Cras! Cras!Sunday, September 28, 2014
Today Sunday after a night of insomnia I went finally asleep and woke up with deep melancholia.
My female cat, Plata is now 16 years old and she is obsessed in wanting to eat all day. She nags me constantly. She may have some version of feline dementia as many times there is still food in her dish. I pick up the dish and stir the contents around with a spoon. Plata eats. Sometimes, I have to admit I get very angry at her nagging and I say (sometimes in a raised voice) to her, “Plata, if you want more food ask your mistress. I’ve had it with your constant begging.”
This morning Rosemary said something close to this, “Our cats are two faithful remnants of our life and we should appreciate and care for them. They really don’t expect nothing and give all.”
Rosemary left for a Master Gardener clinic at Garden Works in Lougheed Highway. It is a sunny day and I must finish pruning and shaping our very long laurel hedge.
I decided to postpone that to perhaps later in the afternoon. I made my breakfast and brought the tray to bed where I finished the last of yesterday’s (the Sunday Times is delivered on Saturday night) Sunday Review. I prevaricated (that sounds better than that term dithering now associated to Obama even by his followers). I procrastinated.
With me, by my side was Plata stretched out so elegantly as only cats can, having learned in their past from the dancers in the courts of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs.
My mother and grandmother, two very Roman Catholic women prayed to the many saints connected with problems encountered. St Anthony of Padua was promised funds for charity should he help them find a lost earring or other trinket. When things became desperate they turned to St. Jude Apostle, the patron saint of impossible things (and situations).
One day my mother whose name was Filomena arrived from school desperate. “Alex, the pope has de-listed St. Philomena. She never existed. I no longer have a patron saint.” Years later, no scandal in England as far as I can tell, the Roman Catholic Church asserted that St. George, had never existed so he could never have slain that dragon.
With no internet and Google to check out useless facts my mother and grandmother never knew of an Armenian centurion Expeditus who was martyred when he converted to Christianity in 303 AD. It seems that while pondering on his decision a crow appeared and squawked “Cras, cras,” Latin for tomorrow. Expeditus not only ignored the bird but he stomped him and promptly converted.
Not clear in my investigation of Expeditus is my confusion of exactly what he intercedes with God for us. Does he help us not to dither? Does he justify our act of prevarication? Is he the long lost saint of that 60s mantra that we were going to be showered with leisure time? Obviously St Expeditus could have never predicted the rise of the iPhone and how that gadget keeps us from true, substantial, melancholy, a meandering of thought, inspirational and even artistic daydreaming.
I believe that St. Expeditus and St. Jude should get together and decide with precision and without delay to intercede for us and help us achieve true procrastination.
While I have been scanning my garden roses now for some ten years, this year I have become enamoured with my Lillooet daughter’s sun flowers. In early spring she brings these plants in big black pots. I help Rosemary plant them in our back lane garden and wherever else we can find a sunny spot. I have been delighted with the long span of this annual. From beginning when I can note their buds to the end of the cycle when the plants droop and the flowers become untidy I have noted a beauty that while not competing with my roses, have an elegance, an ordinary elegance that can almost, as today, almost wipe out my late summer melancholy.
Rosemary is right. I shall attend to Plata and give her more love and less shouting. I will try to ignore her nagging and just feed her. With so many of my human friends disappearing (do they dither?) it is comforting to have a friendly allegiance.