Fortune Hunting

The best thing about visiting a library in person is the serendipity.

Maneki nekos at the Gotokuji Temple

Sure, it's easier to go online, pluck an e-book from the catalog, and read it from the comfort and convenience of your own home. 

But, unless you already know what book you want to read or you just read your favorite authors over and over, you can miss a lot.

Case in point: Mr. Ginley and I were in the library last week, and he stumbled on a book called Lucky Cat, which he handed to me. "This looks like something you might like."

Well, me = cat lover, so of course, it was a good bet the book was going to be something up my alley. Also, the cat on the cover was pretty stinkin' cute. And it was a picture book, so minimal time invested. Its small size was also a factor because we had to shlep our books home on the Rapid.

What really intrigued me was the teaser on the back of the book that promised to "unlock the mystery and meaning" of "the paw-rocking maneki neko."

How have I reached Medicare-age and not known about maneki neko? I mean, sure I've seen them around, but I just thought they were adorbs. So I learned, and now so shall you. (Unless you bail at this point, which is your choice but also your loss.)

Let's start with the legend of how the maneki neko came to be. Well, that's the tricky part, because there's not a definitive answer. There are several legends. The earliest goes back to the 15th Century and a samurai warrior who was saved by a black cat, which led him to a hidden temple where he recovered from wounds sustained in battle and lived to fight another day.

Other tales involve a destitute widow, a 19th Century courtesan, and a friendly fishmonger. The story that has the most props, however, is the one about a poor monk whose Gotokuji Temple was crumbling away. His white cat was sitting at the temple gates one day when a storm came up. Li Naotaka, a mucky-muck, was passing by and took shelter under a nearby tree. The cat raised its paw to summon the feudal lord, who moved forward to see what was what. That's when lightening struck the tree he'd been standing under. Grateful to the cat for saving him from getting crushed/electrocuted, Li restored the temple. Today, hundreds of maneki neko can be found on the steps of the rescued temple.

As it turns out, the maneki neko has been depicted in many poses with various accessories, but most have these basic features:

• Raised paw: If the right paw is raised, it's meant to beckon happiness, fortune, and luck to your domicile. A raised left paw entices customers into a store, bringing the shopkeeper good fortune. If you have a cat with two paws up, you're probably trying to hedge your bets. (Or maybe you operate a business out of your home?)
• Coin: A koban is an oval-shaped gold coin that's a symbol of fortune. It's decorated with numbers in the millions (meaning big bucks) or messages that say things like "beckoning fortune."
• Charms: These modern additions include things like a magic wishing mallet, a prosperity carp, and a battle/farmer's gourd. Each charm is a symbol of good fortune.
• Colors: Maneki neko cats can be just about any color, but white seems to be the most prevalent. Each color has its own symbolism. White is a Shinto symbol of purity, black represents the paranormal, red is said to fend off evil and ensure good health, and gold is the cat to bring you money. But if you want the luckiest cat, you'll choose the calico, which enjoys a rich tradition in Japanese culture. 

Well, I hope you've enjoyed this little jaunt with me. I have to go now. I've got to talk to my friend the Google to see where I can get my own maneki neko.

Sayōnara!

Photo attribution: While none is required, I believe in giving props: LeLaisserPasserA38, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

¡Tequila!

 "Cuervo, no salt." That's how I order my margarita.

I never thought much about Cuervo, where it comes from, or who makes it. I was just happy to put the glass to my lips on a hot summer day and partake of the tasty concoction of tequila, triple sec and lime.  

Until Mr. Ginley and I stumbled on the display at Giant Eagle of a large, studly guy with a hoe and a sign that simply said, "Jose Cuervo." 

"What's that big round thing," Mr. inquired, pointing to a large, round ball beneath the gentleman's foot.

I shrugged, preoccupied with the next thing on my shopping list. 

"It's probably an agave," Mr. said, knowledgeably.

I found it mildly annoying that I didn't know this. I'm the one that orders the margaritas, after all. On the other hand, Mr. does crossword puzzles all the time, so I suppose that's how he knew.

Still, I wanted to know more. The logical thing seemed to be to go to the Cuervo website. (How benighted we were before the internet!) Cuervo.com did not disappoint. Now I know the rest of the story, which I will share with you. (Hold the applause, please.)

In 1758, the King of Spain granted land to Jose Antonio de Cuervo y Valdes, who started making tequila. His enterprising son (also a Jose) got the first official charter from the King to start producing tequila commercially in 1795. (Fun fact: Mexico didn't gain its independence until 1821.) 

And yes, they use the best blue agaves, which look like cacti but are actually from the lily family. The Spanish called the center of the agave a "pineapple," or "piña," (because, as you can see from the picture, it kinda looks like a pineapple). The heart of the agave is where all the good stuff comes from to make tequila. 

According to Mexican law, beverages can only be called "tequila" if they're made with blue agave or agave azul, which is grown in five particular states in Mexico. And growers must be patient – it takes 6-12 years for the agave plant to mature. 

Another fun fact: people sometimes mistake tequila for mezcal, but tequila requires a lot more fuss. Mezcal is only distilled once (compared to double distillation for tequila), and it can be made from any old agave. You've probably heard of the worm in the bottle thing. It only appears in certain varieties of mezcal – not tequila. 

If you're interested in sustainability (and who isn't, or shouldn't be), you'll be pleased to know that other parts of the agave don't go to waste at Cuervo. Thanks to the Agave Project, they're using discarded parts of the plant to make other stuff, like biodegradable drinking straws. Some ingenious folks have made other things like a surfboard and a Stratocaster® guitar. 

Who knew?

Well, thanks for hanging out in the rabbit hole with me today. I know I'm feeling inspired.

And, given the scorcher it promises to be today, it looks like it will be the perfect evening for a margarita. 

P.S. Props to those of you who, like me, visualize Pee Wee Herman when they hear "Tequila!" (I linked it here for Kim and Chris.)

For Whom the Bird Screeches

The grey catbird is back, he's pissed, and he's not gonna take it anymore.
At least, that's how it feels. 

attribution below

The bugger screeches outside our window from early morning into the late evening. You'd think by now he would have worn out his vocal cords, but alas, he carries on and on, first in the backyard, then in the front yard.

He's positively relentless. This is the second year in a row that he's made an appearance. He doesn't seem to torment the neighbors, so why us?

Admittedly, things heat up when the cat sits in the window, but even when the noise gets to her and she slinks away, the racket goes on. 

I went to my friend, the Google, to try and determine why. The upshot is, the male yells loudly to claim his territory. He will call out if you approach the nest, but it's supposed to be a softer call. And then the female calls back.

This morning, I noticed that when he took up the racket in the backyard, it was answered by a sort of cooing sound that came from the bushes by the fence. I have this handy-dandy app on my phone called "Merlin" that identifies bird song, and sure enough, it informed me that it was indeed the female catbird answering.

The upshot is, there's a nest in the bushes in the backyard, and we're stuck with the screeching until the little ones head off to university (or wherever baby catbirds go when they leave home).

While I love having the windows open, it's getting pretty old. 

It's supposed to be hot this week, so I guess we'll have a good excuse to turn on the AC. With the windows shut, maybe peace will be restored. 

I'm hoping for rain, too, to wash the windows on the car.

Squawking isn't the only annoying thing about the resident catbird.

Photo credit: Peterwchen, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Bits & Pieces

"Hey, check it out," Mr. Ginley called to me this morning.

I took a quick break from work to see what he'd unearthed this time. He held up a business card with the name of a friend from J.B. Robinson Jewelers.

Me being me, I had to take a snap and send it to my friend, who married the guy whose name is on the card. 

Back in the day, business cards were handed out like candy during business meetings. It feels like this practice has gone the way of fax machines and land lines and civility.

A short while later, Mr. whooped again. It was the mother load.

Years ago, he went to my siblings (and siblings-in-law) and asked them for their business cards. The collection is an interesting snapshot of who-worked-where and did-what in the beforetimes. It was also sad because one of the business cards belonged to a much-loved, very much missed family member. 

Among the stack were a few of mine, too. I was never high enough on the food chain to get a business card at J.B. Robinson, but I did get one at Kay, then Sterling, then Signet. Then...bupkis. Well, this isn't technically true, because I had some printed when I was freelancing, in between – and during – other gigs. 

In addition to business cards, Mr. has collected some other interesting detritus. Which is probably why he enjoys the annual Case Western Reserve University Book Sale so much. Of course, I can't say much because I was right there with him at the ephemera table last weekend, picking through the piles of books, pamphlets, postcards and other odds and ends in search of treasure.

And yes, we came home with some more stuff that someday Joe will be sorting through, shaking his head, and muttering, "What possessed them?"

Don't tell him I said this, but I've secretly enjoyed some of the stuff Mr. has unearthed lately. The map to the parking lot of our apartment in Virginia. The Alexandria Visitor's Guide. Prayer cards from those who have gone before. And an old address book filled with names and places of people who moved on long ago.

Artifacts all.

I know that disposing of things that have no purpose is probably a good thing. Hoarding can be scary.

On the other hand, these little bits of flotsam and jetsam have taken me to long forgotten places. 

And that's not such a bad thing after all. 

A Really Big Shoe

I texted Diane earlier this week and sent her this picture.

"There's a blog post in here somewhere," I quipped. With a smiley face.

No reply at all.

Which, of course, I took as consent. So here I am, writing about my wonderful trip to C-Bus last weekend. (That's Columbus, if you ain't from O-H I-O.)

It's been a bunch of time since I saw my sister, and I was feeling the urge. So I packed my bags, made sure Mr. Ginley had plenty of food to keep from starving, and hit the road Friday afternoon. 

Two hours later, I pulled into Diane and John's driveway. 

Our visits have a certain pattern. Diane and I traverse the neighborhood and catch up. Then we eat and crack open a jigsaw. John chooses the music, and we puzzle the evening away. Normally, Diane and I would watch a Hallmark movie, too. Honestly, there was a time when I thought I was the only one in the family with this particular guilty pleasure, but no, it seems we both have the fever. However, the puzzle Diane chose was a little more challenging, so we worked all weekend on it instead. Alas, Hallmark took a pass.

Saturday morning, Diane took me to the Worthington Farmer's Market. She found the most amazing fresh, organic strawberries (which later magically turned into strawberry shortcake). I found some unfortunate cookies. (Well, they looked good.)

Later, we went to Eaton Place and walked ourselves silly and got the boot in front of LL Bean. I marveled once again at how cosmopolitan Columbus has become. Way back when Diane (then my other sister, Denise) moved down there, it was a whole lot of farmers and fields and OSU and not much else. These days, there are a ton of restaurants and shopping opportunities and a diverse population. The contrast is pretty wild.

Saturday evening, Denise joined us for dinner at the Cap City diner. The four of us broke bread (or sandwiches, as the case may be). It was so nice to yack and then lure Denise back to D&J's for the aforementioned strawberry shortcake. 

All in all, it was a wonderful, relaxing weekend. And watching the variety of birds in Diane's backyard was an extra special treat. I got to see woodpeckers (two varieties), hummingbirds, cardinals and several others whose names escape me. (I know they're called something other than "the grey ones with the beady eyes.") 

Sometimes I think I'm getting agoraphobic, and I have to push myself out of the house.

This time, I was so glad I did.

Pomegranate, 500 pieces, Pat Scott, Taking Off