The Yin and Yang of Cats

It is said that Tom-boy moms are cursed with Barbie-doll daughters. I don’t have a daughter to torment me, but I swear, I am owned by the girliest girl-cat in all of the Southern states!

My best friend, who is much like me and feels most comfortable in jeans, combat boots and very black concert T-shirts, rolls her eyes in exasperation when her dainty niece twirls in her pink, fluffy princess dress. I feel her pain. Ultra-feminine girls affect me like counterfeit money: I stay far away from them.

Sometimes, I watch them from a distance and shake my head. I could act that way. Anyone could. But why? They are so transparently fake, I’m surprised they recognize themselves in the mirror.

My friend and I are liberated women, strong and independent, which means that we have goals in life that do not involve drawing the attention of the opposite sex. It irritates us to watch the hyperfeminization of women in the media and it annoys us even more to see how many of our contemporaries fall for the hype. So when my friend rolls her eyes at her niece's girly antics, I give her the best comfort that comes to mind: “At least she’s not your daughter!”

Our four cats have achieved a semi-child status in our household. There is Bowie the Bold, Andretti, the Dandy, TchuTchu the Odd and Twinkle the Girly. And it is Twinkle that causes me the most embarrassment.

While she is perfectly capable of walking a straight line with her powerful legs and muscular shoulders, she tends not to. Most often, she engages in the most exotic curlicues, tail coiling like a snake and reminiscent of a dancer on a pole. She adores Andretti and throws herself at his feet, begging for his attention like a love-sick teenager with her unrequited first love. If she can’t find him, she’ll spend hours crying for him and searches in every corner, until she finds his hiding place. Her face betrays her suffering. Without him, she is nothing.

Bowie looks like he could be a carbon copy of her, a male counterpart perhaps, with slightly different coloring, but the same build and glossy coat. Yet she abhors Bowie, who regards her with open curiosity. And she shows open loathing for TchuTchu who treats her with brotherly disdain, while she spits at him for being too much of a guy.

I watch Twinkle, when she performs her exotic dance for Andretti and for us humans and I roll my eyes in exasperation. My friend, with just a touch of malicious glee, offers me the best comfort she can think of: “At least she’s not your daughter!”

If only that were true!

Montezuma

This weekend, he plagued me with his vicious revenge: I cramped with a mean stomach virus. As I ran back and forth to the bathroom, I couldn’t help but wonder about the mysterious Aztec king, whose religious faith and indecisiveness caused the end of a powerful, prolific people. While I sat, clutching my aching stomach, I cursed his spirit, which is said to reach out beyond the grave and smite Gringos with sickness, when they drink his water.

It is believed that ‘Montezuma’ was not his real name, but it is what conquistadores called him when they came to conquer and humble the great king. It is also believed that the Spanish conquerors held a strange spell over him, which he was unable to break. We don’t know if Cortez and his warriors understood Aztec beliefs or customs, but they took advantage of them and turned them against Montezuma and his people.

Aztec legend tells us that Quetzalcoatl, the god-king once ruled vast areas of Mexico and had established his rule in Tula. Tricked by his opponents, he committed an act of immorality and left Tula in shame, either by his own account or by force. He traveled toward Mayan country, but eventually sailed out to see toward a faraway land, possibly the Yucatan. He left behind scores of loyal followers and also a prophesy, promising that either he or one of his sons would return one day to reclaim the throne. He was to come back from the sea.

Followers of Quetzalcoatl believed the prophesy and waited for it as anxiously as old testament Jews waited for the messiah. The king Quetzalcoatl was as dearly loved as his divine namesake, the god of art and wisdom. And because Quetzalcoatl was called the white wind and was to return by way of the sea, it is understandable that Montezuma did not gather the armies and prepare for war, when Cortez and his white conquistadores first arrived at Mexican shores. Instead, he sent lavish gifts with his noblemen to try to dissuade Cortes from entering Tenochtitlan.

White man’s greed wrote the rest of Mexican history. Cortes rightly assumed that the gifts only represented a fraction of the wealth of the city and kingdom and proceeded to invade Tenochtitlan. Indecision and fear stopped Montezuma from staging an effective defense and the city walls fell under the Spanish invasion. Religious belief stifled the king’s decision making power, giving only limited options. Montezuma’s faith did not pay off. He was executed shortly after Cortes invaded the city.

I can’t help but wonder what might have happened, had Montezuma and the Aztec nobles not been so true to their religion. Warlike and powerful, they might have easily driven off Cortes’ ragtag band of marauders. Aztecs were known as fearless warriors, normally. Only faith stopped them and became their undoing.

We could ask ourselves the same questions today. I see people make political, humanitarian and personal decisions, based upon decrees that were issued over two thousand years ago, severely limiting their ability to adjust to the moment, to look at each case individually. Based upon faith, they form judgments that affect them, their families and friends, as well as our whole nation, with far-reaching and sometimes devastating consequences. And because faith is not logical, their various judgments often contradict each other. It’s ludicrous for folks to clamor for the death penalty and the Iraq war and with the same breath condemn abortion. I am sick of hearing the words “family values” from people who vote to reduce social security benefits to the aged and the disabled. And I’m more than tired of gay bashing in the name of the church.

If we choose to make our decisions by faith alone, we are not choosing. Just as Montezuma failed to choose, but delivered his people to be decimated and enslaved by the Spaniards, because he acted on faith. Many Americans voted by faith when they reinstated the current president. Many have now awakened to the truth and regret their decision. Many more still cling fearfully and stubbornly to their faith as their churches tell them what to think, what to say and how to vote.

Choosing requires constant assessment of the current situation, not pat answers. There were no pat answers for Montezuma and there are none now. We must learn to truly look, listen and understand, truly walk in the shoes of those, whose lives we are about to alter with our decisions. We must weigh all options, examine all the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’. Only then we can make intelligent choices. If only we could learn from history! There are lessons aplenty, if we choose to look.

Perhaps Quetzalcoatl, the god of wisdom still waits to return to his people. Perhaps some day, when we have finally learned to think for ourselves, he will.

Back In Time

I time traveled this week. I’m not sure how far back I journeyed, but it had to be at least forty years. I’m still disoriented from the trip. I’m not used to rapid changes; they make me dizzy.

In reality, nothing should surprise me, when dealing with the court system. Most of its practices stem straight from medieval times. Seeing judges in their mighty robes, it takes little imagination to picture them in long, flowing white wigs. I try to stay away from legal folks as much as possible. But this week, I needed copies of some old court documents.

From the court house, I was referred to the annex building, a city block away, across the street. I took the elevator to the forth floor. Twice already, I had to pass metal detectors and have my wallet searched for weapons of mass destruction.

The clerk, friendly, but impersonal, pulled my information up on the computer. “That’s 1999,” she remarked. “That’s going to be in the old city building.”

“And where is that?” Frustration threatened to mar my tone and I struggled to remain friendly.

“Not far,” she said and gave me detailed directions.

With parking and all, it amounted to a ten minute drive and I wondered why they ferried records all the way across town after a just few years. 1999 didn’t seem that far away.

The building looked like it survived both world wars. Blind windowpanes overlooked a crowded parking lot, seeded with potholes, and the door creaked eerily when I entered. The record department lived in the bowels of the building and as I descended the musky old stairs, I thought I detected the faint scent of brimstone.

And then I entered Hades, the hall of chaos, where boxes upon boxes of papers cluttered the walls in crooked stacks. An ancient oak table, covered in files, allowed searchers to sit and thumb through folders for lost files. A man and a woman, both with the withered look of librarians, scurried back and forth from the hall of chaos to the storage room, toting records. How could they find anything? The storage didn’t look any more organized.

I looked around for computers, but the room didn’t seem wired for them. In giant books, handwritten entries proved delivery and categorization of records. On a narrow table by the door, I saw an old-fashion receipt book. A sign on the wall read, “Be sure to obtain a receipt, if you pay cash.” And below another one, “No checks or credit cards accepted.”

The room smelled of mildew, dust and paper and made me sneeze. I waited by the door, since there was no room to sit. It was hot enough to suggest hellfire. A few more degrees and all the cardboard boxes would burn to a crisp.

Finally, the clerk emerged from storage with a triumphant beam. “Do you need copies of all of these?”

I nodded, relieved that he had found my important documents in his mess. It took a while to make the copies. Perhaps it was an ancient Xerox machine, I couldn’t tell. My face felt flushed and sweaty rivulets tickled my forehead. I came close to stripping out of my clothes.

“Eleven dollars,” the clerk proclaimed into my heat stupor and I snapped open my wallet and counted out the change. Then I watched as he painstakingly handwrote tall, tidy words and numbers on my receipt and handed it to me with gentlemanly flair. “You have a nice day now, Ma’am,” he said.

As stepped outside with my hard-earned copies, I welcomed the wind and the cool, crisp air, and I could feel the rush of time, speeding me forward to the present. My head still reeled from the sudden voyage, but my eyes spotted my car, gleaming in the daylight.

“Glad to be back,” I said out loud. “I’m so very glad to be back.”

The Ice

What happens when you put forty Chinese artisans and one thousand tons of solid ice into a room at nine degrees Fahrenheit? They create a winter wonderland! That’s exactly what happened at the Gaylord Texan hotel in Grapevine, Texas. Curious, we took a drive to the remote resort, just to see the exhibit.

It took the artists twenty-five days to craft the illusion of polar ice and its carved inhabitants. The result delighted adults and children alike. One Thousand four Hundred LED lights sparkled, locked inside the ice and lent the exhibit a magical glow.

They built the walls from solid blocks of ice. Precise craftsmanship shaped arches, domes and gateways for visitor access. A wreath of poinsettias, meticulously carved from green and red ice graced the main arch. Above the wall on a track, concealed in ice, ran a toy train. Forgoing his reindeer, Santa rode in triumphantly on a mighty horse.

Santa’s Replica Shop, the elves, and Santa’s lovely home welcomed in the next room. A fireplace and a potbellied stove offered the illusion of warmth and comfort, while Frosty and his snow-wife looked on, wistfully from the cold outdoors. A playful elf, caught unawares on all fours, elicited a chuckle and Rudolf’s glowing red nose led the way to the next room.

We found a sled of ice, pulled by a beautiful Clydesdale and sat in to have our picture taken. A frozen pond carried a lively family of polar bears, complete with fishing rod, and a group of penguins who frolicked in safe distance. And of course, there were Coca Cola bears. Who could have a winter without them?

A Guardian Angel towered, surrounded by carved, lit chandeliers and prepared us for the nativity scene, where Mary and Joseph tended their baby in the manger. Livestock surrounded them, as did the shepherds and Wise Men from the East, all carved in beautiful detail.

We exited through the arbor of light, a tunnel of tightly woven, ice-covered trees, liberally drizzled with white Christmas lights. By now, the magic had taken hold and we felt breathless and excited like children. But the fun was still ahead.

The largest room held the Castle, complete with walls, staircase and towers. We climbed the stairs and to our delight, found an ice slide. We couldn’t resist. We joined the many kids and few adults who dared. What fun!

The magic held even after we left the building. Memories of cold air biting at my lungs, ice crunching under my feet, and dazzling lights and winter fun will likely linger for a while.

Yesterday was the last day of the exhibit. Today, the artisans must melt the ice. But, next year, they will return and fashion a new wonderland. What enchantment will they create then? I will be sure to visit.