Friday Mieography

my Christmas miracle came early....
last night, I was trying to leave for work. And it was cold outside. As I have been doing for the last few nights, every time I stepped out the door, I scanned for Jack. And called his name. To my shock, I got an answer. Now Jack has the most pitiful sissified meow there is. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it was him. So I called work, and told them I'd be a few minutes late. (I was not going to lose him again, damn it). I kept calling. He kept answering. MM and MG had left already for her guitar lesson. So it was just me and him. The dogs were inside in their crate. I call he answers. Marco... Polo.....
Then, after about 20 minutes, I spot him. He's in our neighbors yard, slowly coming towards me. Stopping every now and then to love on a tree. We are on opposite sides of a fence. Not a tall one, and one I can get my hands through. I sit down, and stick my hand through the fence. For about 10 minutes he teases me, rubbing against my fingers, then running off to love a tree. Meowing the whole time. Knowing this may well be my last chance, I wait him out. Work be damned. I love my job, but I want my cat back. So I wait. Finally, he truly comes. I scratch his head, where he likes it. Then I grab him, and lift him up. I have to stick my other hand through the fence so I can reach over it with my right hand, and before he knows what hit him, I've got him, and he isn't getting away. Not that he tried to. He stayed, still in my arms as I walked back to the house, scolding him and praising him the whole way. He got a little unsettled as I unlocked the door, but relaxed when he saw where we were. I put him in the bathroom, with a can of wet food, and examined him. He is fine. Not a scratch on him. I had to leave him there, to go to work, but MM and MG were able to liberate him into the house when they got home, about 2 hours later. I think the time alone inside was good for him to decompress, and eat and drink. So the rascal is back, and will be monitored very closely, and not allowed anywhere near an open door for a GOOD LONG TIME. Thanks everyone for your good, positive thoughts.
ok, cat drama over, here is the Mieography :)






the suggestion of Mustang Girl.....

Shirley Hardie Jackson was born in San Francisco, Calif, in 1916. She grew up in the small community of Burlingame, California. Before she went to high school, however, the family moved to Rochester, New York, where she attended high school, and eventually college. She started college at the University of Rochester (she was *asked* to leave, hmm) so she finished at Syracuse University with a BA, in 1940. While at college, she became involved with the literary magazine there, where she met her husband, Stanley Hyman (unfortunate name) who was a noted literary critic.
She developed some interesting hobies, as well, such as collecting small ceramic snails, and learning to play the mandolin. She collected the snails her whole life, and her collection is now on display at a Junior High cafeteria, on the days when snails are the entree. (What jr. high in their RIGHT mind serves snails? This isn't France for pity's sake!).
Shirley also did not like people thinking she was older than her husband, and would change her birth year to reflect herself being younger.
She is best known for her short story, "The Lottery", though she was quite a prolific writer. She wrote 6 nvels, 2 memoirs, 4 short story collections well over 150 short stories that were published, and four children's books. Some of her novels were also adaped to the stage and made it all the way to Broadway. They also made it to film.
She died young, at only 48 years old, in her sleep, of heart failure. She had been ill with various things throughout her life, various neuroses, and psychosomatic illnesses. These problems, and also her penchant for the medications she prescribed, contributed towards her death. She was also a heavy smoker.
Her husband released a posthumous volume of her work after she died, with several chapters of an unfinished novel, and several short stories.
She won some awards for her writing as well, including a National Book Award nomination, she was listed in Time as one of 1962's "Ten Best Novels", and an award from the Mystery Writers of America's "Edgar" award for Best Short Story. It was for one called "The Possibility of Evil:, which was published in the Saturday Evening Post, in 1965.