Requiescat in pace, Kudzu

My dearest, my most beloved Kudzu, may you rest in peace.

May you rest knowing that you were loved to the greatest depths of the human heart. May you rest knowing that you were and are cherished.

May you rest knowing that your constant companionship warmed even the loneliest, the most sorrowful of hours. May you rest knowing that you were light in a dark and sometimes unkind world.

May you rest knowing that your presence brought joy, comfort, happiness, peace. May you rest knowing that you were all things good (even when you were bad).

May you rest knowing that beyond pet, you were family, as much my lifeblood as anything. That you were my very heart.

May you rest, fully restored to your gray fuzzy bellied glory, with no scars or marks or patches to evidence of your illness.

May you rest knowing that you will never have to endure my picture-taking ever again.

May you rest after your long and hard-fought battle. Having been so brave and true, holding on for so long for me, so that I could accept that it was your time.

May you rest knowing that I never wanted you to die, except that one time you ate my blue merino wool J. Crew sweater (and even then, not really).

May you rest, weary traveler, from all those thousands of miles on the highway between here and North Carolina that would have been so much longer without you.

May you rest, knowing that you will never have to be stuck in the car with me in the McDonald's drive-in in Leland, North Carolina while I have a panic attack over the holiday weekend traffic.

May you rest knowing that you will be remembered in repose on the windowsill, on the kitchen towel, under a blanket nestled against my stomach. 

May you rest gently purring or making sleepy kitty noises as you slumber. With your snaggletooth hanging out.

May you rest having served me well with the greatest devotion and loyalty - no matter what mistakes I made in life.

May you rest from leaping onto the cabinets, the countertops, the bookshelves, the bed with sprightly grace.

May you rest with an endless supply of spider plants whose leaves you may nip to your heart's content.

May you rest from strewing toilet paper from the downstairs bathroom into the kitchen.

May you rest, never to be forgotten.

May you rest, my darling. May you rest from exhaustion, from pain and from this namelessness that has consumed you.

May you rest in the hands of the Heavenly Father who made you.

My dearest, my most beloved Kudzu, may you rest in peace.

Kudzu: A Profile

It's almost been nine years since Mom and I found three little fuzzballs in the garage being nursed by our resident feral cat. By then, experience had taught us that kittens untamed grow up to be wild untouchable things. So we became the surrogates to three little kittens, whom I named Nigel, Mischief and Isabella.

From the beginning, runty Isabella favored me. On stumbly legs, gamboling towards me with a tiny mew and bright blue eyes. Those eyes soon turned a clear, cool green. And when I decided to keep one of the kittens to take to grad school with me, it wasn't as though I had any choosing to do. The choosing had already been done.

Much to my chagrin, I soon found out that Isabella wasn't so much an Isabella. I lamented that I wouldn't have a sweet little girl cat. But a few tears shed, and I realized that I couldn't go on calling him Isabella. Mom, me and my boyfriend at the time tossed around names as we drove home from the vet's office. Looking out the window, he said, "What about Kudzu?" It stuck.

I wasn't even 22 yet. And green. Lord help me, I was green. I remember sitting in my very first apartment at Abbot's Run in Wilmington, NC, with nothing but my belongings and this little scrap of fur and ears and a long, long tail. It was with him and Peter Jennings that I weathered September 11 so far away from home in a strange new city where I knew no one. And my first disastrous creative writing workshop. And the rest of the roller coaster that was grad school - making a place for myself and making friends, through boyfriends, breakups, soul-crushing defeat and loneliness, my first real job and too much growing up to even cover.

In my second apartment, a giant Italiante revival style house built in 1818, he would sit on the wide windowsill in the kitchen facing the street below and wait for me to get home from work. I would sometimes overhear the ghost tours that went by my house during the summer and fall, the tour guide sharing some tale that featured a cat in the window, and I wondered if Kudzu ever scared the breath out of some unsuspecting soul.

Kudzu rode back and forth from North Carolina to Georgia when I'd go - 385 miles one way. He'd sit in the slanted back window when I drove the Corolla and rode shotgun when I bought the Rav. Perched on the gray upholstered seat, lifting his face up to the air conditioning when it was hot.

And when I decided after almost six years on the Carolina coast that it felt like the right time to go back home to Georgia, he was the one thing that seemed to hold steady in a revolving world. He sat in my lap as we crossed the 17th Street bridge, and I wailed like my heart was breaking. He seemed to know that it was all going to work out just fine.

Because Kudzu has always had that look of infinite wisdom about him. In my ordinary, non-superhero life, he's my Alfred, always calm and cool and reliable. His almost royal bearing, front paws pressed together, head held aloft. But lest you think he's got some sort of pedigree, check out the snaggly tooth hanging out on the left side.

Besides Isabella, he's gone by many (many) other monikers, including 'Zu, 'Zu-bug, 'Zubilee 'Zu, Buddy B and Bebo, although I have no idea where the "b's" originated.

And suddenly, my time with this constant companion, whatever his name may have been, is coming to an end. After three month's worth of doctor's visits - an ultrasound, two bone marrow aspirates, an infectious disease panel, antibody assessment, countless CBCs and two blood transfusions later - there is no answer for the chronic anemia.

It's hard to be at peace when losing something so dear. But I have prayed for peace and for acceptance. Over the weekend, I had a dream that Kudzu was sitting in a little woven basket, all his fur regrown, looking quite robust and healthy. And a voice kept saying, "He's ready to go."

There's no way to predict how long he has. We thought he was a goner last week. Every day is a blessing that I try not to take for granted as I wait for the story to come full circle, for the unexpected little fuzzball from the garage to make an exit as unpredictable as his entrance.

The hours are waning between me and my beloved Kudzu. And while the sorrow is palpable, the peace is, too. The peace that the Heavenly Father has a place for him, where he'll wait for me - maybe on the sill of a giant sunny window.

My Big Fat Box of Skinny Gains Weight

As I continue my slow and steady course toward moving into the house that I bought, I've noticed the accumulation of two things in the years since my last big move: clothes and pounds. Upon my arrival home, my wardrobe unfurled into three closets. And my waistline, likewise, has expanded [insert secret number of sizes I am unwilling to disclose on the internets]. It would seem that being reunited with homecooked meals and my boon shopping companion led to weight gain in a number of ways.

Instead of packing up the now ridiculous-sized wardrobe and moving it part-and-parcel over to the new abode, I'm forcing myself to sort through it piece by piece in a harrowing fashion show of the outgrown and simply "out." Those items that fall into the former category and intersect with the "I hope I'll wear it again someday" category get tossed into the box that I started awhile back when I noticed this rotund new trend. I call it "My Big Fat Box of Skinny." Inside are the single-digit-sized cherry red wool pants passed on to me by my sister-in-law. And the gray trousers I purchased on the cusp of fitting, only to tip right over the edge shortly thereafter into the "ain't gonna squeeze in no way no how" and requiring me to fold them neatly and place them in the box never having worn them in public. And the list goes on.

There were also in this hit-parade of fashion memorabilia the gross misfits, those garments I attempted to wear that rendered me flushed, panting and somehow twisted up in armholes and zippers with fabric cutting into all my soft places. The skirts that felt like sausage casings. The dresses I was able to get into but appeared to be related to the Michelin man with all my doughy rolls clearly visible.

And so it went - an extravaganza of ill-fitting. A feast of faux-pas. At the end of it, when the last skirt had been paraded out for review, I tossed the too-small items into the Big Fat Box of Skinny. And I noted, with a grimace, that the only thing that had lost weight was my closet.

Dear Mom, on Mother's Day:

It would have been nice if I had gotten it together and bought you a Hallmark card for the occasion, but I didn't. And even if I had, I might not know where I put it. I might've forgotten to sign it and give it to you. I might find it next month. After all, I'm a chip off the old block.

And I can't imagine any block I'd rather be chipped from than yours. You of primary school car-rider line fame. You the library lady. Famous in Publix checkout lanes - both from your celebrity with the under-7 set and your popularity with all the checkers and baggers. You of bread-making and seamstressing legend. You of Sunday afternoon paper and ice cream from a coffee mug. You of never planning and always flying by the seat of your pants and almost always landing on your feet. You of never being too old to want to ask me how you look in the morning before you leave for work. You who taught me the bliss of the first cup of morning coffee and that anything eaten in tiny, tiny "slivers" does not contribute to your daily caloric intake.

And who taught me other things. Essential things. Like the importance of kindness and never being too busy (or think yourself too important) to offer a smile or a pleasantry. Like the willingness to be behind the scenes, to work for the greater good, to be the one who does the thankless and the unnoticed. Like the perspective needed to make it through this old world, to be grateful for blessings, acknowledge trials and be hopeful for tomorrow. Like to believe, to have faith, to find peace, to pray.

You have never liked recognition - whether because your modesty keeps you from it or your humility keeps you from feeling that you deserve it or your contentment with being behind the scenes keeps you from really needing it. But it's Mother's Day, which is cause for celebrating the one who brought me into this world, shepherded me through it and continues to stand beside me on good days and bad. So, Happy Mother's Day, Mom. You are the best.

Love,
Ashley

Lazy Jane by Shel Silverstein

Farewell, Art!

Art Appreciation

Almost two years ago, I met Art Ordoqui-Payton. The Community Programs Director for HandsOn Northeast Georgia and I met for lunch to discuss the idea I had for starting a volunteer organization for singletons. Art was more than in favor of the idea; he was enthusiastic about it. It wasn't just an affirmation - it was motivation. It was the moment that I realized I could make it happen. It was the day that SingleServe was born.

Since that day, Art has provided guidance, support, energy, passion and persistence to make SingleServe a reality. I could not - would not- have done it without him. He believed in the idea of singles gathering to make friends and make the community a better place. He believed in me. And together, our belief made it happen.

SingleServe launched in January 2009, and we have completed almost a dozen projects. Tomorrow will be our final project under Art's wing - Art Appreciation Day at the Brooklyn Cemetery. He and his family are relocating to San Antonio, TX. It's going to be bittersweet the first time SingleServe volunteers without him. But we'll carry on and continue to be the community servants that Art knew we could be.

Art, I appreciate that you believed in this cause more than I can possibly say. You will be missed.

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If you want to show your appreciation for Art, write a blog post about what he's done for you or your organization and post the link on the HandsOn Northeast Georgia blog or Facebook fan page. And if you tweet, please post your link with the hashtag #ArtAppreciation.