Hog Heaven

     As I had mentioned earlier, Rooster, a die-hard Harley man, is on a mission to get Sissey out on the road for a run on his bike. He has been working diligently on Phase One, modifying his Harley for Sissey so that I will give the thumbs up for him to SAFELY take her on a ride. Yesterday, he implemented Phase Two of the plan.  At 11:00 a.m., he arrived at Gans and Pop's backdoor decked out head-to-toe in his finest Harley attire: black leather vest emblazoned with the Harley-Davidson logo across the back, a row of assorted biker pins attached to the front, Harley cap, Harley belt, Harley sunglasses. If I hadn't known it was Rooster, I might have shot him on the spot having mistaken him for a Hell's Angel, but underneath all that tough-guy leather, it was still just sweet old Rooster. He was there to pick up Sissey in his truck (thankfully not his bike) and take her to the Harley shop in Rock Hill. That was where Phase Two of the plan kicked in. 
     Rooster was convinced that not only would Sissey love roaring through town on the back of his bike, but that one day she would be roaring through town driving her own modified three-wheel hog. Purple, of course. With glitter. If only he could get her up to the Harley showroom and let her see those three wheelers, sit in one, smell the leather of the seats, see the gleaming chrome, touch the handlebars, hear the engine rev...that was all it would take to get her hooked as a Lady of Harley.
     So off they went, just the two of them, armed with a box of Zebra cakes (Rooster's favorites), Sissey's blue walker perched in the bed of Rooster's blue truck, two souls off on a mission to Hog Heaven.
    When they arrived home several hours later, the first thing Sissey announced when she walked in the door was, "That place is expensive!"  I think she was as shocked as I to learn that one of those little three-wheelers would set her back about thirty grand.  That's a lot of Coach pocketbooks and Starbuck's Latte's down the drain. Try as he could, Rooster could not talk her into buying anything at the high-priced Harley store, although she did spend some time scoping out the three-wheelers.
     Trying to lure me into the world of Harley, Rooster assured me that the bikes could be adjusted so that all the controls were hand-operated and that it would have automatic transmission and a passenger seat.  He could not assure me, however, that it would come with a crash-proof, bullet-proof, unbreakable, air-bag surrounded, shatterproof bubble that would completely encase the driver.  I tried to envision the two of us taking off for USC-L on a three-wheeler, just me and Sissey, chatting back and forth through the antennae of the radio-controlled XM Stereo which was embedded in our purple-glitter helmets. We would slide into the parking lot of the school on her purple hog, wearing our black leather pants and matching jackets, with "Lady of Harley"  and "USC-L Harley-MOM" embroidered across the back.  I'm not sure it was a good look. Plus, I didn't know where we would put the walker and the backpack for the ride over, and I was afraid my Bubba-keg of coffee wouldn't fit in the bike's cup holder.
     Not only that, but she would have to get ANOTHER driver's license...one specifically for motorcycle drivers.  We won't go into the whole history of "Sissey  Learns To Drive", but just believe me when I say it was no piece of cake getting License #1.  Besides, I do not think I could endure another nervous breakdown in the parking lot of DMV. The first one was pretty embarrassing. When Sissey safely pulled back into the parking lot after her road test, only to find me crying hysterically behind the bushes in front of the DMV office, she was tempted to just keep on driving, far, far away. Fortunately, her dad was there as well, so she preserved some of her dignity by getting in the car with him and pretending she had never met that crazy woman in the bushes. The thought of having to go through that whole process again, especially to get a license to drive a vehicle that comes with no safety features, no air bags or roll bars or armored plates, uh-huh, I don't think so.
     I'm not too worried about Sissey becoming a Harley gal, though, because her brother and father have to weigh in on that decision. I can tell  you right now what those two will have to say about that-- they being of the mindset that Rapunzel had a pretty good deal locked safely up in that tower, isolated from all the dangers of the world, untouchable in her turret. Letting Sissey cut loose on the highway on a Harley was going to happen just about the time hell froze over, and with all the concerns about global warming and melting polar ice caps, I figured the odds were pretty good we weren't headed in that direction.
      So for now, Rooster will have to be content with just taking Sissey for a short run around the block, with speeds no greater than 10 MPH, on a clear Sunday morning between the hours of 11 and 12, on a sunny spring day with temperatures settling around 85 degrees, with all the stars and planets correctly aligned in the cosmos, and with a host of heavenly angels hovering nearby.  With much prayer and intensive group therapy, the odds are pretty good I would agree to that.

Hometown Hero Video Link

Well, Sissey's fifteen minutes of fame occurred this evening as her "Hometown Hero" spot aired on CN2!  We were so excited to see our gal make her television debut...she declared it would be her LAST TIME on camera, but personally, I thought she was a natural on air!!! Of course,  motherly bias played no part in that assumption!!
I have tried to include the link to CN2 for those who would like to view the news story. If you go to http://www.cn2.com/, there is a tab called "Hometown Hero Lapsley Daly" where the video can be viewed, or you can copy and paste the entire address listed below and it will take you straight to the video. Thanks for following her journey through college and life!


http://www.cn2.com/web/guest/video?p_p_id=CN2NewsVideos_WAR_CN2NewsContent511&p_p_lifecycle=0&p_p_state=normal&p_p_mode=view&p_p_col_id=column-1&p_p_col_count=1&_CN2NewsVideos_WAR_CN2NewsContent511_videoId=004218

Skunk Sunday

    This weekend I made a quick trip up to Richmond. I had some appointments to keep, and Bro was coming home from UVA, supposedly to see his mom before he left for Brazil, but I secretly knew it was also about the time he had used up all his clean clothes and emptied his pantry. Sure enough, he arrived with a bus-load of dirty laundry and an empty stomach.  I cooked enough food and washed enough clothes to sustain most of the University for another month, then sent him back to Charlottesville clean and full.
     Early Sunday morning, I made the long drive back to South Carolina, anxious to leave the snow-covered ground of Virginia and head back to warmer climes.  It was a great time to travel, as traffic was light, and with four new tires on my car, I zipped down the interstate at a quick clip.        
     Not long after I exited I-95 in Petersburg to merge onto I-85, a familiar, pungent odor began to creep into the car.  I spottted the culprit, a dead skunk, lying on the side of the road, the obvious loser in the battle of man versus nature. I held a tissue over my nose as I roared down the interstate, anxious to escape the acrid odor. By the time I passed the Dinwiddie exit, the smell had  begun to dissipate. I had just lowered the tissue from my nose, when it hit again,  a new wave of noxious fumes rolling through the car.  I peered onto the side of the interstate, and there it was, another hapless victim, dead skunk number two.
      I went through my routine of tissue-to-nose, foot-to-gas-pedal as I tried to escape the cloud of fumes that were hovering around my car.  No sooner had the odor of skunk #2 dissipated, when yet again, that familiar scent wafted through my nostrils. I groaned "You've got to be kidding" as I spotted victim #3, that familiar black and white splat lying on the side of the road.
     The scent of skunk number three and not even faded when it hit again, and sure enough, there was the flattened culprit, that black and white fur the only clue left on the side of the highway as I passed skunk #4.
     By the time I reached the Virginia-North Carolina state line, I was up to skunk number nine. I was definitely spotting a trend, some influx of skunk migration that had obviously taken a deadly path. I called my husband in Richmond to report the breaking news.
     "I don't know what's going on, " I told him, "But I have just passed my ninth dead skunk. This is unbelievable.  Is this the skunk migration season? What in the world in going on? This stench is killing me."
    He was unaware of any breaking news regarding the murder of migrating skunks, but told me to keep him posted.  As I rolled through North Carolina, I added victims ten, eleven, twelve and thirteen to the fatality list. The tissue I was using to cover my violated nostrils was in shreds by the time I reached the South Carolina border and entered the Welcome Station. This was the site where the miracle occurred. I exited the interstate, exhausted from driving with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a tissue over my nose, and got out to stretch my legs, flex my cramped arms, and pick up another free map of the state. I noticed the moment I got out of my car that the air was clean, odorless, pure. I breathed deeply and smiled.
      As I pulled back onto the interstate, entering the Great State of South Carolina, the skunk mortality rate dropped to zero. Yes, zero. Miraculously, not a single skunk, dead or alive, did I spot for the rest of the trip.  The air I breathed was the sweet, fresh air of South Carolina, and I rolled down the windows, filled my lungs, and sailed on home with the fresh wind blowing through my car.
     Now, I am not making any judgement calls about North Carolina or Virginia, but I do want to point out that the Great State of South Carolina was the only state I crossed that Sunday morning that did not boast a single dead skunk or noxious odor. Not one. Zip. Nill. The sides of the interstate were victimless and the air I breathed was fresh and clean.
     I don't know what was the cause of Skunk Sunday, or why it only happened in Virginia and North Carolina.  Perhaps there was a Revival Meeting all those unfortunate critters were trying to attend on that fatal Sunday morning. Perhaps it was an early, misguided spring mating call that drove them to their deaths as they vainly attempted to cross the interstate in search of love.  I do know it turned what should have been a pleasant drive home into a battle of nostrils versus noxious fumes, with the fumes obviously winning the war. And I also know that it was only in the state of South Carolina that there was no road kill or pungent odors.
Skunk Sunday may have been just a strange phenomenom, it may have said nothing at all about those other two states, but I sure was glad to be back  breathing in the sweet fresh air of South Carolina.
  

Hometown Hero

     Yesterday brought quite a surprise to our little gal when during her final class of the day, a camera man and reporter entered the room and announced that Mary Lapsley Daly had been selected as the "Hometown Hero."
      She was shocked.
      Very shocked.
       "Hometown Hero" is a feature story sponsored by CN2 News. Local "heros" are nominated by individuals and the news channel runs a spotlight story about them, which later airs on the cable network.  I had been warned something was up the day before as I was putting Sissey's walker in the back of the car after class. As I was slamming the tailgate of the car shut, one of her former professors walked up and whispered in my ear to make sure that Mary Lapsley was dressed in "something cute" the next day.  When I asked her why, she hurriedly told me that Sissey had been selected as the "Hometown Hero" but they wanted it to be a surprise and were going to make the announcement during her PAL class the next day.  She was giving me the heads-up to make sure Sissey didn't arrive in jeans and a sweatshirt for her big interview.  I wasn't quite sure what the "Hometown Hero" was, but told her I would make sure she was dressed appropriately.
     Of course, Little Miss Big Ears in the car, she-of-the-eye-who-never-misses-a-trick,  had naturally spotted me talking to Tracey and asked as soon as I got in the car, "What was that all about?"
     I had to think quick to cover the plot.
     "Oh, nothing, she was just asking how your classes are going this semester. She said to tell you that they are going to have to retake the pictures for the PAL class tomorrow so be sure to wear something nice."
      "But we already took the pictures," Sissey said.
      "They didn't come out right. You have to do them over." I replied.
      She bought my story and asked no more questions.  After all, it didn't take much to convince Sissey to "wear something cute."
     She entered class yesterday afternoon dressed in her favorite black Boden dress, wearing a killer pair of boots, looking, I must say, very cute, and immediately noticed that everyone else in class was wearing jeans and sweatshirts. She shot me a puzzled look.  I quickly plopped her backpack down and left the classroom before she could ask any questions, telling her I had to run a quick errand and would be right back. I scooted out of there as fast as I could before I spilled the beans and ruined the surprise.
      So the ploy worked, and our gal was very, very surprised when the reported announced that she had been selected as the "Hometown Hero."  She was also very, very mad at me for not telling her and very, very embarassed that she had been selected.
     "I'm not a hero, Mom. I just an ordinary person. They shouldn't have picked me.I haven't done anything," she said as soon as we got in the car.
     Oh honey, I thought, you have no idea. It doesn't take a big person to be a hero, it just takes a big heart. She may not think she's a hero, but just watching her everyday, watching her work so hard to get this degree, to overcome challenges that most people will never face, and to do so with a smile on her face and a kind word for those she meets, that makes her a hero in my book.
     Of course, I am her mom, and I am extremely biased. But I think that anyone who lives with a disability, anyone who wakes up each day to face challenges most of us will never understand,  anyone who faces those challenges with grace and humor and a heartful of compassion for their fellow man...that is what makes a hero. And I see a whole lot of heros out there in this world. They may not get their fifteen minutes of fame or a spot on a local news show, but they are out there every day, setting the example for the rest of us about how to live a life of joy and compassion in a broken world.
    They are my heros.

("Hometown Hero" will air Tuesday, Feb. 23. It can be viewed on CN2's website as well!)








     
      

Is that tater real?

    Happy Valentine's Day! Not only is today the day of love, it is also my mother's birthday!  She was an only child, born late in life to her parents, and made her arrival on the most romantic day of the year.  I always thought that was appropriate. We had a  big family supper last night to celebrate-- grilled thick ribeye steaks and baked some giant potatoes we had picked up at Costco. Those potatoes were huge, each one the size of a small loaf of bread, and as we pulled them from the oven, I heard someone ask "Is that tater real?" We all started to laugh as we recalled the day we discovered the biggest potato on earth, a spud we spotted last summer while on a family vacation to Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons.
     The historic viewing occurred last July when Pop and Gans had taken the whole family out west for a week of fly-fishing and wildlife viewing. We were staying in Alta, Wyoming in a house that was nestled at the base of  Grand Teton.  Each morning we woke up to views of snowcapped mountains and those big blue skies you can only find out west. The  men would sneak off early each day to go fly fishing and the gals would enjoy coffee on the deck under the shadow of the Tetons,  leaving later  for our own explorations.
     As we headed into the Tetons each morning, we would drive through the little town of Driggs which was located on the Idaho border where potatoes were a big deal. This was a one road kind of town, with one stop light and a real old-fashioned drive-in theater. The drive-in was a novelty to all the grandkids, they being of the generation of multi-plex cinemas with high-definition surround sound screens and padded reclining chairs. The one in Driggs was the kind of theater that you drove up to, claimed a parking spot, and watched the movie on a giant screen planted in the middle of a field. In this case, it was, naturally, an old potato field. The only consession to modern technology was that you no longer had to hook a receiver on the edge of the window to hear the movie. Instead, you tuned the radio to a pre-selected channel and listened to the movie through the car stereo system. Of course, we had to take them.
     We had selected this particular drive-in for two reasons. One, it was the only drive-in we had seen in the states of Wyoming, Montana, or Idaho. Two, it had a giant potato perched on a flatbread truck parked in front of the marquis. The potato was the size of a small car, something like a Volkswagon beetle. It was constructed out of fiberglass and painted so realistically that it could pass for an actual spud, if in fact they grew to be the size of small cars.  Most people would assume the potato was not real. My mother was not most people. The first day that we drove by, Gans pointed at the giant potato and with a dead-serious expression on her face, asked "Is that potato real?"  It took less than a milli-second for every one in the car to start yelling "Yes, yes!" and to tell her that of course it was a real potato, that's how they grew'em out west. So of course, nothing would do but to pile everyone in a couple of cars that evening and head to the drive-in with the giant tater. It was on the must-do list of things to see in Driggs.
    The next morning after our potato drive-in venture, we were back on the road, starting our daily routine of searching for moose, bear, buffalo, and other wildlife.  As we drove down the highway, we passed a construction site filled with heavy excavating equipment.  Some serious earth moving was taking place and a tremendous hole was in the middle of the construction site.  As we passed the gaping hole, my sister-in-law Sheryl  nudged Gans and in her most serious voice said, "Gans, I'm fairly certain that is the spot where they dug up that giant tater."
    From that day on, each time we drove by that giant potato, someone in the car would shout, "Is that tater real?" We had to go by several more times to take pictures and pose by the giant tater, not willing to miss a single opportunity to capture the site of the world's largest spud.  Forget the giant antlered elk, the moose and her calf, the grizzly bear or the wolves.  It was the giant tater that we remembered best of all.
     So as we celebrated Gans birthday last night, it was only fitting that the giant tater should be the centerpiece of her celebration.  She had, after all,  actually been the first to spot the site of the world's largest spud. We had, as a family, been to the excavation site of the giant tater and experienced that historic event together. Somehow, the giant tater had woven itself into our family history and had reappeared at Gan's birthday dinner, a most fitting occasion, because she was, after all, the one who knew that tater was real.

Rooster has a plan...

     Rooster is a Harley man.  He loves nothing better than riding that big ole bike of his down the back roads of South Carolina, a moment  in time when he is the original Freebird.  Riding down an endless black ribbon, heading nowhere in particular, just a man on his bike-- that's Rooster's idea of a real good time.
  He loves that bike so much  he is determined that he is going to get Sissey on it and take her for a spin.  As her mother, I naturally have some grave reservations.  It's not that I don't trust Rooster. I know he would move heaven and hell to do anything for Sissey, and would lay down his own life before he let a hair on her head get hurt.  But my motherly instinct is flashing big red flags when it comes to letting her get up on his bike.  If I had my preference, she would only be transported down the highway in an army tank surrounded by a full brigade of armed troops with a chopper flying surveillance overhead. I don't think that is too much to ask.
   Needless to say, the thought of her riding on the back of a Harley, every body part vulnerable, every fiber of her being unprotected and exposed, not a single steel panel between her and the road -- the mere thought of that gives me heart palpitations.  I have thought of every excuse I can to keep her off Rooster's bike, but as I said, Rooster has a plan. For everything.
     He asked me yesterday morning if I had an old pair of Sissey's shoes that he could borrow. Knowing Rooster, I assumed he had met a child somewhere that was in need and that he was determined to find a pair of shoes to give them.
     "Rooster, all of Sissey's shoes have holes in the toes," I told him.  He knew how she dragged her feet until the toes were completely worn off, and I couldn't imagine him wanting to give a pair of her used shoes to anyone.  I offered to just buy a pair of shoes for whatever child he was assisting, but Rooster said that was not why he needed them. 
      "I have a plan for getting Sissey on the bike," he answered.
     Uh-oh, I thought, I better think quick.
     I began to come up with a long list of reasons why I didn't think she'd be able to ride the motorcycle with him.
     "I'm worried she'll slip off the back," I began.
      Rooster said his bike had a tall backrest that she could lean against.
     "I'm worried she'll lose her balance and fall off," I said.
     Rooster told me he had bought a dock worker's harness belt to strap her to the back rest and already had it installed on the bike.
     " I'm worried her feet will slip off the footrests," I tried next.
     Rooster informed me that he had bought platforms for her to rest her feet on and had them installed on the footrests as well.
     "I'm worried she won't be able to keep her feet on the platforms," I countered.
     Rooster said that's why he wanted a pair of her shoes. He was going to velcro them to the platforms so they wouldn't slip off the footrests.
    " I'm worried about the weather," I finally said, running out of reasons to put this off but giving it my final, best shot.
      Rooster said he is working on that one too. I imagine he and God have been having plenty of conversations about the appropriate climate needed to take Sissey for a ride.
     I'm predicting that some spring weather is going to be coming soon.
     Ride, Sissey, Ride.
   

Shadow? What Shadow?

     I have a  groundhog day confession to make.  I couldn't remember which shadow predicted spring and which shadow predicted winter. I checked the internet, I checked the news, I checked the papers, and still, I couldn't keep straight whether the shadow meant lingering winter or early spring. I wrote it down on the back of a magazine, but got confused when I checked my own notes.  "Shadow winter near no shadow spring near or winter lingering or early spring..." It made no sense to me.  I changed the status of the shadows so many times in my last blog that I no longer remembered if the rat saw his shadow and winter was lingering, saw his shadow and winter was fleeing, didn't see his shadow and winter was lingering, or didn't see his shadow and winter was fleeing. See what I mean?
     To be honest, I really didn't care. 
     All I know is that when Mr. Big and I stepped outside yesterday morning, it was cold. So cold, in fact, that when I plopped Biggie on the ground he started shivering from head to toe, those little feathery pom-poms on his sweater shaking so hard that feathers started to fly off and he looked as if he were molting. And oh! the look he gave me as he stood there on the icy, frozen tundra. It was a cross between "Please please please take me back inside before I turn into a snowpoodle" and "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING BRINGING ME OUT HERE IN THIS COLD?"  I snapped a quick picture of him because he was looking oh-so-cute in his sweater and baby blue is such a good color on him,  then hurriedly ran back inside. 
      Who needed shadows, anyway, when a thin crust of ice was covering everything in the yard and the weatherman was predicting another winter storm brewing in the gulf? I could figure out that ole man winter still had a few gasps of cold air left in him just by looking out the back door. Didn't even need that old groundhog. Didn't even need to go outside.
     I'll believe spring is coming when I see the first hyacinths poking through the ground or catch a purple glimpse of an early crocus peeking through the winter soil.  I'll believe it's here when the ground is no longer frozen as hard as macadam and  Mr. Big prances happily through the yard, lingering when I call him to come back inside.
     The temperature today soared to nearly 60 degrees, a far cry above yesterday's bone-chilling 38, but I won't be fooled by this little puff of warm air.  We're not done yet, ole man winter and me. I know he's coming back for one last round, one last blast of bitter cold and gray skies, wintry mixes of snow and ice, one last attempt to catch us with his icy fingers. But soon we'll slip from his grasp and he will fade away, a fleeting February shadow, spring marching in to take his place.
     And I didn't need a groundhog to tell me that.

Poodle Day

    February Second is traditionally known as Groundhog Day, the morn of which the prediction of the length of winter is based on the appearance of the shadow of a rodent. Shadow appears: winter lingers six more weeks. Shadow does not appear: spring is near! Not very scientific, but I'm buying into it. Rodents have historically been used to predict many things: Bubonic plague, the Black Death, Typhus, Lieptospirosis....It is also a well-known scientific fact that without rodents, the research lab would be non-existent.  Rodents are brilliant little creatures capable of assuming many roles and contributing to great scientific discoveries, albeit not very attractive or lovable in the process.  Makes perfect sense to add weather forecasting to the list.
      February Second was also my dearly departed maternal grandmother's birthday, a much more historic occasion than the mere passing of a shadow cast by an emmerging rodent. She was not very fond of rodents, and it seemed a shame that  her historic Birth Day had to coincide with the celebration of the awakening of a hibernating rodent. A rather large, yellow-toothed, grumpy, sleepy, not-terribly-attractive-rodent at that.                                                                                                                                                           
     Not only did the world have to gaze at a buck-toothed fur-ball every year on her birthday, but the gentleman that accompanied "Punxsutawney Phil" from his slumber was a gentleman dressed in the out-dated fashion of the late nineteenth-century. If there was one thing that my grandmother was particular about, it was her attire. It had to be current, fashionable, coordinated and accessorized.
     I will never forget one particularly hot July day when I was in York, S.C.  visiting Grandmother. The temperature was hovering well over the 100 degree mark and it was, as we like to say down here, sweltering. As usual, we were sitting in the swing on the front porch, drinking coffee and watching the world pass by. Yes, I said coffee. My grandmother had a theory that if it was hot outside, one should drink coffee to balance the internal temperature of one's body with that of the external temperature, thereby reducing the effects of the heat.  Not very scientific, but it seemed to work. Besides,  there would be no research with rat labs conducted in THIS household, and we loved coffee. So I simply took her word for it and poured us both a steaming cup.
      Grandmother was looking particularly attractive this day, dressed in a smart Shrader Sport shirtdress with a raspberry, camel, and teal stripe.   A coordinating raspberry cotton cardigan was draped around her shoulders, and a pearl necklace and matching "earbobs" completed the look. She sat there on the porch sipping her coffee, pushing the swing gently with her foot, and fanning away beads of perspiration that were accumulating on her powdered brow.
    "My, it certainly is hot today," Grandmother commented as she sipped and rocked in the swing.
      I couldn't help but notice her cardigan still draped across her shoulder.
      "Grandmama, maybe if you took off your sweater you wouldn't be so warm," I suggested.
     "What?! Why, just look at how the raspberry of this sweater perfectly picks up the raspberry stripe in my dress. It would RUIN my outfit if I took off this sweater. Besides, what if France Addicks happened to walk down the street right now and didn't see how cute I looked in this outfit? I am NOT taking off this sweater."
     This came from the woman who always told me we have to "suffer to be beautiful," and whose scientific methods were more than questionable, but with whom I was not going to argue. She had her standards, and she lived by them with a fierce determination.
     So, as you must realize, it was a little hard to swallow that her glorious, memorable, historic date of birth had to coincide with the celebration of the awakening of a hibernating rodent accompanied from his burrow by a gentleman dressed in passe couture.
      Therefore, I chose this morning not to take the word of Punxsutawney Phil, but rather to take a more fashionable vehicle with which to predict the emmergence of spring.  Today, I officially declared  "Poodle Day." I marched Mr. Big, my rather fashionably dressed, immaculately groomed, oh-so-current toy poodle out into the cold February morn,  and stood there searching for his shadow as he shivered on the icy ground.
       Mr. Big predicted that we will have six more weeks of winter. After that, he stomped back into the house, shook the cold off his baby-blue hooded sweater with the matching pom-poms cascading down the back, and curled up into a ball in front of the fireplace. 
     Not very scientific, but it sure beats a dirty rodent, and I am sure my grandmother would be pleased.
    

   "Rebel searches for a shadow as Mr. Big emmerges...one is to be found, alas, six more weeks of winter..."