The Goodest Boy

 

Popper Leonard “Lenny” Salemink passed away Tuesday, July 27, 2021, after a short illness. (Or it could have been a long illness, we don't really know. Lenny was a stoic and didn't show pain). He was born April 26, 2010, and - after a frequently referenced PowerPoint presentation by Gabby on how she would take care of him - was adopted by the Salemink family from the Iowa City Animal Shelter on August 4.

Lenny was not big on snuggles (ask Gabby), but if you needed a glass of water tipped over or anything knocked off a table, he was your man . . . er, cat. Lenny had an impressive .95 carpet yacking average, avoiding throw rugs and hard surface floors with nearly every at-yack. He could tip spill-proof bowls with ease.

Lenny excelled at biting ankles (ask Scott), being underfoot, and playing “hide and ignore” when sought. He was not a fan of cat toys – especially toys that crinkled, chirped, or otherwise made noise - but did enjoy watching his humans try to entice him to play (ask Max).

He was the “bestest boy,” although he was disdainful of baby talk.

Lenny was scared of strangers, dogs, work trucks, the doorbell, lawn mowers, plastic bags, his own shadow, and Max’s room, but not thunder or fireworks. He detested car rides, and when being loaded into his pet carrier could out-wrestle Dan Gable.

Lenny like basking in patches of sunshine, laying on top of hot-air vents, and sitting on his box/throne to peer down upon the peasants parading past his window. He liked to go outside, particularly if someone would go outside with him (to guarantee a return indoors). He would occasionally venture as far as the driveway, where he would lie down under a vehicle, just out of reach.

Lenny could sound like a herd of thundering elephants when running laps down the hallway, through the kitchen, around the dining room table and back. He could jump up onto the counter with the grace and silence of a ninja. Usually.

Lenny was the best napping buddy ever (ask Joanne), as long as you had a blanket on your lap and you held perfectly still. He had the warmest tummy for belly rubs (only when invited), the itchiest chin for scratches (all the time), and the softest fur for general petting (and shedding). He was quick to purr and loved “making biscuits,” although he never mastered the claw-free knead.

He was a “handsome boy.”

Lenny offered head butts to the sad and would listen to your woes with an expression of compassion (often mistaken as apathy) on his fuzzy little face as long as you rubbed his ears. He ignored those who wanted his affection, and circled unwelcomely near those who did not.

He was the “sweetest boy.”

Lenny leaves behind a plethora of carpet stains, a threadbare area rug/scratching pad, numerous tumble-fur fluff balls, and a heartbroken family.

He was the goodest boy, and he will be missed.

Part 11.5: Still No Rest for the Sequestered

 The story thus far: Due to Covid, Julie and Vanessa have swapped their weekly “wine, whine and dine” luncheons together at a local restaurant for “cold cuts, catch-up, and phone call” luncheons apart, with each at her own home. During their most recent call, Julie inadvertently volunteered to help Vanessa with an envelope-stuffing project, only to find Vanessa had anticipated her assistance and left the mailing supplies on her doorstep . . . along with an empty HoHos box.

Julie understood that Vanessa was swamped at work, and she didn't mind helping her . . . much. A full box of chocolate snack cakes would have gone a long way toward erasing that “much.” A bottle or two of wine would have made her downright glad to help out. An empty box of HoHos didn't do a thing to reduce her reluctance.

“So, about those HoHos, Van . . . .” Julie said, checking the box again. Nope. Still empty.

“You know that I love having Michael and Steve in my pandemic pod, right?”

Vanessa's ex-husband and his new husband had moved in with Vanessa when their home remodeling project encountered the same unexpected delays that plague every renovation. Then Covid hit, adding another level of delays and sending the whole thing off the rails.

“Yeah, yeah. No one gets left behind, no one drinks alone, and you split the cooking three ways,” Julie paused, certain she had stumbled across an explanation. “Oh my gosh! They finally realized you can't cook and they voted you off the island!”

“Pffft. My crock pot is better than any immunity idol. Nothing says comfort like slow cooker ham and hash brown casserole, or slow cooker hamburger and tater tot casserole. As long as there's not another potato famine or global shortage of cream of chicken soup, I'm golden.”

“But Michael has gourmet chef-level skills, and a palate to match.”

“Yes, and schedule that leaves him less time than a short-order cook. The classes he's teaching may be virtual, but the homework he grades isn't. He tries, or at least he tried to keep up with the cooking. During the first week of the shut down, Michael made his Zia Rosa's lasagna. We're talking homemade noodles, sauce that simmered on the stove all day, and fresh mozzarella and ricotta cheese from an undisclosed, local farm."

"Sounds heavenly," Julie said, trying not to drool.

"Yeah, well, that was then. Last week he made a pyramid out of those single-serving, microwavable mac and cheese cups and told us to knock ourselves out.”

“And Steve . . . .”

“Steve is a stress baker. Steve bakes when stressed.”

“So he's been baking a lot?”

“No. Between the corporate board zoom meetings for his consulting gig, and zoom classes as an adjunct professor, Steve hasn't had time to stress bake. Do you know what happens when Steve can't stress bake? He gets stressed. And you know what happens when Steve gets stressed? Michael gets stressed. And when Michael and Steve are both stressed . . . .”

“They stress you out?” Julie guessed.

“They drive me friggin' crazy! I mean, I love those guys, but they need to calm the frig down.”

“O.K., so you're all too busy to cook. Much. That doesn't explain the empty HoHo box on my doorstep.”

“Steve spent all day yesterday preparing for a VIZ (Very Important Zoom) meeting early this morning. He was so stressed out he couldn't sleep. Normally, he'd whip up a batch of his Nana's cinnamon rolls to calm his nerves, but he didn't have time. Instead he snuck to the grocery store first thing this morning to buy a box of HoHos and a tube of store-brand frosting. He arranged the HoHos on a platter, piped some frosting down the center of each, artfully arranged M&Ms – 'm' side down – on the frosting, and passed them off as homemade chocolate eclairs.”

“You didn't say . . . .”

“Are you kidding? When I was growing up, Mom thought Little Debbie was the anti-Christ and the Keebler Elves were Satan's minions. The only time I got to enjoy junk food was when I was at your house.”

“I'm sure my mom would be . . . .”

“Michael and I gobbled up those HoHos like we were eight-year-olds high on red Kool-Aid . . . or like middle-aged adults strung out on stress and espresso.”

“But why do I have the box?”

“Steve is crap at subterfuge. I mean, he tried to bury it in the recycling bin, but yesterday was trash day, so it was a shallow grave. He has to know we know, but this gives us all plausible deniability, you know?”

“That was a sweet thing you did, Van. Weird, but sweet.”

“Besides, if we play dumb he might make us tiramisu out of Twinkies.”

Coming soon: How Muffy became the Machiavelli of face masks.

Ugly Spring

 

It's ugly spring in Iowa – that awkward time of transition between winter and true spring.

As temperatures climb, Mother Nature begins her seductive striptease of cold-weather attire. She slowly raises her snowbank skirts, the lace-melted edges sullied by sand and dirt, to expose more leggy lawn each day. Her tired sod is mottled brown-gray by matted grass and moldering leaves, lined by varicose trash veins, and pocked by dog poo. 

Still, this suggestive glimpse of green provides an illicit thrill to our winter-weary core. We respond instinctively, desire overriding better judgement.

But Old Man Winter is a persistent suitor. The wind carries his whispered forget-me-nots, an icy finger caressing the nape of our necks. We awaken to find his frosty love notes written on windows and clinging to bare limbs.

We know Mother Nature is fickle. We know she will abandon us, lured away by the beauty of a diamond-flake flurry or fleeing the ire of sleet and ice. Her come-hither warmth beckons, only to be replaced by a (literal) cold shoulder. Her sunny smile gives way to the glower of gray clouds.

And yet we respond with child-like optimism, baring arms and legs and feet – sweatshirts replaced by tank tops, pants giving way to shorts, flip flops kicking aside boots. We endure her seasonal petulance, knowing that soon (Soon? Soon!) she will be ours.

Already, snowmelt giggles softly as it trips over ticklesome, pebble-lined gutters, sprouts foolishly poke forth from the warm shelter of foundations, parkas are relegated to the backs of closets and shovels are replaced by rakes.

Spring – true Spring – has begun her courtship and we are helpless against her charms.

Part 11: No Rest for the Sequestered

 The story thus far: One of the things Julie missed most from the pre-virus days was her weekly lunch-at-a-restaurant date with her best friend Vanessa. Protocols, shutdowns, and closures reduced their meetings to a weekly lunch-time phone call (in addition to random-time-of-day texts, emails, and phone calls) like this one . . .

“Do you remember back when this whole virus-thing started?” Vanessa asked Julie during their regularly scheduled, weekly, lunch-time call.

Julie snorted. “Just barely,” she said.

“You know, back when we all thought everything would be shut down for two, maybe three weeks, tops, and then life would get back to normal? Remember how everyone made big plans for what they were going to do during those two, maybe three weeks of forced stay-cation? I was going to paint my kitchen, learn a foreign language, and start a new exercise program.”

“Oh, Van . . . .”

“OK, so I was going to hire some hot, young hunk to paint my kitchen, have Mexican food delivered, and start exercising.”

“Van, I . . . .”

“Fine. I was going to clear off my kitchen counter, drink margaritas, and buy some cute yoga pants. My point is, this pandemic has been going on for what, seventy years now? And I haven't done any of that.”

“Been a little busy at work?”

It was Vanessa's turn to snort. “Between the regular work, the fill-in work caused by virus-absenteeism, the added virus-related work, the added 'how is the virus affecting work' reports, the mandatory 'voluntary' Covid-coping strategy Zoom meetings, and twice-weekly Covid tests, I've just about had it. As Saint Roch is my witness, I've considered faking my test results just so I could isolate and have a little me time.”

“Trust me, being in isolation isn't a 'get-out-of-work-free' card,” Julie said, looking at the stacks of paperwork on her desk. Julie was on day three of her quarantine after coming into contact with “Germy Jimmy,” who had subsequently tested positive for the virus. Julie had tested negative herself, but was quarantining out of an abundance of caution. Miss Irene had taken over Julie's delivery and errand chores, while Julie handled Miss Irene's usual duties.

“I thought you were working from home already," Julie said. "Why the twice-weekly tests?”

“The last round of job-shuffling has me back at the office two afternoons a week – not the same two days as I go in for tests, mind you. That would be too efficient. I work from home the other six.”

“But that's . . . .”

“OK, the other eight. After a while they all blur together. And now I'm in charge of volunteers.”

“How did that . . . .”

“I was late for a Zoom meeting.”

“Didn't they put you in charge of scheduling Zoom meetings when you were late for the last in-person meeting?”

“They did. I am. Someone hacked my account.”

“You mean someone figured out your password was 'Zoom4Van'?”

“If I thought you knew how to use a computer I'd be suspicious.”

“For someone who built a state-of-the-art router from a first-gen iPhone, a broken toaster, and a discarded Teddy Ruxpin, you are crap at password protection, Van.”

“Pffft, like the CIA needs a password to track my credit cards.”

“I'm sure Hoover and the boys have better . . . .”

“J. Edgar was a Fibby. No, this goes much higher than that. I caught Sister Mary Katherine Ignacia lurking outside my office.”

“Wasn't she the . . . .”

“Volunteer 'Director of Volunteers'? Yes. She's been trying to retire for years but couldn't find a replacement. Those big sleeves on her habit really slowed down her reaction time for 'nose goes' .”

“That, and the fact that she's 103.” Julie quickly crossed herself to ward off any stray lightning bolts of smiting. “Now that you're in charge of volunteers, why not have them volunteer to help you with all your other duties?”

“Oh, you sweet, naive girl. Even if there weren't half a dozen well-meaning privacy and security acronyms limiting access to my files, there's this pesky little pandemic that limits . . . well, pretty much everything else – and not just at the hospital. Most of the other volunteer opportunities around town have dried up as well. There's been lots of press about people who have lost their jobs due to COVID, but nothing about all the volunteers who can't volunteer. And do you know what they do with all their newly un-volunteered free time? Call me to ask how they can help. Every. Single. Day.

“There must be something they can do.” Julie licked and sealed another envelope, adding it to the stack of completed Thank You's Miss Irene had given her to write. She wondered how she could swing a volunteer of her own.

Vanessa sighed deeply. “Weh-yell,” she stalled, “there is that direct-mail, fundraising project Sister Mary Kat has been putting off.”

Julie thought Vanessa's sigh sounded suspiciously like the sigh of a person about to ask a big favor. “There you go! Problem solved!” But Julie had a feeling that the problem was far from solved. “When do the volunteers start?”

“They don't. They won't. They turned me down.” Vanessa paused, waiting for Julie to take the bait. When she didn't, Vanessa rushed ahead. “And now I'm stuck with 500 fundraising letters that need to be stuffed into envelopes, addressed and sorted.”

“Van, I'd love to help you but . . . .”

“Thankyousomuch, Jules! You're a life saver! They're in a bag outside your door. I dropped them off on my way to work this morning.”

Julie, who had started pacing when Vanessa made “well” a two-syllable word, paced toward the door.

“I'll send the second batch of 500 letters over as soon as Sister Mary Kat finishes signing them.”

The thought of the 103-year-old Nun signing all those letters triggered Julie's latent Catholic guilt. "Fine. I'll do it. But Van, why is there an empty Ho Ho box in the bag?”

“That's a whole 'nother story,” Vanessa said.

To be continued . . . with Ho Hos.