Reflections - JASNA 2024 AGM Postcards

JW in Regency Dress

Dear Darlene,

Thanks for accompanying me to Evensong at Trinity Cathedral and for eating dinner with Spence and me afterward. What a night to remember.

Another night to remember was the following Saturday. I assured Spence he didn’t have to come back to get me into my Regency dress because I could find a Janeite to assist. He insisted. I suspect he really wanted to get his hands on the push-up bra you kindly helped me find. Remember the Victoria’s Secret sales girl? She’d decided to give up before we convinced her to let me try on the blue-and-pink lacy thing. Then she gushed in relief that the last bra in my size the store had stocked actually worked.

The night of the ball, Spence fumbled with the hooks while I forced the cups into place in front. Then I slipped into my Regency dress. Spence easily buttoned the dress back and took photos before I left for the banquet and ball. Almost all the ladies wore Regency dresses. We had the same unnatural profile. Pushed up. I could manage for one night.

At the ball, I clapped, passed right shoulders, turned in a circle, and swung with my partner.

The bra didn’t cooperate. The push-up kept pushing up. My breasts slipped down. At the end of the first dance, I hustled to the ladies’ room to readjust the naughty undergarment. You and I hadn’t considered the effect a country dance would have on the bra when we shopped.

After sitting out the second dance, I joined the third and hoped I’d stuffed my breasts securely this time. Alas, the push-up pushed up again. Short of securing the undergarment with duct tape, I don’t trust that contraption to behave on the dance floor.

Love,

Janet

English Country Dancing 1

The Bare Necessities

Dear Sister Julie,

I imagine you enjoyed the fall leaves. Sister Loretta would have gasped at autumn’s hues. She would also have delighted in the English country dance music at the ball I attended in Cleveland.

Bare Necessities, the band that pianist Jacqueline Schwab founded, played Saturday night at the Jane Austen conference. Tom Tumbusch taught and called dances. A Jennifer I’d just met—not to be confused with my two Jennifer friends that helped run the conference—was my partner for the third dance. As part of the dance, I stepped diagonally to my corner, stepped backward, circled by myself, turned my partner, then circled with the set.

Jennifer scrunched her face at me. “Are you dizzy? You should sit down.”

The movements of changing sets, turning to face new friends, or staying with old friends were fast and did confuse me. But, horrors. Tom had threatened that if dancers left, the line would fall apart. A dancer couldn’t leave unless they took their whole set. Jennifer would have left, but not the others. “I’m fine,” I lied and figured I was tired, complicated by my normal wibble-wobbles.

Jennifer pursed her lips. Having taken the man’s place, she didn’t turn me again. She held her gloved hands palms facing down. “Just rest.” She convinced some sets not to circle. At the end of the dance she sat me at a table, got me water, and told me to relax. She realized what I hadn’t.

After four full days at the conference, vertigo was commencing. Before it hit full force, I gazed at the dancers and got a new perspective on the dance—the flow of costumed dancers walking, skipping, and leaping to the music’s beat. Their images blurred, as would my shaky photos, but the image of Jennifer’s kindness will shine in my heart forever.

Love,

Janet

English Country Dancing 2

 

If you want to see all twenty-one postcards in the JASNA 2024 AGM Postcard Journal, use this link: https://sites.google.com/site/wellswoodpa/vacations/jasna-2024-agm

 Reflections - An End to Grazing (Part 2)

 

Cats Gobble - Rills, Ande, and Gilbert

The tabbies whined and paced inside their carriers. I lugged one from the Maverick. Spence carted two. We set the rectangular, cloth totes on the great room floor and unzipped the flaps. The cat brothers scattered—claws scratching the wood floor. No doubt, they figured they’d escaped the terrors of their vet visit. But, the consequences had just begun.

Dr. Wheelock had ordered an end to grazing. Diet food alone wouldn’t solve the cats’ weight problem. Ande, our largest and grazer-in-chief, had to lose four pounds. Rills, the feistiest and once smallest, had to lose one. Gilbert, the timid and late bloomer, didn’t have to lose any. He would suffer because of his brothers.

I glanced at the two bowls on the tile floor by the sliding glass door. After the cats’ ordeal riding to and from the vet’s, they needed to calm down. Removing their kibble would increase the cats’ anxiety. I left the food. “Ready for our walk, Spence?”

Our shoes crunched gravel on the country road and our minds crunched meal schedules.

“You eat three times a day. The boys should eat when you do.” Spence believed in feeding his fellas.

“My lunch time varies too much. Twice a day will work better.” I paused to admire birdsfoot trefoil. “And I’m not always home for lunch.”

He scoffed. “You’re gone once a month.”

An exaggeration. Our argument continued. We settled on two cat meals. He would set the bowls out when he prepped breakfast and dinner. I would take them away when I washed dishes.

Simple. Maybe.

After dinner, I snatched the cats’ food. I didn’t want to pour the old crunchies back in the canister, but setting the bowls on the counter wouldn’t end Ande’s grazing. He could jump up for mouthfuls. A cupboard? Nope. The cupboards were full. I scanned the room and rejected the refrigerator—crowded inside plus the cats perched on top. I chose the oven. The bottom had a storage drawer containing an old griddle and a few casseroles. I yanked the drawer open and set the bowls inside an empty casserole.

The tabbies gawked in puzzlement and pity. I had the feeling if they could, they would have called 911 and reported my irrational behavior. Gilbert stroked my arm with his paw to sooth me.

And they followed me on tip-paws until I settled at my desk to write—a normal activity.

The next morning, Spence cooked breakfast and set the cat bowls out. The felines dashed to the food. Ande and Rills shared a bowl—a first. Gilbert, who had always waited for his brothers to leave before he ate, dug into the second bowl. All three gobbled.

Gilbert raised his head, licked his whiskers, and peeked at his gulping brothers. He dove back into his breakfast. I expected the cats to vomit from the gorging. They didn’t. Midway through their frenzy, Ande pawed kibble onto the floor and snarfed the food from there.

To eliminate the gobbling, we left the bowls out for over two hours at first. Each time I walked toward the bowls, Ande or Rills scurried to snatch another bite. I never took the food away while they ate. I didn’t want to increase their anxiety. Instead I checked for cat ablutions or napery then grabbed the bowls. As soon as I lifted the food, baths and naps halted. The cats trailed me to the oven and watched me tuck the bowls away.

Dr. Wheelock predicted the fellas would adapt to the routine in two weeks. I doubt she would have envisioned their adaptive behaviors.

Gilbert reverted to his Ferdinand the Bull inner self. He leapt into the sink, stood on hind legs, and knocked ornaments off the window sill to reach his goal—my gladiolas. His need exceeded my barriers. He pawed and munched petals, propelling the vase into the sink. The glass didn’t break, but the flowers bent at awkward angles.

 

Glads

Ande’s idea of diet supplements differed from Gilbert’s.

Ande often ate kibble off the floor, his preferred serving dish. And to end his paper ball chase game, he dropped the ball in the cat water fountain, fished the ball out, and swallowed the soggy treat. He combined these two activities for his diet supplement. Around the litter boxes, Ande scavenged stray paper pellets—unsoiled ones, thank goodness. The compacted paper pellets, meant to absorb cat urine, resembled kibble. Luckily, they didn’t have any calories.

His second tactic employed a red flannel elephant. Ande dragged the sixteen- by thirteen-inch toy over his food bowl. Camouflage? Perhaps he hid the kibble from his brothers or from humans.

Rills didn’t invent a new tactic. He escalated his begging while Spence or our son Charlie cooked. Charlie let Rills sniff ingredients. Usually that convinced Rills he didn’t want the ramen noodles, wonton soup, or kielbasa.

 

Spence told his buddy, “You're a pest. Get down.” The pesky cat didn’t. He loved the chicken which Spence frequently roasted for me. The increased begging netted chicken treats for Rills and Gilbert. Overweight Ande didn't like chicken—not an issue for his diet.

I’ll give Dr. Wheelock credit. With their new behaviors, the cats calmed—by the end of the third week. Then? Full panic. Saturday morning we fed them and packed to attend a friend’s funeral in Cleveland. We tucked the food bowls away, picked up tote bags, and headed for the door.

Ande galloped to the oven. He wailed. Experience had taught him tote bags indicated an extended absence. Charlie caught up on sleep over the weekend. Cats prancing atop of the sleeper wouldn’t wake the weary man. Although Ande had just eaten, his behavior suggested he feared no one would be home to serve him dinner.

Spence stooped and petted the cat. “Don’t worry big fella. We’ll be back.”

Ande whimpered.

When Spence and I returned mid afternoon, the cats met us at the door. None rushed to the oven. Their tummy alarms hadn’t rung yet.

Though the vet emphasized humans were the boss, the cats influenced the routine. The tabbies herded the first human out of bed toward the oven drawer. Hence, we fed the cats at 5:00 a.m. and 5:00 p.m—not necessarily when meals were prepared.

Charlie got the brunt of the morning schedule. Hungry cats stalked him on work days. They perched at the top of the steps when he climbed up from his basement man cave. He no longer could enjoy a leisurely sip of tea in his china cup. Needy cats circled his kitchen chair, swished their tails, and mewed demands. Charlie didn’t always wait until 5:00 to set their bowls out.

By late afternoon, the tabbies hovered in the great room. If a human approached the kitchen, they hustled to the oven. Using their heads like workers directing traffic around country road construction, they nodded at the person then stared at the drawer with the food bowls.

Most of this pressure landed on Spence, who cooked dinners. He pointed at the clock. “It’s not time fellas. You’ve got forty minutes . . .” Or an hour and fifteen minutes. Times varied. His clock lessons never satisfied the cats. If Spence stood beside the oven and their tummy clocks registered hungry, Spence instructed in vain.

Because I never gave cats food while I prepared mine, they only pestered me on weekends when Spence and Charlie slept in. Three docile cats met me at the bedroom door and jockeyed for cuddles—my start-of-the-day routine with them. Ande pushed forward.

“Good morning, big boy.” I picked him up. “Are you losing weight?” He purred. I set him down because two others waited.

Gilbert rose onto his hind paws for easier lifting. We snuggled. He wiggled free.

And Rills, who usually played keep-away when I collected hugs, stepped up. He was definitely lighter. We touched noses and rubbed heads. Then all three cats sprinted down the hall to the kitchen and waited by the oven.

No more gorging occurred. If the human didn’t top up the bowl with fresh kibble, the cats led the server to the food canister and waited for the extra crunchies before eating.

Though the tabbies didn’t hover over the bowls, they did come back for seconds a little later. Sometimes we neglected to pick up the food. Our forgetfulness didn’t matter. When it dawned on us the cats’ mealtime had ended, the tabbies had gone—napping with the old teddy bear, excavating in litter boxes, or staring out windows.

Did the cats lose weight?

Lifting the cats before their morning meal, they felt lighter. After they ate—not so much. But Rills was no longer heavier than Gilbert, and Rills slimmed down to be the smallest again. One cat lost weight.

The July 2025 vet appointment will provide accurate updates. We’ll stuff the tabbies inside their carriers and lug them—pacing and whining—to the Maverick. The trip of howling protests might even help them shed a few ounces.

         

 

Ande with Elephant over Food Bowl

Reflections - An End to Grazing

Rills and Ande - The Fat Cats

When the bedroom door squeaked open one April morning, Ande, our largest tabby, loped—ka-thud-ka-thud-ka-thud—toward me. He raised his chin and lifted his front paws—the cue for a lift up.

“I’m happy to see you too.” My days always started with this cheerful greeting from Ande. He’d trained me. I bent and hefted the large tabby for our daily cuddle. Oomph. “You’ve gained a lot of weight, big fella.”

Purring, he rubbed his whiskers against my arm and snuggled as content as a baby in his mother’s arms. But Ande was no baby. The five-year-old cat was watermelon heavy.

I admit. Spence and I created Ande’s predicament.

Sleep is sacred. Our rambunctious tabbies ran crazy at night. I didn’t appreciate cat feet tramping over my face and abdomen. Not large-boned Ande’s, which ran to greet visitors. Not small feisty Rills’s, which ran to explore. Not late-bloomer Gilbert’s, which ran to hide. Neither did I want the fellas pawing me awake for food. I closed the bedroom door and left a constant supply of dry food beside the burbling cat fountain.

Spence prioritized food. If Ande gazed with pleading eyes and whimpered pathetic meows, Spence sprinkled more crunchies onto the food in the bowl saying, “He needs reassurance.” Spence also offered the cats chopped chicken and cheese bits. He set down containers for the fellas to lick—the pan from cooked chicken and the plastic blue cheese crumble cup.

After five years of prioritizing sleep and food, all three of the fellas, who had arrived at our house as handfuls of fluff, had grown into large cats. Ande grew pleasantly plump, like a thick sausage. And once tiny Rills now scampered across floors with a swaying tummy. “Spence, don’t you think we should switch them to diet food?”

“Right.” Spence ordered a scientific diet food with “Perfect” in the name.

In May, Spence called, “Rillzie, Ande, Gilbert!” He poured the new, smaller kibble into their food bowls on the tile by the sliding glass door.

The clinking of kibble brought twelve paws thudding to the great room. Noses poked into bowls, and the cats gobbled their food as if it were tastier than the old. Ta-da! The vet would weigh the cats at the end of July and frown because Ande had gained too much. But we already solved the problem. No worries.

Well . . . maybe one—driving the cats to Greenville Veterinary Clinic for their annual checkup.

Inventing a system to teleport Gilbert would be easier.

Gilbert

On one trip to the vet’s, young Gilbert emitted heart-wrenching howls from the Subaru’s back seat. I gripped the steering wheel and gritted my teeth, certain he would cease at the drive's end.

Wrong. 

He ceased yowling to attack the cloth carrier. Scratch-scratch-scratch. His dagger-sharp claws—I would discover later—separated the Velcro straps, and he squeezed out. Desperate and terrified, Gilbert boomeranged from headrests, seat  backs, and windows until Spence snagged him. Spence wrapped the frazzled feline in a tight, two arm hug.

“You’re fine, Gil,” Spence cooed. “Janet’s a safe driver.” By the end of the trip, Spence had turned into a hairy, white pillow, and Gilbert’s tongue hung dry from panting.

Over the years we experimented. A plastic and wire carrier kept Gilbert inside the entire trip, but he bloodied his nose and claws scratching in vain to escape. Not a solution. Though tranquilizers calmed him a tad, he still freed himself. Finally, I fastened the carrier so Gilbert couldn’t reach the Velcro straps.

This July 25, we scooped up the cats, stuffed them into their cloth carriers, and strapped them in the Maverick’s back seat. As Spence pulled away from the front yard parking pad, a chorus of protesting meows erupted.

So, I sang. “Meow, meow, meow. Gilbert’s a good boy, Ande’s a good boy, Rillzie’s a good boy. Meow, meow, meow.” I used a sing-songy repetitive melody. The objecting howls quieted to soft meows.

“They’re harmonizing with you.” Spence tapped his palm to the beat of my silly song against the steering wheel.

Between verses, I sipped water to soothe my scratchy throat. Howls surged. I sang again—for the interminable thirty-five minute drive. With the scenery, I varied the verses. “The clouds are passing, a truck is passing, a hawk is passing.”

“Maybe don’t use that one.” Spence steered the Maverick past the old rink with the giant roller skate on top. “Hawks eat cats.”

I frequently returned to the Gilbert, Ande, and Rills round. The fellas mewed quietest when I sang their names.

And they stopped meowing when Spence parked at the clinic—I could imagine how sore their throats must be.

Spence entertained folks by pulling his buddy out of the carrier. “This is Rills. He’s my buddy. He’s a great explorer.”

“What a beautiful cat,” an elderly woman gushed. A carrier half the size of ours nestled against her feet.

I sat on the bench between our other cats and rubbed their bodies through the canvas carrier sides until we were called to the exam room.

Petite Dr. Wheelock examined each cat then smiled sadly. “All three cats are healthy. Now.” She rested her hands on the edge of the metal exam table where Gilbert cowered. “Overweight cats can develop problems later. Heart disease. Liver disease. Diabetes. Ande has gained a pound and a half each year. He’s four pounds overweight. Rills is also overweight. Gilbert only gained a little. He doesn’t need to lose weight, but if he does, it won’t hurt him.”

Spence and I had anticipated the bad news. I took a deep yoga breath and stroked Gilbert. “We changed them to diet food in May.”

The vet shook her head and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “If the diet food is out all the time, Ande won’t lose weight. He’s a grazer. He’ll keep eating and gaining.”

	July 2019	July 2020	July 2021	July 2022	July 2023	July 2024
Ande	4.72	12.96	14.5	16	17.43	18.95
Gilbert	4.14	11.6	12.1	12.6	13.67	13.96
Rills	3.88	10.1	11.58	12.5	13.35	14.62

 

My heart sank to my toes. Our former cat George had been overweight. A horrible vision of him whirled through my mind. Spence held George’s sides while I plucked the cat’s loose skin away from his bony spine and jabbed in a sharp needle for the subcutaneous injections. George had lost a lot of weight from kidney disease. I didn’t want our tabbies suffering like George had. Shuddering to clear the memory, I concentrated on Dr. Wheelock’s compassionate voice.

“You are the adults in charge of food. Not the cats. It’s difficult. I’m not asking you to do anything I’m not facing myself.” She reached for her phone and swiped through her photos. “These are my cats.” She stretched her arm to share the photo of a fluffy orange cat lounging on a carpet. Huge, he almost obscured a tiny black kitten—actually a normal-size adult cat. “We feed the cats three times a day. My husband takes the lunch feeding.”

And she gave us choices. “Feed them in different rooms.”

A look between Spence and me nixed that idea.

“Put food out for a while and take it away.” She tapped her pen on the weight record sheet. “Make a plan and be firm. The first two weeks will be difficult but they’ll get used to the routine.”

Spence strapped the cats into the Maverick and steered the hybrid homeward. The tabbies howled. “We’re going home, fellas.” Spence glanced at his buddies in the rear view mirror. “You’re fine.”

Would they howl for more food? Would they be difficult? Would they adjust in two weeks or, like the little elementary school boys, realize what had happened and get worse?

I didn’t sing to the cats. The trip had exhausted me physically and mentally. Besides, my throat hurt. I gazed at the green scenery flashing past the window.

Spence put his hand on my knee. “Everything will be okay.”

The chorus of howls from the back seat contradicted him. But, Dr. Wheelock had studied for years. She said the tabbies were healthy. Now. To keep the fellas healthy, I would follow her advice. And I trusted Spence to be at my side every cat-yowling moment of the journey.

End Part One

 Reflections - Tension, Humor, & a Feisty Fancy Dresser

Cruel Charade

Babs, the gracious and talented Barbara Mountjoy, led the Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters (MVP) when I joined in 2013. Along the way, she submitted several chapters of her Bet story for feedback. I marveled at her flowing text and suspenseful scenes. Curious, I would ask what happened next. Babs didn’t answer. She chuckled softly. And she asked me to lead MVP. Why? She moved to North Carolina, leaving the group and Bet’s mystery unsolved. I’m not sure which of the two horrified and disappointed me most.

Years later, MVP switched to ZOOM meetings. Babs rejoined us. To my delight, she submitted chapters from the Bet story again. At times Babs would shake her head and say, “How did you find so many mistakes? The Erie group didn’t.” I admitted rereading two and three times because my mind often slipped into reader—not proof-reader—mode. The extra perusals entertained and let me find issues for her to consider.

Month by month our group awaited her chapters. We observed the creation of her mystery step by step.

When Wild Rose Press finished the final edits, Babs provided pdf copies in exchange for reviews, which would help her market her book. Babs impressed me with crafty rewrites of sections that had confused our group.

A minor change involved time shifts from story present—the spring and summer of 1966—to story past. Though logical for this mystery, some shifts were so close our group got mixed up even with dates at the top of the page. Modifying the headers a bit—

October 1995

to

October 16, 1995

Nine Months Earlier

—streamlined the flow.

A second clarification fixed a problem only I—okay, clueless—had voiced. Why did Bet suddenly list five things she could see, four she could touch, and so forth down to one she could taste? The behavior jerked me out of a tense scene. Bet should have had other priorities on her mind—hence I freaked out. In the pdf’s prologue, Babs writes that Bet hears a voice inside her head. The voice calms Bet and guides her through the list. Aha! Bet did need to calm herself. Desperately. No spoilers here. Read for yourself.

 

A photo Babs purchased from 

Depositphotos to represent Bet. 

(Used with permission from Babs.)

Another change involved one of my favorite chapters. Bet’s labor starts in a courtroom. After Babs read the chapter at our ZOOM meeting, smiles and dimples glowed over screens. We complimented Babs on tension, Bet’s cute sailor dress, and snappy dialogue until someone ventured, “But how does it fit with the plot?”

Naima waved her hand in dismissal. “I trust Babs. She’s a talented writer. She has a plan to make it connect.”

“That’s what the Erie group asked.” Babs slumped. Her expression turned sheepish. “The incident happened to me. I wanted to include it in a novel sometime.”

So we brainstormed ways to make the chapter fit—Bet’s client could be a red herring, the villain could be stalking Bet in the courtroom, or Babs could be developing the selfish husband’s character. Babs added another scene which connected the chapter with the story. But she’d been right. The court scene was priceless on its own.

In addition to clarifications, Babs added surprises. I’d called the book “the Bet story” for so long, the title Cruel Charade puzzled me at first. I admit, the novel has more than one charade. The villain dons a costume to do the evil deed. Bet’s husband Rich keeps secrets and makes their children keep secrets. The cruelest charade of all is the pain that haunts and torments Bet, making every aspect of life much more difficult.

And Babs surprised me with her last paragraph in the Acknowledgments.

Finally, thank you, thank you, thank you!!! to the Area One Pennwriters critique groups, both Fellowship of the Quill and Meadville Vicinity Pennwriters, who regularly review my work, provide thoughtful commentary and support one another as we all work along the path to our chosen avocation of writing. I couldn’t do this without you.

Observing Babs create Cruel Charade and benefiting from her insightful feedback nurtured every member of the MVP group. We couldn’t do our writing without her.

Babs

Cruel Charade is her twenty-fourth book. With six short stories also published, that makes a total of thirty page turners available from Babs—aka Alana Lorens, Lyndi Alexander, and Barbara Mountjoy—available to get lost in. Happy reading!

My Book Store Review

★★★★★

Alana Lorens drew me into her thrilling mystery through feisty, funny, fancy-dressing Bet. Chronic pain and villains attack. Tension mounts. Humor abounds. My heart pounded until the last sentence. I wish Bet were real. She would make a terrific friend.

 

A trailer for Cruel Charade