Chuck Snoozes on Jefferson's Bed

        I've always wanted to go to Monticello, Thomas Jefferson's home in Virginia, the one he renovated over and over again, throughout his entire life, both before and after he became our third president. I read a book that posited the key to Jefferson's personality rested in his house renovations. It was his obsession, his love, and it literally bankrupted him. 

      Do you remember the movie The Money Pit? Tom Hanks and Shelley Long buy what they think is the perfect house. They begin renovating. Things continually go wrong. They go deeper in debt. They've bought a money pit.

      Okay, some awkward disclosures:

      Most historians believe our third president had an obsessive compulsive personality that literally drove him to continually change the configuration of Monticello. This is neither good nor bad. You can see his personality, his likes, and his creative inventions reflected in every room.

       When I suggested traveling down to Virginia to visit Monticello, as part of our president house tour, Chuck was interested. I was intrigued. It wasn't for the food. This time. No, his wanting to go existed on a deeper level. Chuck is a fan of cozy, well-built houses. He'd listened carefully as I shared what I'd learned about Jefferson's constant re-doing of his house. 

        Chuck wanted to see Monticello for himself.

         Immediately, I suspected Chuck had an ulterior motive, a plan he intended to put into operation. I knew I had to be on my guard.

         There is no way to describe how spectacular Monticello is, both inside and out. It sits on a mountain. Surrounded by land. When Jefferson was alive, it was acres of farmland.  

          

                                            Monticello

         When you first step inside Monticello, she is both grand and unusual.

          As we moved from room to room, studying the artifacts Jefferson had collected that were now hanging on the wall,

seeing in person the copying machine that Jefferson invented that duplicated letters that he wrote to preserve a copy for history,

his chest set,

his harpsichord, which he not only knew how to play but also to tune,

nothing interested Chuck more than Jefferson's bed.

       We were lagging behind the group we were with, and therefore, alone in the area. Chuck, in our backpack, wriggled to get free. It didn't take a genius to realize Chuck wanted to get closer to Jefferson's bed, his "bedchamber."

        "Don't touch the bed. It's an historical heirloom," I explained.

        Chuck literally bounced over. Sniffed. Noticed it was a kind of built-in bed chamber. Chuck reared on his hind legs, admiring the red silk curtains. Plopped down on the floor.

        I turned my gaze for a second to make sure we were still alone and in that moment . . . from the corner of my eye, without really seeing, but knowing exactly what this rascal cat would do, Chuck leapt up on Jefferson's bed. 

        I couldn't believe it. 

        And he relaxed as if he were in his own private suite. As if he were suffering some grand delusion that he was President Chuck, about to take a snooze in the middle of the afternoon. 

         Time stopped. But it didn't.

          I was the one who froze in horror. Luckily, Dan took two steps forward, scooped Chuck off the bed and safely ensconced him inside the backpack. 

          Our guide reappeared at that instant. 

          Dan smiled. "We were admiring Jefferson's bed chamber," he said, without missing a beat. 

          I glanced over to the bed. In full view were several of Chuck's orange and white cat hairs on prominent display.

          Would she look over and see them? And how would I begin to explain . . . Our guide smiled, totally oblivious to the travesty that had just occurred. "Yes. Very stylish. Imported from his house in Paris."

           As she turned to leave, I shooed the cat hairs off the bed, and thought to myself--my Chucky may be a rascal, but he sure has taste.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK: NO COMMENTS. IT'S EASY. 

          

         

          

Chuck and the Super Squirrel at Montpelier

          When we drove down to Virginia last November, we made the decision to visit the houses of four of our presidents. Where we made our biggest mistake was our decision to take Chuck with us. 

       Yes, yes. He promised, as he always does, to be good. Well-behaved. He understood that often he needs to be quiet. When you're doing an inside tour of a president's house, cat's are not allowed. Never.

        I thought I could impress upon Chuck how important Montpelier was from an historical perspective. After all, he is a smart cat. He loves the National Geographic channel. 

        As we stood on the expansive front lawn and gazed at the house, I explained that Montpelier is part of a Virginia plantation of over 2500 acres. James and Dolley Madison lived there. James Madison was our fourth president. "He wrote the Federalist Papers, Chuck, which helped ratify the Constitution. He is known as the Father of the Constitution. And . . . he is called the architect of the Bill of Rights."

        I looked down at my handsome orange and white cat, who was sitting quite comfortably in our backpack, and caught the end of a yawn.

        "Did you see that?" I asked Dan. "Did he just yawn?"

         Dan shrugged. "Maybe a little bit too much history."

         "Well, I was only trying to impress upon him--"

         No one was listening, not Dan, and certainly not Chuck. We walked across the beautiful lawn and into the house. The rooms were impressive. 

         Then we went outside again. 

         Chuck was itching to get out of the backpack.

          "You may as well let him down," Dan said. "He needs to walk around a bit."

           We were the only ones around. What harm could he cause?

           I was wrong.

           The minute Chuck's paws hit the lawn, he spotted the lean mass of brown fur who just moments before had leapt down from an expansive tree and was now wandering across the lawn, minding his own business. But that didn't matter. In the world according to Chuck, all squirrels are fair game. He took off after Super Squirrel who had no choice but to run as fast as he could, for his life.

            For awhile, I thought Chuck was going to get that poor innocent squirrel. But he never really had a chance.

             Super Squirrel raced to the tree, scampered up with Chuck in hot pursuit. The only difference was that Super Squirrel knew how to climb a tree. Chuck leapt up on the trunk, took another few steps and then stopped. Paralyzed. 

              Cats are not good tree climbers. 

               Super squirrel turned around and let out a torrent of squirrel curses that put my poor Chucky to shame.

               Dan went over and pulled our poor feckless hero down. 

               "It's okay, buddy. It could have happened to anybody."

               The 2500 acre plantation included 1800 wooded acres with eight miles of nature trails and fifty different specimens of trees. But Chuck wasn't in any mood for hiking along the trails or checking out anymore trees or wildlife. My little wild cat had had enough for one day.

                "How about some ice cream, Chucky?" I asked. 

                After all, our fourth First Lady, Dolley Madison herself, popularized ice cream as a dessert in the White House. Without access to a freezer, she had to rely on large blocks of ice cut from frozen water, packed on straw and stored in a cool place. Her favorite flavor was oyster ice cream. 

                Again, Chucky yawned. Too much history.

                By the way, Chucky's favorite flavor is vanilla. 

STAY TUNED TO THE NEXT INSTALLMENT OF CHUCK'S  ADVENTURES. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. JUST CLICK ON "NO COMMENTS." IT'S EASY. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. 

            

         

Chuck and the Seagull

           When you're a Jersey girl, it is part of your DNA that demands you spend a certain amount of time each year at the Jersey shore. No if, ands, or buts. The sandy beach call you to its shores. You long to see the seagulls,  even if they will swoop down and try to steal your lunch. There is nothing more refreshing than the sea breeze blowing through your soul. 

       We are all romantics in our own way.

       I have to admit it was my idea that Saturday to take the almost two hour ride to Island Beach State Park. Although not as popular as Seaside Heights with its boardwalk and social scene, IBSP boasts ten miles of sandy beach, rolling sand dunes and tidal marshes near Barnegat Bay. It was October and cloudy. 

       But I believe in magic--that once we arrived, the sun would come out. It would be warmer, and despite dire predictions of icky weather, we would have a lovely day. 

       Chuck, the rascal cat, of course, agreed. He is always up for an adventure. And if food is involved--he heard us talking about lunch and watched as we packed our turkey sandwiches (he loves turkey)--he can't resist coming along for the ride.

        As always, I extracted a promise. "You will be good, right?"

        "Mom, of course. What mischief can I possibly get up to at the beach?" (I don't have enough fingers to count the ways.)

         Nevertheless, we packed and were ready to go in no time: cut offs, jackets, sneakers, blankets, food and Sirius XM radio to keep us entertained as we drove to the Jersey shore.

           Full disclosure. There were things we did not anticipate:

            The weather did not improve. It was windy. Very windy. Cold. But that did not deter us. We arrived at Island Beach State Park--no one else was in sight. We drove in and kept on going down the long, straight road that leads to the ocean. Parked the car. Got our gear. Maneuvered Chuck into a backpack so we could move more quickly toward the beach. (At least it wasn't raining.)

        

     The sandy path to the beach was very long. We were carrying a lot of gear. A lot of food. And blankets. And Chuck. About half way there we almost gave up. Where is the beach?? The water? It's hard to walk in the sand, carrying things, in sneakers. 

            The day was very windy. Imagine the kind of scene you see on TV when you're watching a hurricane make landfall. Through teary eyes--windy--we put our bright red blanket down, and it blew away. Everything we put down blew away. Chuck almost blew away. He started complaining. Meowing. 

             "He's just hungry." I put some food down, but you guessed it, it blew away. It took us awhile to get settled. To anchor the blanket with our bags and sit down. Geez. It wasn't supposed to be this hard.

             Chuck disappeared. I shouldn't have been surprised. Something always happens with Chuck. You take your eyes off of him for one moment and . . . 

              "There he is," Dan said. 

              Chuck was chasing a seagull who was racing toward the ocean. With Chuck's food. Who would have believed that at the very moment when Chuck had stopped meowing and was eating, that a seagull would swoop down and grab the turkey piece, practically right out of our fearless hero's mouth . . . 

                At first Chuck was stunned. But, boy, that kid can run. When he's motivated. And he wasn't bothered by wet sand or the ever increasing blowing wind. He was running for justice. To retrieve what was rightfully his.

              Dan leaped up. "I'll get him."

          Luckily, Chuck did not blindly follow the seagull into the water. He stopped on the edge where the waves were washing up on the sand and stood there, no doubt cursing his bad luck. Dan scooped him up and brought him back.

              "I'm warning you," I said, wanting to shake the living daylights out of him.

              "You saw what happened," he meowed back defiantly.

              "Sometimes you have to let things go, Chucky."

               But he was already on the blanket, grooming himself, self-soothing is what the vet calls it. 

              The ocean was beautiful. We are not complete blockheads. Finally, after the Chuck and seagull episode, we managed to hold our sandwiches and gaze out at the ocean. We hadn't seen the Jersey shore in awhile. Watching the waves roll in and out--priceless. 

              Later, we packed up, took a long walk away from the water, where it was less windy. And actually had a good time. On the way home, in Chuck's version of events, he managed to wrestle his turkey back from the seagull. Always the hero, my rascal Chuck!

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES WITH CHUCK.  PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "NO COMMENTS." IT'S EASY.

    

            

Missing in Action - Me and Chuck!

     I write a travel blog, and it has been too long since I wrote my last one! Okay, so I'm embarrassed! And the worldwide pandemic, that basically shuddered us into isolation and prevented us from doing any kind of traveling for TWO years, is no excuse. Well, maybe, it can afford me some kind of little excuse. 

     In horror, I saw that the date of my last post was 2018!!! So, what was I doing for the other two years? I hang my head in shame and beg forgiveness. I admit freely that I was absent for so long from this blogspot that I had trouble logging in. I had to literally break into my own blogspot! Well, not technically, but I would have if I hadn't stumbled across another poor author in the exact same situation--she had neglected her blogspot for 10 years (that made me feel a lot better), but had the wisdom to realize that the stumbling block that existed wasn't really an obstacle. It only took me two hours, not two days, to once again be an official blogger!!! 

      So, what did I do over the last four years? Here are some tidbits of the less juicy things . . . Now, wait a minute. Just come back and read my blog and I'll tell you all about it! 

       

Hippos . . . The Most Dangerous Animal on Earth

Several years ago when I was on safari in Kenya, I remember learning an interesting fact--the most dangerous animal on the continent was the hippo. I have to admit I had a hard time believing that fact. After all, I was coming face to face with larger than life elephants and lions whose roar sounded quite ferocious and leopards who could leap down from a tree faster than a human could blink an eye. Every time we spotted a hippo, he was floating in a river and the most we ever were able to see were the two big eyes on the top of his head, peering out at us. 

How could the hippo be the most dangerous animal?

Still when we were on safari, the only time the guides carried rifles was when we were in the vicinity of the hippo. And the only time we were allowed to get close was when they were in the water. So precautions were being taken, whether we realized it or not. 

Fast forward to this year. Chuck and I decided to go to the Philadelphia Zoo. To see the hippos. This time we weren't separated by a river of water, like when we were in Kenya, with guards who carried loaded rifles--just in case. A mere wire fence
separated Chuck and I from the most dangerous animal. And actually there were two--a boy and girl hippo--and from where we stood, staring at them, they seemed pretty NOT dangerous to us.

Chuck was more skeptical than I was. I'd heard the stories. I'd read the literature. I knew that on land, hippos could move their bulky bodies rather quickly. And when they opened their mouths, my oh my, if Chuck ever ended up in between their jaws, he would be a mere snack.

So I was the cautious one. When Chuck begged to get closer--his bright idea was to climb over the fence and stand on the edge of the water so he could get a better look--I said, "No. As far as I'm concerned, we're close enough."

When you travel with a curious cat, you have to be firm. And sensible. So we stood there and watched as their keeper fed them large quantities of veggies--entire heads of lettuce that they gobbled down in one bite. It was a wonder to watch. Thankfully, it was enough to convince Chuck.

We had no close calls that day. And one glorious show. Hippos are amazing. And the best part was--we lived to talk about it!

Beau - One Cool Giraffe.

When I can't hop on a plane or train and get away . . . to Africa or China or somewhere exotic,
I content myself with going somewhere local. One of my favorite places is the zoo.

Now Chuck is not always in favor of a trip to the zoo.  We usually go in the summer and he doesn't like being hot. And going to the zoo usually means walking around . . . a lot. And Chuck is no fan of walking. And getting Chuck into the zoo is a lot of trouble. Zoos have enough animals without people  bringing more animals inside the gates so it requires some pretty careful maneuvering. Much like the way we transport Chuck on board a plane--by stuffing his poor deflated cat body into a carry-on case until we arrive at our destination, that's about what we had to do on this occasion. And then we found a nice quiet place and inflated him and we were ready to go. 

We did all of this a few weeks ago because he wanted to see Beau. The new baby giraffe. At the Philadelphia Zoo. He'd heard about Beau and even watched some video because when a baby giraffe is born at the zoo, its big news!

Beau is only a few months old now, but he's already six feet tall, and although that seems tall to us, he's a shorty compared to his mom.  He's delightful to watch because he doesn't just walk sedately like most older giraffes--he runs and skips and literally frolics around--like a kid would do. 

While we were there visiting, we learned a number of interesting facts about giraffes:

--Interestingly enough, they only sleep a few hours a day. In the wild, this is invaluable because they can keep an eye on their enemies.

--They have very few natural predators, other than man. Their hooves are so large, they can easily fight off an attack by a lion. 

--If you watch them closely, they always seem to be chewing. They have a very interesting digestive system, which basically allows them to eat food that would be difficult for humans to digest. Giraffes have four stomachs. They are called ruminants because the extra stomachs assist with digestion.

At present Beau lives with his mom and sister Abigail.  His father Gus is living in a separate quarters until Beau is a bit older. That's another interesting tidbit about giraffes. It's often difficult for two male giraffes to share the same space.

When Chuck and I arrived, there were a lot of fans hovering around, waiting to see what Beau would do. No one even noticed Chuck, who clung to the railing and peered in--remembering the last time he saw baby giraffes was in Nairobi in Kenya at the Wildlife Conservation Center, which was established to protect the Rothschild giraffe.

Chuck would have loved to have crawled over the fence and met Beau face to face. But I was not in favor of that plan. "Chuck," I said to him, "he looks harmless enough. But can you imagine what his mother would do if you showed up? To her, you're just a miniature lion. Do you want to get stomped to death?"

So Chuck had to be happy watching Beau from a distance. 

Chuck In Search of Karen Blixen's Grave

Karen Blixen's house at Rungstedlund, outside Copenhagen

How far should a fan go to pay tribute to an author she loves?

According to Chuck, my rascal cat, not far at all.

I had a different idea.

Ever since I’d read Karen Blixen’s memoir Out of Africa and then watched the movie starring Meryl Streep and Robert Redford, which detailed Karen Blixen’s tumultuous love affair with Denys Finch-Hatton while in Kenya and running a coffee plantation, I’d longed to see her two homes—one in Kenya and the other in her native Denmark.  For me, seeing an author’s home is inspiring. I imagine them in that space writing, creating, and hope that some of their unique talent rubs off on me.

Several years ago I was lucky enough to go on safari in Kenya.  I saw where Karen Blixen lived and worked.  Recently, while traveling around the Scandinavian countries of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, I also had the opportunity of visiting Karen Blixen’s ancestral home—where she was born and raised and where she returned, after her coffee plantation in Africa burned to the ground and she lost her investment.

Kate (me) in Copenhagen train station with Chuck in smart bag

Rungstedlung is approximately 25 minutes by train and a bit more by bus out of Copenhagen.  Her home is now the Karen Blixen Museum, and many of the original rooms are delightfully preserved the way they were when she lived there.

Sign announcing you have reached Karen Blixen's house

So it was exciting to take the trip north of Copenhagen and see her house, and even though it was a half dreary—cloudy, partially rainy day, I didn’t mind. We traipsed through her house and inspected her rooms, visited the part which now housed documents that told the story of her life and then stopped off in the gift shop.

Karen Blixen (not in the flesh) on poster board to greet you!

Chuck, safely squirreled away in my smart bag, bore the entire experience with unlikely quiet reserve.  We were about to leave when I realized that we hadn’t seen Karen Blixen’s gravesite.  Follow the path behind the house, we were told. I couldn’t resist, and Chuck, realizing that the path was likely to be somewhat deserted, knew he’d be let out of the smart bag and allowed to roam around.

Back view of house with pathway leading to grave

We started off down the path, crossed along the back of the house, and quickly, very quickly we entered into a kind of forest, beautiful but very quiet and deserted. With no grave in sight. The guide woman at the desk had clearly said to follow the path.  So we continued to walk.  Hanging from trees were smartly carved cheerfully colored birdhouses, which helped to dispel the gloom.  The drizzle, which had started with our walk, now turned into a downpour.  Chuck sloshed along in front of me.  Still no gravesite.

Path with brightly colored birdhouses

I became suspicious. Why would anyone want to be buried so far away from the house? Had we somehow missed the “clearly marked sign”?   

Then it happened. A black bird appeared in front of us. At first I thought it was an omen. But, no, only trouble because Chuck saw the bird and let loose, his belly dragging behind him as he chased after this poor creature, who for some reason, refused to take flight. Surreal almost. Finally, when it seemed that Chuck was just about to pounce, the bird rose into the air. Chuck, clearly out of breath, didn’t seem too concerned that he’d lost his conquest. And, of course, still no gravesite. We’d been walking up an incline for at least ten minutes.

Marina across the street from where Karen Blixen lives

Chuck gave me one of those looks.  He’d had enough.

I am not one to give up, but Chuck was drenched. The path was turning into mud. And the forest was now the forest primeval.

We turned around and returned to the gift shop.

Yes. Karen Blixen was buried at the top of the hill. Under the giant beech tree. There is a marker.  Perhaps, you did not walk far enough.

Suddenly it didn’t matter anymore.  Instead I’d walked the path I imagined she’d walked a hundred times.  And that was enough for me.

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