Raven Love Leads To Poe

 

     In Virginia, in the oldest house still standing in Richmond, built around 1737, is the Edgar Allen Poe museum. It's an odd choice until you find out that Poe in 1824, as part of a junior honor color guard, escorted the Revolutionary War General Marquis de Lafayette (yes, the famous French guy who fought on our side in the war) around Richmond when he returned to the USA to visit. Poe took Lafayette to that very house and stood guard outside while he stayed there. 

        In 1922 the house was turned into the Poe museum. We discovered that fact when we were in Virginia. Chuck, who hears everything he's not supposed to hear, heard mention of Edgar Allen Poe, was still obsessed with seeing more ravens, and wanted to go to the museum.

        "Really, Chucky? A museum?"

         Dan was against it. He never read a lot of Poe. He's not a horror fan, and all he could think of were the Poe short stories kids read in high school--full of mystery and macabre--The Pit and the Pendulum, The Black Cat, The Masque of the Red Death, and The Murders in the Rue Morgue. My favorite was The Tell-Tale Heart where the narrator tries to convince the reader he's committed the perfect crime against an old man he's dismembered in the bathtub and hidden under the floor boards. He swears he's not going insane even as he describes a thumping sound he's convinced is the dead man's beating heart. That was not one of Dan's favorite stories.

        The museum is located in a number of ancient buildings, well-preserved, around a beautiful courtyard called an Enchanted Garden that contains a shrine to the writer. 

        As we walked outside in the Enchanted Garden, we turned and noticed that Poe was watching us from one of the windows.

Nice touch!

        Inside, we wandered around from room to room. We saw the desk he worked at when he was a literary critic.

           We saw the chair he sat on when he did much of his famous writing.

           We were astonished to learn that Poe is so much more than a horror writer.

        "It says here," Dan shares, "that Poe's detective stories, namely The Murders in the Rue Morgue laid the groundwork for all the future detective stories in literature. He created the concept of the eccentric genius who solves crimes."

        "That's cool. You mean Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes is based on Poe's work?"

        But Dan was already on to the next exciting fact. "And Poe also did groundbreaking work in science fiction. Jules Verne wrote a sequel to a novel that Poe wrote."

        I had to admit I was impressed. "So he's known for more than just horror."

        "Not just horror, Kate. Psychological horror and suspense. Alfred Hitchcock credits him with influencing the kind of movies he made."

        Of course, I instantly think of one of my favorites, The Birds.

        "And Poe added 1,178 words to the English language."

        I'm afraid that Dan may begin to list ALL of the words.

        "Get this: Booked. Epilepsy. Finicky. Hysteria. Multicolor. Normality. Pants."

        "Pants? So that words was never used before Poe?"

        "People used to say pantaloons, I guess. Or trousers." He paused briefly. "Awe-sticken. Cul-de-sac. Deathbed."

        "Wow. I believe you. But I don't think you have to list--"

        "Poe also loved cats."

        A bell went off in my head. "Cats?" We were lucky at this museum. Because Poe was a fan of cats, the people who run the museum kept two cats on the premises so adding Chuck to the mix didn't raise any eyebrows. Everyone assumed he was part of the museum staff. 

        Unfortunately, he was nowhere in sight. 

        "We are terrible parents."

        "He's got to be here somewhere."

        Why did this always happen to us? "We have to come up with a better system. Either you have to watch him or I have to watch him."

        "Right."

        "I'll go this way. You go that way."

        My thoughts grew darker. Had Chuck been whisked away by Poe's spirit who was lurking in the museum?

        Two minutes later, I stumbled into one of the many rooms with Poe memorabilia. Chuck was there, by himself, staring at a painting. But not just any painting. A giant raven, obviously done in honor of Poe's most famous poem, hung on the wall. 

        

        "Chuck."

        He let out a slight murmur of response.

        "That raven is not real, Chuck. It's only a painting."

         He didn't seem to care.

         Dan came into the room behind me. "How long has he been sitting here?"

        "Too long." I didn't have the heart to pull the poor love sick boy away. "This is so sad," I whispered. 

         "Not really. Now we know what to get Chucky for Christmas."

         I looked at Dan. At Chuck. At the painting of the raven. "Of course. Dan, you're a genius."

          We had a plan. And so what if this decision meant we were doomed to have a giant Raven painting hanging on a wall in our house? If it made Chuck happy, it was worth it.

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

         

          

        

        

        

         

 

         

Chuck Falls For A Raven

            Chuck's obsession with a raven started quite innocently. They are highly intelligent, magnificent coal black birds, made famous by Edgar Allen Poe in his poem, "The Raven." When we were traveling in California, in Yosemite National Park, eating lunch outside one afternoon, minding our own business, a raven flew down out of the sky out of nowhere. That's all Chuck needed to see. 

        I can't call it love at first sight. But there is something that happens when a cat sees a bird. Contrary to the usual carnivorous reaction, Chuck was instantly mesmerized. He, of course, knew the poem, "The Raven," but he'd never seen a real raven before and neither had I.

        The raven landed and Chuck hopped up, abandoning his turkey snack, which was a miracle in itself. 

         "Be nice," I called. I wanted to also call out, "Be careful." Ravens can use their beaks to rip objects open. They are one of the few bird species that can use tools to obtain food and defend themselves. 

          Luckily, the next few moments were magical. Chuck followed the raven, always a few respectful feet behind. When the raven finally flew off, Chuck's obsession began.

     

   Raven this and raven that. He started reciting lines from Poe's famous poem.

        "In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore."

        "Quoth the raven--nevermore."

         What cat talks like that? (I suspect Dan was somehow involved in Chuck's sudden spurt of literary genius.)

        Insanely curious, back at the hotel, Chuck asked Dan to google "raven" and begin to do research. He wanted to know everything there was to know about ravens.

        "Did you know ravens can fly upside down and do somersaults in the air?" Dan asked.

        "No, I did not."

         Chuck sat in rapt attention, listening.

        "Did you know they can sing?"

        "Nope."

        "Did you know they eat almost anything?"

        "Really?"

        "Insects, eggs, seeds, berries--"

         Chuck was nodding. I was imagining a raven gorging himself on my favorite--pumpkin pie. 

        "Ok. I get the picture."

        Dan found a YouTube video that featured raven calls. Caw, caw, caw, caw. He played it once. Twice. 

        The cawing was music to Chucky's ears.

        "Enough about ravens," I said.

        But Chuck wouldn't have it. He wanted to go outside and spot more ravens. 

        "Some people believe they are a sign of bad luck," I said, hoping to discourage Chuck from his increasing mania. "Maybe it's not such a good idea to hang out with--"

         But Dan, seeing Chuck look so forlorn, admitted, "They can also be a sign of good fortune."

           Finally I had to put my foot down. "Chuck, we are NOT adopting a raven. It's a wild bird. That's the end of it."

           But I was so wrong. What I thought was the end turned out to be only the beginning. 

           I'll see you next week with the rest of the story.

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Rascal Chuck Climbs Palm Tree

          By the time we arrived at Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden in Richmond, Virginia, Chuck, our rascal cat, heaved a giant sigh of relief. As long as we weren't visiting another President's house. As long as he didn't have to get squashed in a backpack for an hour and traipse through rooms looking at furniture. As long as he didn't have to hear another drawn out history lesson . . . he was happy.

        He was going to be spending the day outside. He didn't care that Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden was voted America's #4 top garden. 

            We'd learned early on that Chuck needs to be outside everyday. Regardless of the weather conditions. He doesn't care if it's rain or shine. He walks through mud puddles as easily as he traipses over grass. He hates being cooped up in the house. 

       "I think Chuck has had enough of house tours," Dan said as we snuck Chuck in. We'd already purchased our tickets. 

        Lewis Ginter offers a "garden experience," and they're open most days from 9 until 5. Because we were here at the botanical gardens in mid-November, the grounds--the beautiful gorgeous grounds that contained what seemed to me every kind of plant and flower and tree--were semi-deserted. So we didn't have to worry about Chucky sauntering along beside us. 

        Before we set out, I read Chuck the riot act about good behavior: Don't tramp on the flowers. Don't eat the plants. And whatever you do--don't climb the trees. Look, don't touch. BUT you can smell everything. 

        Chuck is a true explorer. At first he stood at the entrance in amazement, not quite sure where to go. We decided to let him lead the way. Let his nose lead the way. After a few seconds, he took off, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing. 

        I wondered whether we should try to tell him what he was examining or just let him go. As we read the tiny signs attached to everything, identifying what we were actually looking at, struggling to make sense of the natural world around us, Chuck was sniffing AND I suspect getting more information than we ever could. 

     

   "Gosh, this is a beautiful place," I announced, but no one was paying much attention. Dan loves to take photos so he was busy clicking away, trying his best to capture everything he saw.  And Chucky, well, he was walking around, sniffing, going under and over and around. Every once in awhile, he would stop and throw himself on the ground and bask in the sun. 

        The leaves on the trees were already turning an autumnal yellow and orange and red. The various gardens were laid out around a lake that shimmered gently in the sun. We followed Chuck who followed paths that seemed to lead around and around. 

          At one point we entered and climbed up to a look-out point where we had a fabulous view of the lake.

        

        

           And then we saw in the distance a glass greenhouse. "We have to go in there." I pointed. "That's where the exotic plants are. It will be pure heaven."

            For the first time in my life, I under exaggerated. This conservatory is an 11,000 square foot complex, filled to the brim with orchids, succulents, and all kinds of tropical plants, including a central Palm house. 

         Chucky started walking in the opposite direction.

         "C'mon, Chuck, this way."

          He grumbled, but he followed.

          "This is a special place. No monkey business. Be very careful with these plants." But was Chuck even listening? 

           These plants deserved special attention. And I have to admit that maybe Dan and I became too absorbed, mesmerized, and too trusting that Chuck would do the right thing when he wasn't under our watchful eye. 

            Too late, maybe twenty-five minutes into our magical tour around this conservatory, I had this sickening feeling in my stomach that something wasn't quite right.

            "Where is he?"

            Dan was totally absorbed, as usual, in capturing the scene in front of him. He has a talent for taking incredible photos. He has the patience to frame the picture and adjust the lighting. I just point and click. 

             "Huh?"

             I'd already started to scan the area. He's not a difficult cat to spot. We had the place all to ourselves. "I can't find Chuck anywhere."

             "He's got to be here . . . "

             But was that necessarily true? The entrance door to the conservatory was closed. But had Chuck found an alternate escape?

            "Chuck,"I called. 

            The important thing is--don't panic. Chuck may have the brain of a two year old, but he has good instincts. Usually. He knows he has a good life with us. We've had many discussions about the terrible travails of being a homeless cat. 

             "Look up."

              I was almost afraid to. Look up? We'd both wandered into the most treasured part of the Lewis Ginter conservatory--where they kept the palm trees. 

               He couldn't be. 

             

     We were standing in front of a full size palm tree. And it was tall. There are over 2500 different species of palm. They can last a century and grow 197 feet high. They have an ancient history. And they are useful trees, yielding palm oil, wood, baskets, wine . . . 

      "Holy Mackerel. What was he thinking?"

       Dan stated the obvious. "We've got a real problem here."

       Somehow Chuck had climbed at least fifteen feet up that palm tree and was resting on one of the branches. 

       "What the heck is he doing up there?"

     "Taking a nap?" Dan never looks concerned over Chuck's behavior. This time was different. "Call his name."

          We have two cats. Chuck and Jack. Jack, believe it or not, comes when he's called. Like clockwork. Like a dog. Chuck does not. Unless there is a snack involved. 

          "Do you have any food on you?"

           I didn't. But I was good at pretending I have food. The magic word was snack.

           "I'm so hungry. I need a SNACK."

            Chuck, who seemed like he was in a trance or was he merely cat-napping, snapped to attention. He lifted his head and  looked down. 

             I repeated the magic word. "SNACK."

             Chuck has an enormous appetite. I crinkled some paper I had in my pocket. Chuck has remarkably good hearing when he wants to use it. 

              He turned himself around and with legs spread wide, like the way you widen your skis when you're skiing down the expert slope, began to slide down the trunk of the palm tree. Only Chuck went down backwards, about a foot at a time, his front paws gripping the palm tree to control his descent, as if he had slid down a thousand times before. 

             It was a sight to see.

             When he reached the bottom, a few feet from the floor, he let go and plunked down at my feet. I almost felt sorry I didn't have a real snack for him. He looked up at me, expecting it. 

               "Okay, here I am, where is it?"

                "Chucky." I held out my empty hands to show him the horrible truth.

                 He shook his head in disgust.

               "All's fair in love and war," I said. And then I picked up this belly boy and gave him a tremendous hug, so thankful he was okay and had made it back to earth alive. 

STAY TUNED FOR MORE ADVENTURES OF CHUCK, THE RASCAL CAT. AND PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT. CHUCK WOULD LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU. JUST CLICK ON "COMMENT." IT'S EASY.

               

           

          

                  

           

          

        

Chuck Spots the Eighth Natural Wonder of the World

 

      It seemed a shame to go all the way to Virginia, visit Monticello, and not visit Natural Bridge State Park and see the Natural Bridge. It was 500 million years old. Made of limestone. And it had an interesting history. In 1774 Thomas Jefferson--yes, that Thomas Jefferson-- purchased the Natural Bridge from King George III of England for twenty shillings. Jefferson liked to take his family and friends there to see this natural phenomenon. Plus, my sister Caroline had just purchased an Amish house nearby and told me the Natural Bridge was a cool thing to see.

        Strangely enough, Chuck wanted to see this amazing geological formation, the main focus of the park. But we couldn't figure out why. We, of course, smelled a rat. It wasn't long before we discovered that--believe it or not--cats have bucket lists like people, and the Natural Bridge was smack at the top of his list. 

        But why? Did Chuck only want to see the bridge? Or did he plan to climb the bridge to the top? Even though Chuck can't climb trees, he's always wanted to climb mountains. And climbing that natural bridge to the top, and then looking down, privy to an amazing view, well . . . we had no intention of letting Chuck face a challenge that would only lead to disappointment. And a disappointed Chuck is more than anyone can bear on vacation.

        "If he thinks he's going to climb up that bridge . . ."

        "Are you going to tell him now or later?" Dan asked.

         "Here's the plan," I said confidently as we drove to the park. "I figure once he sees the bridge, sees how tall it is, I mean seriously, he's not going to want to climb up there."

          Dan shook his head. "Listen. I wouldn't want to climb up there. You wouldn't want to climb up there, but Chucky--"

          "And I'm sure it's against park rules," I interrupted.

           "But Chucky is a one of those cats . . ." He didn't finish his thought, but he didn't have to. We both knew the truth. Once a rascal cat, always a rascal cat. And Chuck had a terrible reputation for always doing the thing you shouldn't do, wouldn't dare to do.

            We were here now, in Natural Bridge State Park. It was beautiful, and sure enough you couldn't miss seeing this immense geological formation. The guidebooks said it was 215 feet tall. You had to crane your neck all the way back to see the top of it. 

        

          We leisurely walked along, following the flowing water that seemed half stream, half river beside us. The weather was perfect. Chucky seemed to be enjoying himself.

           After awhile, we became convinced Chuck had completely forgotten about his maybe plan to climb the bridge. We weren't going to bring it up. 

            Unfortunately, the path we followed took us under the bridge, but we weren't worried. Chuck scampered beside us. 

             "You see,"I said to Dan, "you were worried for nothing."

             

             No sooner were the words out of my mouth when Dan pointed. Chuck had started to scamper faster, then break into a run, towards the bridge, as if he did intend to go bridge climbing . . . in fact, he was now directly underneath the massive arch, inspecting the sides of the bridge. Did he intend to make a stab at climbing up? 

              

 

            "You have to stop him."

            "I'll talk some sense into him," Dan volunteered.

            "Maybe talking won't be good enough," I cautioned. "You might have to grab him."

      When Chucky puts his mind to something, it's not easy to talk him out of it or restrain him. He has an amazing amount of energy. 

            I crossed my fingers as Dan jogged towards Chuck. They remained in intense consultation. What could Chuck be saying?

        When I got there, Dan took my arm and maneuvered me over to a picnic table a few feet away. "No worries."

        "So, what's going on?"

        Dan laughed. "Chuck came here with a mission, but it's not to climb the Natural Bridge. He wants to sign a petition to make the Natural Bridge the Eighth Natural Wonder of the World."

        "What? How can a cat know anything about the Seven Natural Wonders of the World?" 

        

        Dan shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. Chuck says he wanted to see it for himself first."

         I marched over to where this belly boy was sprawled out, eating his snack in the shade of the bridge, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world.

          I figured if he wanted to sign a petition to add the Natural Bridge to that illustrious list, he should know the Wonders that were already on that list. And, I was curious if my smart aleck cat could name even one Wonder.  

         "Chucky, can you name the Seven Natural Wonders of the World?"  

          "The Grand Canyon," my snarky cat immediately replied.

          Well, lucky guess. Everyone knows the Grand Canyon. So I waited. Could Chucky name any others? 

          Silence.

          "The Northern Lights." That was Dan.

          "I asked Chucky."

           "Victoria Falls." Dan again.

           "Stop." Dan, sometimes, can be such a show-off with his incredible brilliance. "I want to know if Chuck can name--"

            "Mount Everest in The Himalayas." Dan was on a roll, and Chucky was going to let him go on and on. It was becoming clear Chucky knew only one Wonder, and Dan was swooping in to save him from embarrassment. 

             "The Great Barrier Reef, which is made up of 2900 individual reefs-" It would have been lovely if that were Chucky's soft purry voice, but it wasn't. I rolled my eyes at Dan.

              "Okay. Okay." I turned toward Chucky. "So all these Wonders are pretty spectacular. There's a reason why they are on the list. Wouldn't you agree?"

               We waited for Chuck to say something, to realize that as wonderful as the Natural Bridge was, it didn't quite match the awesomeness of the Grand Canyon or the amazing height of Mount Everest, the tallest mountain on the Earth. We admired his initiative but for gosh sakes one had to be realistic. 

               Chuck finished his snack and gazed up at me. He then looked up at the Natural Bridge.          

           "Did you hear me, Chuck?"

                

               Chuck huffed, still looking up admiringly at the Natural Bridge. 

               "Don't forget Paricutin, the cinder cone volcano in Mexico." Dan just couldn't resist. "That's the seventh natural wonder and for good reason. Most people don't know--"

               "Really!"

               Chuck was still looking up. And I knew that look. No matter what we said, he was going to paw print that darn petition. He'd made his mind up. 

               Finally, he glanced over and blinked. I had a small hope that maybe I'd gotten through to him. 

               "Well?"

                "Got any more turkey, mom?"      

               "Unbelievable."

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Chuck Tackles the Fire Pit

        Imagine this. The four of us--three of my sisters and myself--set off for a relaxing vacation in Lancaster, PA. We wanted to see the Amish. We booked a tour to learn all about their unique way of life. And we rented a beautiful old farmhouse on a horse farm about twenty minutes outside of Lancaster called Shallowbrook Farm, circa 1850. 

        We were excited about the trip--catching glimpses of the Amish in their buggies, eating all that delicious fattening food, partying together when we made it back to our lovely farmhouse at night. But, most of all, we were looking forward to the fire pit. It sat on the side of the house and beckoned to us. Much like the siren call beckoned the sailors from Odysseus' ship. 

          

 

My one sister Cheryl is an expert at fire pits so we knew she could get that fire roaring. My other sister Karen promised to bring the marshmallows.  Cyndi, my youngest, with her ease and grace would keep the conversation flowing.  And I, of course, had Chuck. 

       "This is a real fire," I cautioned. "You can't get too close to it." I don't have a fire pit at my house, and I knew Chucky had never seen a real fire pit before. So I was a bit worried how he would react. But even though this belly boy is impulsive, he does have some degree of common sense. He would be able to feel the heat generated from the burning wood. He would have sense enough to keep his distance. 

       Or so I thought.

       Fast forward. Cheryl brought the necessary "fire starter" kit. She had matches. There was wood stacked on the side of the farmhouse. The fire pit was in essence a circular construct of large boulders that enclosed an area where you would build the fire. 

       The only thing we didn't anticipate was how darned cold it was outside. There is cold and then there is COLD. It took a while for the fire to catch on. We were a very impatient bunch. We pulled our chairs closer to the boulders. Chuck was with us, watching his Aunt Cheryl intently as she steadily added paper, wood, and lit the match. 

       "How much longer?" we all wanted to know.

       "Once it catches on, "Cheryl assured us. "You'll be nice and warm.

       We wore heavy coats, scarves, hats and gloves. Chucky had his fur coat to keep himself warm. We stamped our feet. I put my feet on top of one of the boulders, but Cheryl immediately cautioned me. "Be careful. Your boots might melt right off your feet, once this fire gets roaring."

        If only . . . I thought to myself, then I'd be able to feel my toes.

        While we waited for the fire to grow hotter, Karen brought out the marshmallows. We loaded them on the professional telescoping skewers we found in the farmhouse and tried not to burn those white round puffs of sweetness as we softened them in the ever growing fire. Roasting marshmallows was something we did as kids. There's nothing better or worse than getting the marshmallow stickiness all over everything. Chucky wasn't sure if he liked the marshmallow taste or not. 

         

        But at least it took our mind off the COLD.

        Finally, the fire took off. I pulled my chair even closer, struggling to feel more of the fire's heat. 

        That's when it happened. And I partially blame myself for being such a terrible role model. Chucky, who obviously was also very cold, had been pacing around. He saw what I did and decided, I guess, to get one step closer.

         He bounded on top of one of the boulders and leaned in. Too close to the fire. 

          A thousand thoughts raced through my head. What if he decides to jump in? What if he really doesn't understand the nature of fire, doesn't realize he can get severely burned? If I leap up and try to grab him, he could try to get away from me and slip . . . I imagined him in the fire. The funeral afterwards. How would I explain it all?

         I was frozen into doing nothing. 

         The fire pit was now raging. Flames leapt out as if their sole mission was to claim my helpless cat.

         My sisters sat in stunned silence. Watching. Waiting.

         I had to do something. I calmed my fears and called out, "Chucky, honey, come down off that giant rock."

         He tilted his head towards me. Weirdly, he didn't seem panicked or in anyway alarmed. 

         I needed to get a grip.

         Then he let out a big sigh and jumped down.

         I scooped him up and squeezed him against me. He was safe. His fur was super warm. I was almost jealous.

         Cyndi, the voice of reason, said, "I think we need to go inside now. It's too COLD out here."

         Cheryl said, "Yeah. For the full fire pit experience, you need hot chocolate or coffee and a blanket wrapped around you."

         "And you need something in that coffee and a heated blanket," Karen added. 

         And you need a Chucky sitting on your lap. That's what makes a perfect fire pit experience. Surrounding yourself with the ones you love.

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Chuck Parties at Mount Vernon

        I am ashamed to admit it, but I've been all around the world--to Africa and to China (twice)--but I've only recently found the time to visit Mount Vernon, the home of our first president--George Washington. That was a big mistake. I should have gone there years before. To make up for it, we not only went on the regular tour of the house, but we signed up for the VIP tour and got to see the entire house--the upstairs as well as the downstairs and even the cellar which was rumored to be haunted. It was well worth it!!

        At least Dan and I thought so. 

        Our guide was a retired Army Colonel. He was chosen because he knew everything about George Washington. And since I had read Ron Chernow's Washington A Life, the Pulitzer Prize winning biography of Washington, before I arrived and thought I knew everything about Washington, I was suspicious. Did this retired Army Colonel really know Washington as well as I did? 

        I decided to put him to the test. As we were touring the house, I asked the one question that most casual readers of Washington don't know--how did Washington light his house. Now, most people assume he used candles. And that is partly true. But candles don't give off good light, especially if you want to illuminate an entire room. An innovation in lighting Washington took advantage of was whale oil. It burned cleaner and brighter than other oils. Our guide pointed out the whale oil lamps in the dining room. I was impressed. 

         Mount Vernon is not as luxurious as Monticello. It was a working farm. Even during the Revolutionary War, when Washington was General Washington--before he became our first president--and he was criss-crossing the then "colonies", engaged in fighting a brutal war against the British--for our freedom--he was also engaged in writing letters home to Mount Vernon on a regular basis to his cousin who had agreed to run the farm in his absence.  

        Historians call Washington a micro-manager. His letters are filled with orders, details, questions regarding the running of the farm--crops that should be planted--where, how much. Methods that should be used. Where the crops should be sold. The managing goes on and on. He wanted to be kept informed about everything. He loved Mount Vernon, much the same way that Jefferson loved Monticello. 

          Chucky, of course, had a different opinion of our tour. He showed his version of mild admiration for the variety of rooms as we passed through them on the basic tour. On the VIP tour, we re-did some of the same rooms on the first floor, and I could hear Chucky huffing and puffing (he has little patience). He had had enough and was itching to get out of the backpack and be outside, run free. 

        Even when we saw Washington's writing desk, and my heart started pounding, Chucky showed no reaction! Full disclosure--Washington was very aware of his place in our history. He kept copious notes. He kept track of all his letters. He wanted an accurate accounting of his time as general during the war and as president of the United States. 

        There's a wonderful story of how he sent trunk loads of his correspondence back to Mount Vernon--as the war was still going on--and the trunk almost landed at the bottom of some river. Luckily, it didn't and made it safely back to become part of our history.

           "There's a lot to learn here, Chucky," I said. "This is an historic house. It gets thousands of visitors every year."

            "The tour is almost over," Dan said, more to the point.

            We decided to check out the gardens. "I don't understand Chuck at all. You would think he would show some kind of interest."

             We were alone in one of the many gardens that dated back to Washington's time. Chuck had disappeared among the plants. 

              "We'd better find him before he does something crazy."

               "Look." Dan pointed to Chuck, who was now rolling around on one of the plants in the garden. I'd seen that behavior before.

                "I wonder if that's . . . no, it can't be . . . but it seems just like . . ." I walked over and sniffed the plant. It smelled just like catnip. Had Chuck somehow managed to locate a catnip plant in the middle of this herb garden?

                 "I think he's high on catnip." 

                 And there you had it--later at home I confirmed, that, yes, indeed, catnip was one of the herbs grown in Washington's kitchen garden. It wasn't my imagination! Somehow Chucky had sniffed the catnip out within seconds. 

                 While we, the responsible ones, were taking in the historical significance of this wonderful landmark--Mount Vernon--Chuck, the rascal cat, was partying in the kitchen garden at Mount Vernon! And darn it, he looked like he was having more fun!

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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.

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