One Year Older

Of course when you come back from a one year hiatus, everyone and everything is naturally one year older. The kids, the cat, the car, the list of things to be done, all, one year older.

The list of things to be done can be discouraging as it never diminishes. But it does evolve even if much too slowly for most everyone concerned. The car is dangling over the precipice of a combination of age and a dwindling tolerance of using it as our primary source of transportation. (I think we may soon be more carbon responsible and subscribe to Modulauto which I hope will have enough subscribers to stay in business.) The cat went from just over zero to just over one, so as shown on yesterday's post, he is a dramatic visual aid to the passing of time. The kids make a close second, and I don't think many of our friends back in the good ol' US of A are interested in the progressive photos of an aging Renault Scenic, so I'll stick with the monsters.

From Summer last










To Fall








To Winter









To Spring











And Summer again.











I still haven't figured out whether they are keeping me younger or making me feel really, really old. The best answer would be c) both.

Just Act Like It Never Happened

Well it has been a year. Exactly one year to date. And I am going to take a clue from my dear departed Aunt Edna, who as the story has been told, having "disappeared" for several years or so "modeling hands" in California, walked unannounced into her western Kentucky house one evening where she promptly started fixing dinner for her (still there) husband. Without a word. And nothing was ever said... by either... or hardly anyone else.

So, anyway...

In Part 2, "The Continued Kitten Saga", where I owned up to my cat withdrawal crisis, I mentioned a charming and generous French woman who raises Scottish Fold and British Shorthair cats. Well, after she graciously invited us (monsters included) into her stone-walled hillside home complete with lovely pool overlooking a lavender and sunflower crossed valley outside of Aix-en-Provence, we dumped her and her 1,000 euro pure bred as the fresh driven snow kitten for a half-breed bastard from a shack in the Cevennes.

I did my best to rationalize this betrayal, as you just saw where I indirectly point out that the folks outside of Aix are hardly depending on the sale of a kitten to make ends meet and will most assuredly not miss the euros as much as we would have, had we succumbed to such a rash act of fiscal imprudence. But I had a problem convincing myself that I was not/am not an ungrateful, selfish, uncouth American.

This of course is not (a) George's fault. He deserves nothing but praise in this sordid history. As you can see, he immediately invested in his role as (a) George, and has continued to carry the (a) George tradition with great aplomb.

Starting out like this














Surviving all of this














And evolving into this















And I totally believe the story about Great Aunt Edna. I think she was vain about her hands to the very end.