off. Vanity Fair, in his opinion, is about a bad woman doing bad things. And he passed a college course that included Spencer's Faery Queen without cracking the book. His memory is excellent and he had read a shortened children's version in My Book House as a young boy. I have a copy of My Book House. We all do. But he was the one who gave me a book every week and never, ever questioned what I read. He was the one who knew all the biblical stories and greek myths, read me Aesop's Fables.

My mother was my partner-in-crime at times. She taught me to read. Before that, she took me to the library and checked out LP records of readings of The Wind in The Willows. She probably gave me my first copy of the book. She squirmed in her seat while visiting my math class in college, all because she wanted to tell me my professor looked just like Mr. Toad.

My sisters gave me every good book they ever read. I never read a bad one until I was old enough to select them on my own. Every story was incredible. But I don't think any of them were into fairy tales the way I was and still am. Which brings me to my point.

Fairy tales can be retold. They have a core that sustains retelling. Collapse )

New Arrival!

In a moment of sheer insanity, I fell in love with a shelter cat on the weekend (this is why I do not go to the pet store) and then took the Dude and Miss E to meet it. Result: new cat in house. The shelter woman said the cat doesn't much like to be picked up when the Dude asked her if he could. Not only did he scoop him up, but this boy actually purred for the Dude. He's rather amazing with cats and quite brilliant with all animals. The Dude, that is.

His name is Goliath. The cat, not the Dude. He is supposedly 8, though he appears much younger. He takes up a lot of real estate. He's skinny and muscular, supposedly came from a man who was told he had too many cats by Animal Control. Breed, unknown. Likes other cats, obviously. But right now he's segregated in our bedroom for a few days. We let him roam the house to get used to it after the other 3 have been put out for the night. It's more a question of them accepting him than the other way 'round, I think.

But here he is:

Oh yeah. Forgot to mention. He's tall enough on his back legs to try and twist the door knob. That's 36 inches high. And someone taught him to sit up on his back legs and move his front paws together like a dog begging for a treat. He's an odd one. Should fit right in with the rest of the odd menagerie in this place.

Frog Out