Seasonal thoughts, Persephone thoughts

Art by Gwen Davies. Click the image to visit her Etsy shop.

With the autumn equinox just a few days away (Sept. 22), and Halloween/Samhain not far off, I find myself in a familiar thought pattern. I often feel very separated from the cycles of the year that modern pagans follow, based on much older Irish practices. In part that’s because I do not live an agrarian life dictated closely by cycles of farming and livestock, and in part it’s because of the way the seasons work here in coastal Northern California.

There are three harvest festivals in the pagan calendar. They include Lughnasadh in early August, named after the Irish warrior-god Lugh (in the Irish language, August is called Lunasa); the autumn equinox; and Samhain, the official start to the “dark half of the year” in neopagan culture (even though that literally begins the day after the equinox, when the nights begin to be longer than the days). In Irish, September is called Meán Fómhair (or middle of harvest), October is Deireadh Fómhair (end of harvest), and November is Samhain.

To some extent, it’s true that these months are peak harvest season in California, too; the tomatoes, corn, stone fruits and figs are at their best in August and September. At the same time, summer is very much the dead season here. It’s hot and dry, the hillsides full of dead grasses and the air parched and stultifying. Wildfires come and renew the ground (and, unfortunately, destroy many homes and communities and threaten lives). 

Here in San Francisco, September and October are our “summer” months, when the fog dissipates and we have gently sunny, warm days. There’s a reason our two biggest music festivals (Hardly Strictly Bluegrass and Outside Lands) are in the August-October months, and why the Blue Angels usually come here the first weekend of October.

But when the rains begin, northern California comes alive again. Our rolling hills are so green, they resemble landscapes in Ireland and rural England. It doesn’t snow close to the coast in California, and many of our trees are evergreen. The leaves don’t change color, and many never fall at all. And so winter, between late December and mid-March, is not a dead season for us. Yes, it’s colder and the days are more dark than light, but the Earth feels vibrantly alive as creeks and rivers fill with rainwater and new grasses grow. Oxalis and miner’s lettuce flourish, as do many “winter” crops, including kale and Brussels sprouts.

And so, I’ve never been able to figure out a “wheel of the year” type calendar that would work for coastal Northern California. Probably someone has. If so, I’d love to hear about it. 

* * *

Along with all this, as October draws near I find myself thinking about one of my favorite goddesses, Persephone. As the story goes, she was kidnapped by Hades, the king of the underworld/land of the dead, after he courted her for many months. They married and she became queen of the underworld (note that this is not the same thing as Hell; it’s the place where souls go after they die). 

Her mother, Demeter, goddess of the crops, searched high and low, and eventually found Persephone in the underworld. She tried to get Persephone to come home, but Persephone had eaten the food of the dead, six pomegranate seeds, and thus couldn’t leave -- at least not permanently. Demeter and Hades agreed that Persephone would spend six months on the surface, and during those months, Demeter would help the crops grow (spring and summer). But when Persephone was with Hades, the fields would go fallow (autumn and winter).

Aside from my fondness for pomegranates and the underworld, I often wonder why I like Persephone so much. She’s very young, and has little agency of her own. She’s a pawn in the battle between Hades and Demeter. Her husband is a stern guy, not a lot of fun. She’s not powerful and independent like the goddesses Erishkigal or Hecate. I suppose the younger girl in me identifies with her in many ways, and I suspect she grew into her power as queen of the underworld (as the Orpheus and Eurydice story reveals). Whatever the reason, she’s often on my mind this time of year. 

Home through the woods

The last bell of the day rings and I meet my first-grade sweetheart, Charlie, on the playground at the back of the school. Together we walk to the treeline at the edge of campus and duck under the layers of oak, white willow and blackberry brambles. 

He’s the one who showed me this secret path; it’s the quickest way to get from school to his house, which is just down the hill from mine. We pick our way along the creek, the canopy of leaves and thorns close over our heads. Sometimes we hold hands, other times we walk a few paces apart, stepping over wet stones and slippery mud. In warm weather, flies and mosquitoes buzz past us, while water-striders flick across the surface of the creek. The air is thick with moisture and the scent of crushed leaves, or decaying vegetation and ripe blackberries on hot days. 

It’s slow going, walking along the narrow banks of the creek when it’s full from a recent rain, dodging blackberry thorns and sharp twigs that jut into our path. Part of me dreads emerging on the other side, re-entering the world of sunlight, grownups and speeding cars. Sometimes we linger, watching some rare insect or collecting pebbles. But it’s not a long path, and it always ends too soon. Charlie steps out first, reaching a hand back to help me jump across the ditch that separates the woods from the road. We say our goodbyes and I turn to walk uphill toward home, while he heads in the other direction. 

My romance with Charlie didn’t last (what first-grade romance does?), and I switched to walking home along the local roads with friends, sometimes stopping for a soft-serve ice cream cone on the way. But once in a while, I returned to the creek path. It was poorly maintained, and many times it was impassable, blocked by blackberry vines or fallen tree limbs. When it wouldn’t let me in, my heart broke a little.

Sometimes I’d go months without visiting, and then would walk down the hill one weekend afternoon to enter the woods from the other side, which was sometimes more accessible. I’d sit by the creek for hours, watching water-striders and tiny fish dart around, sending ripples across the clear surface of the water. In spring, frogs would lay eggs in the swollen creek and I would collect tadpoles in a jar, bring them home, and feed them until their tails shrunk and their legs sprouted before returning them to the their birthplace. 

As I grew bigger, I stopped going. The arboreal tunnel was too low for most teenagers and adults to walk comfortably; they’d have to crouch, or crawl. In a way, it was a place just for kids, a place to be ourselves, where the grownup world couldn’t reach us. 

On Google maps, it looks like the woods are still there but the pathway is gone; the trees have fallen in and closed the way through. (See the photo at the top.) I trust that the water still flows there, at least in the wetter months. That place belongs to the frogs, water-striders and blackberries, now.  

Why concert lighting is an accessibility issue

About four years ago, in July, 2017, I went with a friend to see Ghost at the Warfield in San Francisco. I was really looking forward to the show, and had picked out a seat in the balcony where I could enjoy myself without getting jostled by moshers or wearing myself out by being on my feet for several hours. 

As we got inside, I noticed small signs around the venue, warning people that the performance would feature strobe lights, and anyone with seizures triggered by flashing lights should be aware. I don’t have seizures, but I do have migraines, and they’re often triggered by bright, direct light, including strobe lights. Even though I did my best to shield my eyes from the strobes, about halfway through the show, I felt a migraine coming on. Pain burned through my head, neck and shoulders, and I started to feel nauseated. I took my meds (ibuprofen and maxalt) and retreated to the women’s lounge, where I could still hear the band but couldn’t see the stage lights anymore. 

I’d spent $40 or $50 to see a band, and got half a show and a migraine instead. If I’d known about the strobes ahead of time, I might have skipped the gig and saved my money. Now imagine I’d had a seizure instead.

An acquaintance of mine works in lighting, mostly for tech conferences but occasionally for theater and concert performances. After the Ghost show, I had a number of questions that he answered for me. I came away more informed, and more frustrated, than I’d been before. Here’s why: 

• Venues don’t know ahead of time which bands are going to use lighting that might cause problems for audiences with seizures and/or migraines. 

• Because they don’t know ahead of time, they can’t warn people at the time of ticket sales. 

• That means a certain number of concertgoers either have to bail after they get to the venue, hide out somewhere where they can’t see the lighting, or tough it out and hope their condition won’t be triggered. I don’t know if you can get a refund for these kinds of situations (and that’s assuming people didn’t travel a long way to see the show, rent a hotel room, etc.).

• There are no regulations barring bands from using lighting that can induce seizures and/or migraines. 

This is an accessibility issue. In any given audience at the Warfield (capacity: 2,300), there’s likely to be an average of two people with light-sensitive epilepsy, and another 200 or so will have migraines caused by photosensitivity. Bands either need to warn their venues (and audiences) ahead of time that their light shows could trigger seizures or migraines, or stop using lighting that provokes these conditions. 

Have you ever had a seizure or migraine triggered by the lighting at a show? What did you do about it?

Talking with my mom's ghost about Jean Smart

Warning: Contains spoilers for Mare of Easttown and Hacks.

In the mid to late 1980s, my mom and I had an evening routine. After dinner, we’d gather in the family room -- she in her pastel space-dyed armchair, me on the matching sofa -- to watch the evening’s primetime shows. Who’s The Boss?, Growing Pains, Moonlighting, Perfect Strangers, Kate & Allie, Head of the Class, Max Headroom, Designing Women.

We didn’t talk as we watched them, though we did laugh together pretty often. My mom was usually sewing a piece of her latest quilt project, or had one of the cats draped across her lap, while I curled up on the couch. I loved the easy escape these shows provided, someone to tell me stories in the hours between dinner and bedtime. When the shows featured teens, I felt a kinship with many of the girls and crushed on the boys, including Kirk Cameron, George Clooney (who was occasionally on Facts of Life), Michael J. Fox and Brad Pitt (who guest starred in an episode of Growing Pains). 

Even when there weren’t any kids, I often found something to like. The banter and sexual tension on Moonlighting. The futuristic mysteries of Max Headroom. I liked Designing Women because it included Annie Potts, who I’d loved in Ghostbusters and Pretty in Pink. But I can see why my mom liked it, too: it depicts an all-woman interior design firm in Atlanta, not far from where my mom grew up in Smyrna. Its leader was the tough, funny, resolute Julia Sugarbaker, played by Dixie Carter. I don’t know which of the women was my mom’s favorite, but I wonder if she had a soft spot for Jean Smart’s character, Charlene Frazier, whose highlighted blonde hair matched my mom’s. 

My mom died when I was 22, before I had the chance to have an adult relationship with her. I still think about her all the time, and wonder what we would talk about if she were still around. Would she still have the same sharp, punny sense of humor? Would she have adapted to using a smartphone, so we could text each other? Would we still enjoy some of the same television shows?

I recently watched Mare of Easttown and Hacks, both featuring Jean Smart, and found myself wanting to talk to my mom about them.

I wonder what she would have thought of Helen, the angry, sarcastic matriarch Smart plays on Mare. Like her, would my mom be addicted to mobile games and snarking? Would my mom have laughed at Helen’s trick of hiding ice cream in a frozen veggie bag as much as I did? And what about Deborah Vance in Hacks? Would my mom giggle at all those cringey, dated Vegas jokes, or admire Vance’s unshakeable poise and confidence? 

In some ways, watching these shows allowed me to feel into the relationships between younger women and the doyennes Smart plays. In Mare it’s a literal mother and daughter, and Kate Winslet’s titular character is roughly my age, in her mid to late 40s. They live together, jointly caring for Mare’s daughter and grandson, quietly looking after each other through a thick layer of emotional reserve. They are central to a close-knit community where Helen had an affair with a neighbor and Mare’s investigating crimes that involve or implicate her friends. We lived in a similar small town, where my mom worked as an assistant at my elementary school and we couldn’t go into any shop for months after her death without hearing how much the staff missed her. 

With Hacks it’s less clear-cut. Ava, the young woman who begins working as a writer for Vance, is at least 20 years younger than I am, and much more brassy and loudmouthed than I ever was. Ava and Deborah slowly become friends, in part, because they are able to stand up to each other’s cutting remarks. I never could have done that, but then again my mom was kind-hearted, nothing like Smart’s hard-shelled Deborah. But as Ava learns more about Deborah’s life and career, I recognize my efforts to discover more about the life my mom rarely talked about. Ava eventually helps Deborah remember and embrace her whole self in a way I wish my mom and I could have done for each other. 

There are scenes in both series where these pairs open up to each other. In the final episode of Mare, after a family dinner at a local pizza parlor, Helen tells Mare, “Truth is, I was angry a lot. I was angry that your father wasn’t the person I thought I’d married, and I was angry that I couldn’t fix him, and I took a lot of that out on you. I’m sorry, Mare.” “I forgive you, Mom,” Mare replies. “Good, because I forgave myself a long time ago,” Helen says, before starting to cry. 

In Hacks, after Deborah and Ava have a fight so intense you’re sure it’s the end of their friendship and working relationship, Deborah comes to Ava’s dad’s funeral. In Ava’s childhood bedroom, they talk about grief and they make each other laugh even as they’re making each other cry. They move through the kind of reconciliation that I wish I could experience with my mom. We never got to talk, openly, on equal footing. I was always a kid.

It’s possible that if she were still alive we wouldn’t be watching the same shows, or having the kinds of conversations I imagine. But that’s okay. Seeing these series and getting to picture what we’d say to each other about them makes me feel like she’s still with me. 

Echoes in white noise

When I was in my late teens, I had a boyfriend whose family had worked at the Northern California Renaissance Faire every summer for years. I joined them for a couple of years, spending time at their feather fan shop or braiding ribbons at their friend Julia’s velvet-bag shop, wandering the dusty trails, sipping spicy iced chai or savoring waffles and ice cream.

The event wasn’t exceptionally loud, but it provided a steady hum of voices — people talking and singing — as well as medieval bands and musicians playing their instruments as they ambled up and down the paths. Each weekend, I would come home and soak in a long bath to wash off the dust, sweat, fire retardant and anything else my body had accumulated after two days in the dry California oak woodland. And, as the warm water rumbled and filled the tub, I thought I could hear the murmur of voices and the sound of pipes and flutes amid the white noise.

I was amused to hear these ghosts of the weekend, and often leaned in to hear conversations and melodies that weren’t quite there.

This past weekend, I rented a house in the Santa Cruz Mountains — a place that often feels haunted to me, after experiences I had there 20 years ago. After more than a year being at home with my partner and kiddo, I needed some extended time alone. I love them dearly, but I was wiped out from the lack of solitude. (In a recent interview with the Pleasure Mechanics, author Emily Nagoski described her similar situation as like being tied to a chair and force-fed chocolate.)

The house was surrounded on all sides by redwood trees — which was one of its major selling points for me. The whole weekend, ravens flitted from tree to tree throughout the canyon, cawing and cackling and croaking at each other. The only time it got a little too loud was when one of them hopped around on the flat roof over my head, cawing its head off.

When I came home yesterday afternoon, I rested in bed with a portable fan blowing cool air across my skin, and I could hear the echoes of the ravens’ calls. They were faint but unmistakable above the hum of the fan, an artifact of my brain subconsciously dancing along a weekend of raven-song. I hadn’t thought about that phenomena in a long time, and it made me smile.

It took me almost three weeks to recover from the Covid-19 vaccine, I think?

Pins created by my brother, Tyler Winegarner. Buy them at his Etsy shop.

As of April 21, I’m fully vaccinated against Covid-19, meaning I’ve had two doses of the (Pfizer) vaccine and my second dose was on April 7. I had some health issues after each dose that I suspect were long-lasting side effects, and I wanted to share them here because I’ve seen so little written about this. Note that I am not a medical professional; I am just sharing my own experiences. 

I had my first shot on the morning of Wednesday, March 17. I started feeling tired that afternoon and took a nap. I slept pretty well that night, and napped again the following day. On Friday I felt pretty good, and I thought that was the end of it. But over the weekend I had a low appetite, some nausea, and some other GI irritation. Going into the next week (of March 22), I started having cold symptoms: fatigue, sneezing, congestion, sore throat and a mild fever (99.1-ish). Those lasted for a few days and I was feeling pretty okay by the end of the week. 

I got my second shot on April 7. I felt fine that evening and a little tired the next day, but that was all. But then, on Friday April 9, I developed chills and another mild fever (low 99s), which lasted for about 36 hours. On Sunday I felt good, but on Monday (April 12), I developed GI symptoms again that lasted about 48 hours. Another round of cold symptoms followed: lots of fatigue, runny nose, sneezing, sore throat, and some serious brain fog. These continued through the weekend of April 17-18. I’ve felt a bit better each day since then, but some mild fatigue has lingered, and I’ve slept hard every night, which is unusual for me. 

I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except that the pattern of post-vaccine side effects were so similar both times. I wondered if maybe I had a virus, but nobody else in my household had any signs of illness. My instinct tells me that these waves of symptoms were the way my body mounted its immune response to the vaccines. 

I asked on Facebook whether anyone had had prolonged symptoms after their shots, and I got some responses in the affirmative. In particular, some of my friends with fibromyalgia (which I also have) said they had longer reaction times, as though the vaccine had perhaps triggered a fibromyalgia flare. Some of what I experienced felt that way, too, especially the fatigue, malaise and brain fog. Anecdotes are not data, but it seems like an experience worth noting. 

It’s now three-plus weeks since my second shot, and I’m pretty much feeling back to normal. I’m grateful to have this protection from Covid-19, and don’t regret that I got vaccinated. But my experience makes me wonder how many other people had longer recovery times from the vaccine, especially the second one. Dr. Jen Gunter recently noted that our lymph nodes can remain swollen for four to six weeks after the second dose, so clearly our immune systems are still working hard for weeks after these vaccines. 

What about you and your family? Did anyone you know have a longer reaction time to the vaccines?

Do You Feel What I Feel?

Many years ago, a boyfriend of mine discovered that he could tickle me by tickling (or even pretending to tickle) his own body. When he did this, I felt the creep-crawl of tickly fingers on my own skin, and it made me shudder and squirm. Neither of us understood why.

I’ve had many other instances in my life when I could feel the touch on someone else’s skin, or the shock of pain at seeing a wound on another person’s body. But I’ve only learned in the past few years that this is a real thing that happens to some people, and it has a name: mirror touch synesthesia.

From Wikipedia:

Mirror-touch synesthesia is a rare condition which causes individuals to experience a similar sensation in the same part or opposite part of the body (such as touch) that another person feels. For example, if someone with this condition were to observe someone touching their cheek, they would feel the same sensation on their own cheek. Synesthesia, in general, is described as a condition in which a stimulus causes an individual to experience an additional sensation.[1]

There’s some research suggesting that mirror touch synesthesia is connected to sensory processing disorder and/or being on the autism spectrum. Jenara Nerenberg, author of the book Divergent Mind, argues that synesthesia in general is one form of neurodivergence, along with ADHD, sensory processing disorder, being autistic and being highly sensitive. I suspect there are a lot of overlaps among these various differences.

Mirror touch synesthesia reminds me a bit of Earthseed protagonist Lauren Olamina’s hyperempathy syndrome. When something pleasant or harmful happens to someone around here, such as a hug or a stabbing, she can feel it as though it were happening in her own body. This becomes difficult when she has to defend herself against attackers. Several critics have called Olamina’s condition "fictional” or even “delusional.” It’s not clear whether author Octavia E. Butler knew about or had experienced mirror touch synesthesia when she was writing the Earthseed books. Did she borrow the idea from real-life experiences? I wonder.

Olamina considers whether her hyperempathy is a positive or negative thing. "But if everyone could feel everyone else's pain, who would torture? Who would cause anyone unnecessary pain? I've never thought of my problem as something that might do some good before, but the way things are, I think it would help. I wish I could give it to people.”

Although I don’t enjoy unexpected touch, and mirror touch synesthesia can sometimes feel that way, it doesn’t feel like an illness or disability. Mirror touch synesthesia isn’t the only type I experience; I also occasionally have color-gustatory synesthesia, where certain colors (particularly intense colors) will also have a flavor. I’ve known a lot of synesthetes in my life and, for the most part, most of them were glad to have this additional conduit of sensation — as long as it didn’t become overwhelming. But many people go through their lives not realizing synesthesia exists, or that there are so many different kinds. Either they grow up believing everyone experiences this (and later find out they don’t), or they feel like they’re the only ones experiencing this strange sensory crossover (they aren’t).

I try to talk about this stuff year-round, but April is autism awareness month, which is one reason I’ve been blogging about sensory-related issues this month. You might also be interested in following my Instagram account for sensitive folks, @sensitiveenough.

Do you have synesthesia? What kind? Does it feel like a blessing, a hindrance, both, or something else?

The Sensory Accessibility Checklist

San Francisco’s Apple Store in Union Square. Photo: Nigel Young/Foster+Partners.

Last month, I visited my daughter’s pediatrician’s office for her annual checkup. We have been going there since she was a newborn, and the office has changed little in the past 12 years. It has the same wood-paneled waiting room, the same small windows in the exam rooms, the same deafeningly loud fan in the bathroom. Every time I use it, it’s a race to finish and wash my hands before the low, roaring sound causes me to have a sensory meltdown. (I should probably email them about that.)

The pediatricians’s office was designed for economy, but even businesses with high-end design can be difficult for sensory-sensitive people to cope with. Take the Apple Store in downtown San Francisco: the second floor of the building is devoted to computer repair, but when you enter the space, it’s a wide-open room with no clear spot to line up or speak to someone in charge. It’s bright, loud and confusing.

These are accessibility issues for the 5-16% of us with sensory sensitivities, similar to how the absence of wheelchair access and braille signs is an accessibility issue for wheelchair users or people with vision loss. Just as there are checklists to make sure public spaces are accessible for people with a variety of physical disabilities (as required by the Americans with Disabilities Act), I have created one to help people create businesses, workplaces and other public spaces that are more accessible to people with sensory differences. This isn’t required by the ADA, but it’s good practice nonetheless, and it creates spaces that everyone feels more comfortable in — not just people with sensory differences.

You can see and download it here.

I developed it with the help of the folks in a large Facebook group for adults with sensory processing disorder, as well as my neurologist, who has studied and treated kids and adults with SPD for years.

If you’re designing a business, workplace, or another space that will be used by a variety of people, please consider using the checklist as you’re creating those designs. Your customers, guests and employees will be grateful.

🎵 (Partially) vaccinated and it feels so good 🎵

I got my first Covid-19 vaccination last Wednesday, the Pfizer version. After a few months of watching my elders and friends in healthcare get their shots, it felt strange for it to suddenly be my turn. I was giddy as I chose the dates for my shots and confirmed the appointments. 

My arm was sore and was really tired for a couple of days after the shot, and I napped a lot. It reminded me a lot of when I get flu shots. Other than that, I felt fine. I expect the next one will have more side effects.

Although I have a number of health conditions (fibromyalgia, thyroid disease, etc.), none of them qualified me for the vaccine. But my weight does. 

That made me feel really conflicted. On the one hand, weight and health are not strictly correlated. I don’t have any of the diseases commonly associated with weight gain. My blood sugar, cholesterol, heart and lungs are all healthy. 

While it’s true that many bigger-bodied people have heart disease or diabetes, it’s more likely that weight gain, heart disease, diabetes (and others) stem from the same causes: chronic stress, especially coupled with traumatic childhood experiences, such as divorce, abuse, loss of a parent, or living under systemic oppression. Nadine Burke Harris, California’s Surgeon General, writes about this in her book The Deepest Well. 

On the other hand, one study shows that people with higher weight/BMI had worse outcomes when they contracted Covid-19. But most of those didn’t just have higher weights; they also had high blood pressure, heart or kidney disease, or another risk factor, so it’s tough to say for sure that weight alone was the issue. 

Also, we don’t know how many of those people might have avoided their doctors early on in their covid infections because they’d been fat-shamed and dismissed in the past, or how many avoided hospitals until they couldn’t anymore, knowing that overwhelmed hospitals may de-prioritize them. 

I don’t know whether I agree that weight alone makes me more vulnerable to covid infection (and there’s also the chance I already had it), but when California said it was my turn to get vaccinated, I was glad to sign up. I’m relieved to be on my way to protection -- not just for myself, but for my family, for the kids in my child’s classroom, and for the employees at the stores I visit. I’m looking forward to it being your turn soon, too.  

To all the kitties I've loved before

I’ve lived with cats for most of my four-plus decades on this planet, and I’d like to introduce you to (most of) them.

This is Tommy. It was taken in the first few weeks after I was born; my mom was feeding me and Tommy decided to get in on the snuggling. He looks pretty pleased with himself.

Cricket. We got Cricket and her brother, Fred, from Amir, our neighborhood mechanic after his cat had a litter of kittens. Fred died a few years after we got him, but Cricket was my heart-kitty through most of my adolescence and early adulthood. She was such a sweetie, and loved snuggling and sleeping in with me on the weekends.

This is Sunshine. It’s hard to tell from this picture, but she was a long-haired tortie cat (with the attitude to match). When we adopted her I wanted to name her Panther, but my parents overruled me. She was born with a tail, but had a habit of sitting in the street with her tail jutting into it, and we think she got it run over by a car — she came back to the house with a dislocated and fractured tail. The vet amputated it and she quickly learned how to balance without it.

Here’s Macaroon. He and his brother Willie came to us from our neighbors, Arrow and Rio (that’s their house on the other side of the fence in the background). He was a sweet and very social cat who grew very round in his later years. He loved hanging out with people, even people he hadn’t met before, and his meow was more of a quack.

And here’s Willie. I don’t have many pictures of him; he also died pretty young. He’s still a kitten in this picture, and he’s inspecting the fish tank close-up. (I love that this photo also features my brother, my encyclopedias, my Garfield and Duran Duran posters, and my Singer Featherweight sewing machine.)

Meet Emerald. We adopted him and his brother, Merlin, from Eric, my boyfriend at the time. Merlin ran away to live with another household in the neighborhood but Emerald stuck around. He preferred hunting for his food (birds, mice, etc.) over eating the food we provided him, and had a corner of the yard where he would store leftover critter parts, sorted by type: feet, beaks, wings, and so on. He also really enjoyed “helping” my mom make quilts.

Later in life, Macaroon and Emerald bonded with each other. They slept curled up together a lot of the time, and Macaroon would give Emerald extensive baths. They really loved each other and it was so sweet.

This is Mouse. She was my partner’s cat for the first few years, but lived with both of us after we moved in together in 2001. Even though she was part of a litter of mixed-coloration kittens, she came out looking like a French Chartreux. She was beautiful and smart — she learned a bunch of facial expressions from us, which was pretty funny. Despite being a bit antisocial, she loved laying on my pregnant belly and was gentle with our kiddo as a baby and toddler.

And here’s Pigeon. We adopted her from the SF SPCA about six years ago, when she was a brand-new and recently spayed mama. Her belly was shaved and stitched up, and her nipples were still full of milk. She was very skinny and her coat was scraggly and she farted every time she jumped onto or off of something. We soon discovered she has a lot of sensitivities and allergies, got her onto some more appropriate food, and she began to look and smell a lot better. She’s not a terribly smart cat, she’s quite anxious and she has asthma, but she’s also a total love.