My World With Words

This may be one of the few posts you ever see me from me that involves motorcycles.

This weekend is one of the big events in my area–the annual Bikes, Blues, and BBQ festival. It’s anticipated that more than 200,000 motorcyclists will converge on the area, and many of them will settle in at the Harley-Davidson store a mere block from my apartment complex. While the main events supposedly take place just outside of the downtown area–several miles from me–this is a major gathering spot.

I’m hunkering down in my apartment until it’s over. I have enough food and Diet Coke to get me through the ordeal. Don’t get me wrong. These are not bad people, simply a huge group looking for a fun weekend doing something they love. It just happens to be something I don’t love.

Now, I could handle the BBQ part of it, if it weren’t for the crowds. But I’m not a fan of motorcycles. Driving home from work today, which takes me right past the downtown area, I encountered a few bikers having a jolly good time. Most of them were decent enough not to weave in and out of traffic, but some did just that, forcing me to slam on my brakes on multiple occasions. There’s heavy traffic on this route at this time on a regular day, and the plethora of bikers just added to it.

I wish I could have worked from home today, but a festival is not considered good enough reason to miss the office experience. Last year I swore I’d take this Friday off, but I forgot to budget my PTO time for it.

Thankfully, I have my cats to keep me company. They’re confused by the continual roar, and the bands will start up soon, so it won’t be our usual early bedtime. I realize this event brings in a great deal of money to the community (an estimated 15 million to the greater area), and the organizers do a good job taking care of business. That includes the folks at the Harley-Davidson store, who are pros at putting on a good show.

So let the bikers bike. I’ll stay home, watch some football, and catch up on my knitting. It’ll be a good weekend for all.

Image Credit: Row of Motorcycles © Matas Maciulskis–stock.adobe.com; Barbeque © fahrwasser–stock.adobe.com

At first, I thought it was me approaching him with my camera, and I fully expected him to get up and leave. Then I realized it was Mimi, and he was ready to pounce and play. However, Mimi saw him and apparently wasn’t up for that as she left the area and hid in another corner. Or maybe she was just being coy, I don’t know.

Image Credits: Cesar Cat © Belinda O; Paws in Heart © Bigstock Photos; Cat Pouncing © Mosharef–stock.adobe.com

I have Pavlovian cats.

Typically, when I get home from work at 4:30, I scoop out their litter boxes right before feeding them. They know the rustle of the plastic bag means they’re about to be fed, and they hover around me. I have to be careful about that rustle.

Today I was emptying out my bathroom garbage, where I use the same plastic bags (specifically, Walmart bags). I put a new bag in the garbage can, and the cats heard the rustle. It was like Pavlov’s bell. The cats came running. They wanted to be fed.

Problem was, it was 1:30, not 4:30, way too early to feed the cats. I considered giving them a small amount of food to appease them but decided against it.

I’m not sure if it’s possible to condition my cats to know that the rustle could mean any number of things, but the reality is, the vast majority of the time it does mean food. So I’ve given up on that idea.

I guess I’m going to have to remember to empty my bathroom garbage at 4:30 instead of 1:30. After all, I’m the one who conditioned the cats.

And they’re still waiting to be fed. It’s only 2:30.

Image Credit: Two Cats Running © OleksandrZastrozhnov–stock.adobe.com

Well, one of his favorites, anyway. He likes to use this one as a pillow and hauls it all over the living room. He has another favorite, not pictured here, that he tosses around frequently and likes for me to throw to him. Which I happily do.

Image Credits: Cesar Cat © Belinda O; Paws In Heart © Bigstock Photo; Favorite Things © Polina Tomtosova–stock.adobe.com

I was never very impressed by cars, and it may have saved my life.

At the age of 13, my family lived in the Santa Cruz mountains. It was a half hour drive to the nearest town, and I loved to take that drive with my mom every Saturday when she worked at a local kitchen ware store. I’d spend the day in town, window shopping, going to the library, and best of all, going to the Bumbleberry restaurant to get a hot fudge sundae and 7-Up. What I didn’t know was somebody was watching me and tracking my every move.

One Saturday, wearing my typical garb of a t-shirt and overalls, I was approached by a man I’d guess was in his late 20s. He started chatting me up, telling me how foxy I was (“foxy” was a term in the 70s that meant “sexy”) and how cool it must be to be 13 and going to high school soon. I was immediately suspicious, as I knew I wasn’t foxy or anything close to it. I had braces, glasses, and an abundance of acne. I also had a full figure, although I wasn’t really aware how dangerous that could be on a 13-year-old.

After a few minutes of his sweet talking, he pointed to a convertible that was parked in the street and asked if I wanted to go for a ride. I said no and marveled at the thought that he believed I’d be stupid enough to take a ride with a stranger just because it was a convertible.

People walking by had noticed him talking to me, and they were suspicious of the situation. A small crowd had gathered, and when this man saw them, he bolted for his car. I thought that was the end of it.

I headed for the library, and as I was walking up the hill towards the front doors, I saw another man, about the same age as the first, running to me, asking me if I knew what time it was. While I was wearing a watch, I said “no” as loudly as a I could and ran for the safety of the library. Something in me told me to hide. It should have told me to go to the librarian and tell her what was going on, but I didn’t know that was an option. I headed downstairs for a deserted part of the stacks, where I saw a small bathroom. I dashed in there and waited. For hours.

At one point a woman came in. I was sitting on the floor in the furthest stall, which she opened and then took a good look at me. I didn’t say a word. She used the restroom and when she left, I heard her say, “no, she’s not in there.” I didn’t know what to make of that, so I waited another hour. When I left, I knew my mom would be closing up the store and looking for me, so I ran all the way. It was about a quarter of a mile, and I wasn’t used to running, but I made it safely back.

I didn’t tell my mom what had happened. Our relationship wasn’t that good, and I didn’t want to hear what she might have to say on the subject.

I never went into town with my mom again, something she attributed to the fickleness of teenagers.

Over the years I’ve thought about that day. Initially I knew it was not a good situation, but it wasn’t until I was a few years older that I more fully understood just how much danger I’d been in. I send a silent thanks to the woman in the restroom, who may have saved my life, and to the crowd of people who had gathered around me when I was talking to the first man. They, too, played a part in my safety.

I’m just glad I wasn’t interested in convertibles.

Image Credits: Convertible © IG Digital Arts–stock.adobe.com; Hot Fudge Sundae © SuperPixel Inc–stock.adobe.com; Small Crowd © JuanM–stock.adobe.com.