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Sentimental Journey

August 18th, 2014 by Magdalena Tabor

My father was a true craftsman. He was trained in the art of making shoes. Shoes. How do you make a shoe?? He made them for disabled sentimental journeypeople. Some of those people happened to be skaters and skiers with talents of their own; training for the Olympics and even winning sometimes. The man behind the boots they wore was none other than my father; the apparent pride he took in pointing them out when we watched them go for the gold. Gold. The very thing his heart was made of. When he died I inherited a pair of the finely crafted wing tips he wore, his fancy signature scrawled on the leather inside. To look at them, you’d never think that someone actually made them. Useless to me, of course, but something I could never bear to part with. There are things we carry our life long simply because they tug at our heartstrings.
It hearkens back to the days of our childhood. Remember the movie version of To Kill A Mockingbird? Scout has a cigar box with bits of childish treasure. I had one just like it. Throughout my life one of my possessions was always a box or chest of some kind containing things randomly tossed into it. Kind of like a junk drawer but with things of better quality. Things like concert tickets, birthday cards too sweet to trash, letters from friends, old photographs, pieces of our hearts. You get the picture. Maybe you even have one. I think I may have several.
These boxes, full of meaningless bunk to others, are portions of our lives we’ve gathered over the years. Peering into them, we gain a sense of where we’ve been and what we’ve experienced; a diary of sorts with only we as the key keepers. No one else would have a clue as to the story behind each piece and although rarely looked at, we hold onto these bits and pieces of our selves. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have a great big bonfire one day and watch the sky grow black with fear and dread. No! I couldn’t possibly. Banish the thought.
Why do human beings keep things? By no means a hoarder, I’m a keeper of sunny days to mull over when there are rainy ones. Who knows how the minds works with its springs and gears that trigger an awakening when memory is probed. Our olfactories stimulated into long ago events by the scent of something on the breeze. Or in the case of a treasure box, pleasantries by the handful.

So………whadayathink? What’s in your memory box? Are you a sentimental traveler through time? Or do you trash everything in sight nevermore to ponder what’s been said and done? Ah, pity.

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To Save My Hero

August 17th, 2014 by Magdalena Tabor

It’s not that deep.to save my hero
It’s just a tidal pool.
But we drown in only inches,
It’s that cruel.
There are oceans
Of such uncertainty,
I’d swim rainbows
Through irridescent seas
To save my hero.
Lida, lida lee…
You mean that much to me.

It’s not that deep.
It’s just a superficial cut.
We bleed through words,
Thoughtless bits of rough.
There are wounds
Of such perplexity,
I’ll chase the shadows
As the only remedy
To save my hero.
Lida, lida lee…
You mean that much to me.

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We Celebrate Isis

August 10th, 2014 by Magdalena Tabor

In Loving Memory of Isis Tabor, July 3, 1994 – August 4, 2014we celebrate isis

If ever there was any doubt that Isis was an ordinary cat, the following exerpts from her long life will dispense with all that. She was a unique and loving personality but more, she was full of fun and mischief. In short, she had a sense of humor, albeit “biting” at times. In later years we saw less of this but glimmers of it still “punctuated” who she really was. It is with these moments we reflect and celebrate the life of a very special human type cat.
We should have known in the first few days of acquiring little Isis, what we were in for for the next twenty years…..At four months old she was already getting into trouble. She fell into a urine filled toilet and had to have her first bath. Afterwards, we would always remember to either flush or close the lid. Isis gave us our first lesson in good hygiene.
I never understood the concept of the next fixation (or the many others) which would prompt us to dub Isis as “high maintenance”. Each morning we would find all of our socks and underwear on the floor with the drawer empty of its contents. It sat in a mysterious pile with no clue as to how this might have happened. Warily, each thought to accuse the other of this bizarre prank. As it happened, Isis was caught in the act one day and chastised for her foolishness. This did not stop her from continuing the practice for several years. The scratch marks are still on the drawers that, oddly, spur a slight smile in recognition of her antics.
Another queer ritual was finding a neat little pile of toilet paper on the floor each day, still attached to the roll hanging on the wall. Again (this time, neither of us with so much as a thought to ask why, how or what the….?) Isis was found to be the culprit. We’ll never know for certain but maybe she was counting how many sheets to a roll.
All plastic, such as grocery bags, cellophane from movies and cd’s or the like, were kept out of sight. Isis had a peculiar habit of eating said plastic, whether for the crunchiness factor or an indefinable epicurean taste, it will always remain inexplicable. This, and the consuming of curling ribbon, another appetizer kept from paw’s reach, would ultimately lead to loud belly aching and the spewing forth of the ingested material. It would not, however, stop Isis from pursuing her passion.
No matter where Isis roamed in her midnight ramblings about the house, she always announced “I AM HERE! GET UP AND SCRATCH MY HEAD!” or “I HAVE TO USE THE LITTER BOX AND I HATE THE STINKING THING!” or “DON”T STEP ON ME, YOU CLUMBSY BLEARY EYED HUMANOID”. Isis had a way with words.
For many years, before the arrival of other cats in the neighborhood, Isis was never happier than when she was outside tethered to the deck. The trick was getting her to come back inside. No, she did not come willingly. Michael had the unfortunate task of donning oven mitts to avoid serious injury. If she could have, she would have had a t-shirt made up with her credo….”Live to go outside. Go outside to live”.
Making the bed each morning was no easy task for me. Isis reigned. She woud sprawl regally and with a look of utter disregard, permit you to make the bed around her. In other words, do one side of the bed first, then go around the other side where she would cheerfully consent to reposition herself to another part of the bed I would still need to reassemble. This would repeat itself over and over until the entire bed was finally made. Strange idea of fun, but there you have it.
For awhile, Isis had a habit of pulling my hair in the morning with her teeth in an effort to wake me up for breakfast. If this didn’t work she would bestow a series of sandpaper kisses on my eyelids. Her trick with Michael in the middle of the night was worse; stepping on his solar plexis just for a head rub.
Woe be to those who got up in the middle of the night to relieve themselves. I’m not sure but I think Michael may still have the vampire scars on his legs. An anguished cry of “OW!” was the resounding echo followed by a steady stream of blood running to the ankle. This, thankfully, stopped with the progression of Isis into maturity.
If Isis were a lion, she would more than likely have the loudest roar in the jungle. Her announcement entering a room was enough to startle you into grabbing your chest. Had she been human she might have been an opera singer. Perhaps this is what her next life will bring her to.
And finally, the Fenster Bear Mystery; a tiny Steiff bear who mysteriously disappeared when we lived in Briarwood. He was found when we moved to Seaford and then immediately vanished once more. That was 14 years ago. I have no doubt that when we move the next time, his whereabouts will become known. When we find him (and we will) he will feature prominently as Isis’s most loved treasure.
Isis believed herself to be an Only Child, regardless of the fact there were other adopted siblings of which she either ignored or resisted with repulsion. Her deep and abiding affection for both Michael and me was unsurpassed. She made it quite clear that only we two were the center of her universe. She was most definitely our STAR. Isis, your voice will forever echo in our hearts. Life without you is impossible to imagine.

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Only Child

August 7th, 2014 by Magdalena Tabor

In the stillnessonly child
I heard your cry.
The birth of your arrival
Shattering the night.
I am here! you announced
From the depths of my soul.

And now that you are gone,
A clear empty aching
Heart of Mine,
I know you by your stillness,
By the echo
Of this empty chamber.
I find you
By sense alone.

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Chicken Dinner

August 2nd, 2014 by Magdalena Tabor

Who doesn’t love chicken dinner? Why, it’s made a thousand different ways……..grilled, sauteed, baked, fried, roasted, raw…….Raw??? chicken dinnerThe human animal isn’t the only one fond of this delectable dish. Take for instance our neighbors, the bears…….or was it the coyotes? The little hen house (aka the maternity ward) which housed mama hen and her three adolescent chicks, were all safely ensconced, apart from their rivals in the barn….or so they thought.
One Saturday morning several weeks ago, what awaited was appalling beyond description! The little green hen house was torn asunder with no sign of mama or chicks, only remnants of their sad little lives. Feathers and ( dare I say it for the faint of heart? ) chicken heads were all that was left of them! And the chicken wire fence around the vegetable garden was squashed FLAT. This was a job for our inside investigating team.
A quick jaunt up the mountain behind the house revealed several exposures taken at 10 pm by the automatic camera lens. It was just as we had suspected. Two out of three pictures were of bear cubs and the other was of a deer. Well, one thing was for certain. It wasn’t Bambi licking his chops with the toothpick in his mouth.
However, so as not to jump to any wrong conclusions, what about that pile of coyote crap left on the doorstep last week? (What a thoughtful welcome). Everyone knows they hunt in packs and could have dismantled the hen house quicker than the barn dance going on inside at the dim prospect of being eaten alive. Yeah…but there’s still the garden fence that was stomped on by paws bigger than Charlie Brown’s head.
This clinches it. No court of law could circumvent the evidence. Cousin Lisa was driving up the road just the other day. And what do you think crossed her path from the river side of the road towards the house in broad radiant sunlight? Why, it was little baby bear! On his merry meandering way to the barn to take a sniff around and see if there might not be some leftovers. Oh, never mind the BBQ sauce and baked potato. I’ll take mine as is, he was heard to say in passing.

So……….whadayathink? How do you prefer your chicken dinner? With or without bones? Are you fussy about a few fluffy tail feathers on the side? Would you prefer a wing or a leg? It’s okay. We can always grill it.

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