I was standing at the stove the other night fixing supper and having one of those "lost in space" moments. You know the moments I mean – the ones where your body and your mind are in two different places.

The Boss

I then got my body and mind all lined up again and realized just how much I miss Kit-Kat. What a great little buddy and what a loss in our home now that he is gone. Kit-Kat was a pound kitty. When I was working at the police department, the animal control officer talked me into giving it a try. She said she had a cat in the pound that really wasn’t the usual pound kitty. He had arrived in town with a family when they moved here. They had been living with relatives and searching for a place of their own where they could have pets. They had been unable to find an apartment, and were making the tough decision to find a new home for their cat. They had tried to find a good home for him, but had been unsuccessful. The animal control officer had agreed to see what she could do, and I became the target home long before I knew what was going on. “Just try it for a few weeks. I’ll take him back if it doesn’t work out. He’s had all his shots, he’s neutered, and about a year old. How can you resist?”

It should have been easy to resist. I was not a cat lover at all. I’d tried a couple of kitties once and what an experience that had been. So why I ever said yes, I’ll never know. But I did, and as quick as a snap, there he was, making himself the king of the house. He actually didn’t arrive with a name, and Kit-Kat became a default name. Jennifer and I couldn’t seem to come up with one we liked, and bounced between calling him kitty, and the cat. So eventually Kit-Kat just became his name.

He was a lover cat. He wasn’t one to play much, but liked to be in the same room as people. He was a big cat, about 16 pounds most of his life. Jennifer enjoyed him a lot and even had him in some of her senior pictures. He arrived with some very unusual quirks, and I really always thought he might be half dog. I’d always had the belief that cats are picky eaters, but that didn’t hold true with Kit-Kat. He also loved to be vacuumed – yes every time the carpets got vacuumed, so did the cat. He would come over by the running vacuum cleaner, flop down on the floor and just wait to be cleaned. I once had a Kirby salesman come to the house and I told him I had to know if his vacuum cleaner would pass the cat test. Kit-Kat didn’t like his noisy thing, and I had to give the sales guy a demo with mine so that he could see how Kit-Kat really did like to be cleaned. Needless to say, I didn’t buy a new one.

When Gene moved here, they became the best of buddies. I think Gene just has a way with animals to begin with, but the little treats Gene would give him sure helped in the beginning. One of the favorite treats was “hamburger man”. Yes, raw hamburger rolled into little balls, and made like a snowman, stacked on each other. I didn’t think an animal should be fed any place but in the regular dish, but it wasn’t long and I was doing hamburger man also. Along with anything else we discovered he would eat – cooked noodles, chicken, olives, bread, and even veggies were all things we tried.

So, the other night as I was cooking supper and thought to myself how I hadn’t made “hamburger man” for Kit-Kat, my thoughts quickly drifted away from the task at hand, and I was sad for a moment as I realized just how much I miss that little guy.

R.I.P. little buddy. You are greatly missed.


December 1992 - December 2005


Today’s interruption is brought to you by 38 old cars and brothers.

So, I’m going about my normal daily routine: wake up and stumble to the coffee pot. Actually this is right after I stumble somewhere else, but I didn’t think that was a detail you needed to hear. So I have my coffee, freshly made by Gene of course. He is so good to me, and he gets up earlier than me. Next, I grab the newspaper off the front porch to see what news I might have missed. Mostly I read it for the comics and local sports. The rest of the news I’ve probably already seen on the internets.

Time to check email. The usual newsletters, and not much else. But wait! Why do I have email from the Omaha World-Herald. I don’t subscribe and it wasn’t marked as spam. I can see by the preview that my brother Richard has sent me a story. Actually a link, but I can already tell by the subject line I am going to see Carhenge, whether I like it or not. I’ve already sent flowers to my brother, thanking him for his kindness.


Carhenge is the scourge of my little town. Most people seem to think we could have done without this little tourist attraction, especially when it is #2 on the list of wackiest places to visit. Here’s a little quote from the World-Herald article:

The only attraction deemed wackier than Carhenge is the toilet seat museum in San Antonio that features more than 800 decorated toilet seat lids but no bathroom.

BUT the rest of the world loves it. I’ve had visitors from three foreign countries, and several US states, and they have ALL wanted to see Carhenge. One of them in a blizzard and one of them even wanted to go straight from the airport.

And let me tell you about this straight-from-the-airport visitor. He lives in England. Ninety minutes from Stonehenge! 38carsNinety minutes that he had never found, for gawd’s sake, to visit Stonehenge. And now it was top priority to see Carhange? Kids these days! Now I admit it is unique, but not worthy of the homage it has received. In the end it was good we had gone from the airport as things changed drastically in the next days. Princess Diana died. This young man was devastated. This young man felt so alone in a foreign country that doesn’t have royalty. A country that is thousands of miles from where he wanted to be. We were glued to the television for days.

I don’t know if my brother, Richard, has ever seen Carhenge or Stonehenge for that matter, but I can guarantee that the next time he comes to visit I WILL give him the royal tour. Oh, and I lied about the flowers.

Footnote: Yes, I borrowed the photo of Carhenge, but just until I can drive out there to take my own, which I’m sure will be very soon.


This is a story I first read several years ago. I’ve been able to find it on a regular basis since then using Google, but I decided that I would make it easy on myself by placing it on my site. The author is unknown to me. Enjoy.


There was a woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live.

So as she was getting her things “in order”, she contacted her pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.

The woman also requested to be buried with her favorite Bible. Everything was in order and the pastor was preparing to leave when the woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.

“There’s one more thing,” she said excitedly.

“What’s that?”came the pastor’s reply.

“This is very important,” the woman continued. “I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.”

The pastor stood looking at the woman, not knowing quite what to say.

“That surprises you, doesn’t it?” the woman asked.

“Well, to be honest, I’m puzzled by the request,” said the pastor.

The woman explained. “In all my years of attending church socials and potluck dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming…like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!”

“So, I just want people to see me there in the casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder, “What’s with the fork?”

Then, I want you to tell them:

“Keep your fork….The best is yet to come”.

The pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the woman good-bye.

He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did.

She KNEW that something better was coming. At the funeral people were walking by the woman’s casket and they saw the pretty dress she was wearing and her favorite Bible and the fork placed in her right hand.

Over and over, the pastor heard the question,
“What’s with the fork?”

And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the woman shortly before she died.

He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. The pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.

He was right.

So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it remind you oh so gently, that the best is yet to come.


this is a resurrected post

crick·et [krik-it] Pronunciation Key – Show Spelled Pronunciation[krik-it] Pronunciation Key

–noun – a game, popular esp. in England, for two teams of 11 members each that is played on a field having two wickets 22 yards (20 m) apart, the object being to score runs by batting the ball far enough so that one is enabled to exchange wickets with the batsman defending the opposite wicket before the ball is recovered.

– noun –cricket Cricket – yes she was a 1980’s Playmate doll.  She came with a tape recorder built in so she could be a real playmate for little girls everywhere. She had lots of accessories you could get – different outfits and additional casette tapes – and you could style her hair. You certainly remember her, along with the Rainbow Brites and My Little Pony. And who can forget Strawberry Shortcake. We had SS at our house, and not Cricket, but this story isn’t about SS. It is about Cricket.

–noun-Any of various insects of the family Gryllidae, having long antennae and legs adapted for leaping. The males of many species produce a shrill chirping sound by rubbing the front wings together.

Yes this story is about a cricket – more specifically, one that fits the last definition – the one that makes the shrill chirping sound….

….in the middle of the night, while I am trying to sleep.

He’s been living at our house for a couple of weeks now. He seemed to like the family room and lived somewhere behind or under the couch, but Gene helped him pack up his stuff and move to the area behind the entertainment center. (Are you seeing a theme to our lives? – helping people/things move from one location to another.) Gene told me just the other day that he thought Jiminy had moved on to another house or the great outdoors, or somewhere other than the family room.

Yep, somewhere other than the family room – our bedroom!!! I’m not sure why Gene didn’t hear him, but I certainly did as I was trying to go to sleep. I couldn’t find him in the dark to help him move and I didn’t want to wake Gene up by turning on the light, so I just tried to have a nice quiet conversation with him, suggesting he find a different bedroom. I didn’t quite understand his answer since I don’t speak Cricketese, but I think he said “NO”. How rude of him. Doesn’t he know who’s in charge?

Well, at least he’s a loner. So far, I haven’t heard any of his bug cousins like a mosquito or a fly, or, heaven forbid, a wasp.  Knock on Wood

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