Reading: Cold Comfort Farm

Christmas: in the suitcases and boxes.

Learning: Okay, maybe I overcompensate in my airport timing.

Moving: 2000 miles, none of them on my own steam. Lots of people commented on how easy we were letting Blake off, though, instead of sending him out in front of the plane with a painter like the seagulls in James and the Giant Peach.

Listening: boarding calls. "I'm Getting Nothing for Christmas," deliberately spelling correctly.

Viewing: clouds. Farmland intruding on Everglades. Housing intruding on farmland.

22 December 1999: Getting There

I called at 6:00 A.M. to confirm our 6:30 cab and was told our request wasn't in the system. Now we know I am a nervous traveler and that I didn't much like the sound of that. Nevertheless at 6:25 we had two cabs waiting for us, one that we took and one that was pissed off, and by 6:30 we were on our way with the cabbie asking us if we had a 7:30 flight. Um, no.

It was 23F degrees out and the only such cold Blake generally feels is the draft from a quickly closed door. While RDC wrested the luggage into the cab, Blake had to shiver on the ground while I locked the door. That done, I scurried for the cab, Blake huffing in the pet taxi dangling from my hand. (He huffs when he's scared.)

I figure he was huffing more because of the dark and the movement than because of the cold. I had made a black felt floor, covered with paper towel-carpeting, and felt net [a geometry word I just picked up meaning the 2D shape a 3D shape could be unfolded into] of the taxi with a slit for the handle, and another wrap around the slotted sides, and a final cape, also slit for the handle, over the whole thing. Black for darkness to shut him up, but the overall effect was that of a shroud. I wanted to put his name on it, at least, but purple pipe cleaners wouldn't show up well against black (and he's not purple) and his racing stripes are white so I didn't use red, but white on black didn't alleviate the funereal effect so I didn't bother. And he didn't shriek in the cab.

We got to DIA just after 7, but I still can't imagine leaving at 6:30 for a 7:30 flight as the cabbie assumed. Holding primitive paper tickets, we had to wait in line, and while waiting we saw a handtruck loaded with three crated dogs. At least Blake could come into the cabin with us. The line didn't take long--is Delta more competent than United?--but what irritation waiting didn't provide, last-minute nickel-and-diming did, with a lot more than Woolworth prices. Carrying Blake on board, as my one single carry-on (okay, I confess to an undainty purse as well), cost $50, which RDC mistakenly assumed was roundtrip. I had paid more attention to the clerk, though, and suddenly, between the vet's health certificate and this fee, it suddenly became as expensive to bring him as to board him. It would be less stressful for at least two of us for the three of us to be together, I hoped, but I am unimpressed that with all the careful calls we placed about rules and regulations and health certificates, Delta never whispered a hint at this fee, and what were we supposed to do, at the desk and 45 miles from our vet who wouldn't open until after our flight left? Pissers.

The vet actually opened before our flight left but it made us sound more helpless and disguises the fact that we arrived at the airport almost two hours before our flight left. That should have made Delta so happy it would waive our fee. It didn't. Besides, the flight began to board just over an hour later. So we were on time. Sure we were. I'm just neurotic.

I wondered what the security proceedcake would be. (Is that in Pooh or somewhere else?) Parents were made to rouse their sleeping baby so her SUV of a stroller might be examined. I would think terrorists would have fewer qualms about building a bomb in a cockatiel than in a human infant, but I suppose if they were going to were going to blow up a plane with themselves in it, cockatiel vs. human baby wouldn't be a moral quandary. I bring this up because the security guard so freaked out at the sight of the cage that she wouldn't even look into it, let alone probe its swaddling. Screeching, "What's that?" she propelled herself backward, away, as if my critter could break its bonds, turn from mild-mannered Clark Kent (or whoever*) into the Incredible Hulk to attack her.

*David Banner

But it was just Blake the small and meek. Blake isn't that meek, except around cats, but isn't that how Dorothy described herself? DMB is a "Wizard of Oz" fan, and being in her house surrounded by her collectibles might have affected my movie-reference function to an extreme of Wizardry. I wonder if she would like Wicked, which has less connection with "Wizard" than Was, which, she told RDC, nearly ruined her favorite movie for her.

So anyway the supervisor had to check out our killer bird, and happily she did not require his removal from the cage and off we went. RDC went through the metal detector first and came to guard Blake while I went; the detector is 30 feet from the manual inspection table and I wonder if the guards consent to watch over your baby if you're flying alone with your infant. What a horror.

Waiting for the shuttle, people peered into the taxi--I had wadded the shroud into my parka pocket and folded back the top flap so he could see--to admire Blake as much as he deserves.

He was such a good traveler. He did not shriek on board the plane, even when he had to be under the seats in front of us during the four take-offs and landings. He shrieked only during our layover in Dallas, and who wouldn't? Even when I didn't put my hand through the sliding door on the top (meant to allow a human to pet the cat the taxi was designed for but also allowing egress for a determined cockatiel if his humans were less vigilant than we), he hung out on the perch RDC installed for him, shredded his greens, attacked his oranges, demolished his seed balls, taught the magazine blow cards a lesson or two, and allowed me to read Cold Comfort Farm, which I thoroughly enjoyed.

In the cinematization with Kate Beckinsale that I also thoroughly enjoyed, Stephen Fry's character quotes Jane Austen at the end and I was hoping that character would do so in the book as well, and several people do quote Janey-Jane but never a passage I couldn't place, unlike the passage in the movie. Now I'll have to rent it instead of watching it on A&E so I can run that damn passage through a concordance if I have to. Nobody quotes Jane without my nosing it out.

DMB and RDC2 met our plane in West Palm and RDC2 wanted to meet Blake right then. "Not quite yet," I told him, immediately assuming my role as Boring Aunt. Then he asked at baggage claim, when I told him he'd have to wait until we got home. Then he asked again in the parking lot, and then again a few times in the car, and by the time we were in the house and Blake had been sufficiently terrorized for the day, there were four cats to meet and I didn't want my buddy to have to deal with a five-year-old in addition. Privately, later in our room, however, RDC2 did make the acquaintance of his cousin, and he complained about how boring his two parakeets are, which made me glad they got rid of the four-month-old pit bull that they thought was so well and thoroughly trained already. ("Sprinkles" had to go because of city ordinance). Parakeets chirp and hopefully keep each other company when humans don't know how to train them; an untrained pit bull might--allow me to generalize about an entire breed for a moment--shred the cats. Or the five-year-old. Whatever.

That first night was bad. A procession of cats in the living room, such that Blake was not allowed out of his cage onto the security of a parent's shoulder, led to the cockatiel throwing himself into the opposite corner of his cage from whatever curious feline and convincing his overanxious mother he'd have a heart attack and die.

The players: RDC and me, DMB and her fiancˇ JJT, DMB's daughter and RDC's sister and RDC2's mother JJC, and RDC2. JJT's 13-year-old daughter A----- would arrive Sunday. The house: three toilets, one downstairs, one in the master suite, and one for the four-then-five of us kids.

No, really, the house is great. A great big stretch from the condo of our last two visits and luxury compared to that of our first. The only thing I don't like about it is that the garage dominates the front of the house, which doesn't look nearly as welcoming as a nice front door and some big windows. Big windows would be great on the front, since it faces the south and a little pond across the street. Alas, no. But inside, it's great. Using the front door (as company do), you walk into a lofted living room. The west wall is solid (and would look out only on a neighbor ten feet away), the north wall has sliding glass doors to the patio and a long window over them in the lofted ceiling, and the southeast corner gives onto the dining room and the southwest into the family room (which also has sliders to the patio. Between the family and dining rooms is the kitchen, and next to the front door leading up and toward the front of the house is a staircase giving onto a hall that overlooks the lofted living room. At the back of the house is the master bedroom, dressing room, and bath; two smaller bedrooms at the front of the house overlook the lake and have a bath next to them. JJT closed in another area in the middle that I can't imagine being anything but wasted space before he made it a bedroom (ours). A short hallway leads from living area to garage with two doors to the half-bath on one side and a utility on the other. Lots more windows and natural light than either of the former places. And that's the house.

The tree was already up and lighted in the living room and Wednesday night our task was to decorate it. The tally for the evening was eight broken ornaments, RDC2 leading with five, RDC two, and DMB one. I am so sentimental about ornaments that I can't believe I wouldn't care, but in a house with RDC2 and four cats, being laid-back pays off. DMB has a lot of worries, which is why JJT's being so competently laid-back is such a blessing.

He's a great guy and we both liked him a lot. So that's all right. And not only did he bring two cats to the household but an African Grey named Taz as well. JJT has Marvin tattooed on one ankle and the Tasmanian Devil on the other, hence the name. Our mutual hope was that Blake might learn how interesting it is to talk (although we weren't so foolish as to hope to rewire his brain: he is a cockatiel and that's that) and Taz might learn how nice it is to be pet by more than one person, his daddy.

Taz has quite a repertoire. Merry Christmas Richie, Happy New Year Lisa, DMB is a baby doll, Go Dolphins--touchdown!, I want some Taco Bell, and various household noises are just the basics. The first two phrases are current in his line-up. He hadn't been saying "Happy New Year" for a while but as soon as we arrived, he started chattering. I am pretty sure he uses some phrases with cognition and he certainly knows who most people are. He can't say "JJT" but calls JJT what JJT calls him, Pooper; he calls for RDC2 in DMB's voice; and he laughs.

He does most of his talking when people aren't in his room (the family room) and he therefore needs attention. He chattered (and mumbled, which I'm sure means something to him) while we decorated the tree. I should clarify that the dropped ornaments DMB didn't mourn were those simple plain colored [ugly] balls. She also has super carousel horses, which I think are her new collectible. She showed me her "Wizard of Oz" music boxes, little figurines under bell jars in a cabinet, which JJT gave her before they were even properly going out. He just thought they would make her happy, so he got them. He makes such gestures of generosity and consideration often. I liked him straight off, but in the days that followed, every day, much more than once a day, he'd do or say something so loving you just had to kiss him.

To illustrate, Wednesday night he called to make sure DMB knew about the full solstice moon at apogee. She didn't know, but I did, and I went outside to bask in the glow.

So that was Wednesday.

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