As April and I reluctantly drove Rachel to the airport on Saturday morning, our buckets — our metaphorical storage containers for emotion — started to leak. The part of life where you don’t get to live with or right next to your best friends is probably a result of the Fall.

Noel and I had a wonderful Thanksgiving. We eschewed blood relatives this time around, and instead celebrated with old roommates, laughing about old times, but also excitedly participating in the now of each person’s life. We talked about new relationships, new churches, new programs of study, new heights and depths of cooking and cleanliness. It is so precious to see how these relationships have persisted, despite distance and changing seasons. These people are woven into my heart in surprisingly tight ways.

I am humbled to have these friendships. I am thankful that Noel and I have a little home where old friends can come and relax and be known. I am content, knowing that another Thanksgiving reunion will certainly come.

(Blogging between rounds of grading has proved difficult. My thesis research is consuming, and as I struggle to put thoughts into sentences coherent by academic standards, I have little desire to re-translate into summary or self-critical form for my reading public. But, lucky for you, faithful, returning reader of this blog…the second exam is in hand, providing me with ample fodder for nerdy giggles.)

A public service announcement regarding this painting:

I freely admit that this is not the most famous of paintings. The colors are dark, the subjects look sad, and the suggested narrative is reasonably obscure. And yet, cultured reader and member of the public, there are a few things I would like you to know.

Contrary to the answers of several of my students, this is not a fine example of the Early Renaissance period. This is not, in fact, painted by Masaccio. A work by Masaccio, Early Renaissance master as he was, looks more like the this:

Further, the painting in question is not, as reported by other students, painted by Peter Paul Rubens. Although you, fine reader, were not in attendance during the class lecture on Rubens — where his penchant for rosy, fleshy, tumbling women was repeated ad nauseum — you may be familiar with the common reference to a “Rubenesque” build. Upon careful examination of first painting, I would argue, quite strongly, that there is nary a peaches and cream confection of a woman in sight. The absence of such plump femininity would, I hope, temper any desire to attribute this work to Rubens. It was not so for my students, but perhaps, now, you will choose more wisely.

The painting in question is, in fact, by Michelangelo Merisi da Caravaggio, The Death of the Virgin, from 1606. It is not, as another student proclaimed, A Suicide, and it is most definitely not The Deposition. The painting is remarkable in several aspects, not least of which is the uncharacteristically somber and realistic treatment of Mary’s death. Instead of a shiny, floating Virgin being ushered into the heavens by putti, Caravaggio paints a pale, slightly green, and decidedly dead woman surrounded by stricken mourners. This unflinchingly naturalistic depiction of death likely contributed to the decision by Caravaggio’s intended patron, Laerzio Cherubini, to reject the painting. Ironically, Peter Paul Rubens — who painted a rather luscious Assumption of the Virgin himself — appreciated Caravaggio’s skill and innovation and convinced the Duke of Mantua to buy the work instead.

This message is sponsored by the Society of Type A Art Historians and Tired TAs with the hope for a brighter future where our young people remember that the names of old masters are not, in fact, interchangeable.

I think that getting a haircut may give me endorphins.
Due to a potent combination of my inner stinginess, my massively heavy hair, and my predilection for changing my look, I have become something of a Great Clips devotee. No appointments, no pinch on the pocketbook, and absolutely no guarantee that you’ll like what you get. Having sat through a couple of really awful, fairly expensive haircuts as well as some really wonderful, fairly cheap ones, I decided that I rather like the thrill of the inexpensive unknown.

The uncertainty of the outcome is framed ironically in a strange ritual of certainties. The stylist will always tell me that I have a lot of hair. I will always ask the stylist to razor the ends of this abundance. I will always ask for the back to the be stacked. The stylist will always reinterpret that request according to her own particular sense of geometry. The stylist will always reiterate that I have a lot of hair. I will always assure her that I am aware of this fact. In the end, some amount of my hair covers the salon floor like a sad rug. The stuff remaining on my head is appraised, and I pay $15 plus some indeterminate tip.

It’s a $15 hair lotto, and when I win, it rocks.

Pinsky has been here for five days now, and I am realizing just how unusual and ridiculous our experiences with Whittier have been. Pinsky’s approach to life and social integration could not be more different than Whittier’s.

Consider:

When Whittier first arrived in our home, she slunk out of her carrier and hid under a chair for two days. Growling.

When Pinsky first arrived in our home, she bounded out of her carrier and immediately began exploring the guest room with youthful enthusiasm.

Whittier has only occasionally deigned to play with toys, and then only when they’re white.

Pinsky immediately began wrestling her fuzzy-ball-and-spring doohickey. It’s green and blue.

Whittier responds to visitors — especially young children — by crouching down, growling throatily, and occasionally hissing.

Pinsky responds to visitors — even a three year old — by bouncing around their feet.

Whittier responds to mirrors by… well, by doing nothing. Perhaps this is a sign of hidden intelligence.

Pinsky responds to mirrors by dancing in front of her reflection and attacking herself with a flying leap.

Whittier responds to meeting her new companion by bristling, rumbling, and running away.

Pinsky responds by cheerfully following the fleeing bundle of white fur.

This will all end tears in me doing a lot of vacuuming.

Most of you know are familiar with our cat, Whittier Anique, that fluffy, fully-declawed ball of terror who has a beautiful appearance and an ugly personality. Though the previous owner named the cat after the Quaker (read, ‘pacifist’) poet John Greenleaf Whittier, Whittier has never really evidenced much of a commitment to peace.

We adopted her as a teenage cat, but the relative solitude of her kittenhood had prepared her poorly for our frequent house guests. Her petulance is widely reported upon; visitors exchange tales of derring do regarding how close they were or were not able to get petting Whittier. She has bitten younger siblings, hissed at inquisitive neighbors, and once, upon her untimely escape from our Chattanooga home, dispatched a bigger alley cat by sheer fierceness of personality.

We told her that a change was in order. That she was not participating in our family vision to be a warm and hospitable home. That she needed to make an effort at sociability. Thus far, she has not responded. She remains a privately lovable, publicly cantankerous, ridiculously good looking cat.

And so, after some reading, we decided that it was time to introduce someone new to the mix. A cat with a resolutely amiable personality that will hopefully unleash Whittier’s inner social butterfly.

Pinksy will be joining the Weichbrodt household this weekend.

Pinsky hails from a corn farm in Iowa, the childhood home of one of my fellow grad students. Her parents had a single abandoned kitten from a recent litter and they wanted to send her to a good home. After being assured that the kitten (a) had an extraordinarily people friendly personality and (b) color-coordinated with Whittier, we agreed to adopt.

You may be wondering, “Pinsky? Have the Weichbrodt’s no taste in cat names?” The answer may still be affirmative, but the choice is not without its reason: we were simply trying to thematize. Since we already have one female cat carrying the somewhat androgynous last name of a male poet, we thought we might as well keep things going. Robert Pinksy is the former Poet Laureate of the United States and the recent academic adviser for poet-laureate-in-the-making, R. David Macey. You may also recognize him as the moderator of the Colbert Report’s Meta-Free-Phor All.

It will be an exciting week of cat isolation, monitored visitations, and home exploration. There will be pictures. And stories. For what’s the point of having a house full of poets if you don’t get stories out of their residencies?

While Noel and I sometimes joke that we are of that ‘rare breed’ of Covenant College alumni who move to St. Louis without plans to attend Covenant Seminary, the almost magnetic force of STL for CovCol grads is actually much appreciated.

For example: April has just made the big move for seminary purposes. While April and I were good ‘group’ friends in our college and Chatty years, I am now excited to forge a real I-like-you-by-yourself-too friendship. We spent roughly half an hour hanging a really heavy mirror in her new bedroom. And, it was level. I feel like trusting someone to help you hang a really heavy mirror is a pretty significant relational step; she even let me use my fingers — rather than a ruler — as a measuring implement. Like I said, trust.

Now, while Suzanne did not move to St. Louis for seminary per se, the seminary is responsible for her husband’s enduring commitment to the city and their recent return. Suz and I were vague acquaintances in college and only really got to know each other in our post college Chatty years. Last night, the Chapells accompanied us to a wine tasting hosted by friends where we were instructed in the fine art of describing wine. Several sips of wine later, Suz and I decided that this particular variety smelled like band-aid. While this was one of the choices given to us on the tasting wheel, I’d like to think that this is, again, a sign of trust. One can’t just tell any old joe that a glass of wine smells like a band-aid. Clearly we’re moving forward in our friendship.
So, thanks, Covenant Seminary. Mirrors and band-aid wine are promising starts to new old friends.

Yesterday we were met with an unpleasant surprise: The Hole had reappeared. Jonas had not, as previously hoped, taken the hint and left. No, instead, there he was, scuttling beneath the neighbor’s hedge. Aggravated, we tossed a few chunks of honeydew melon into the cage before heading out to see some friends.

When we returned home, our hopes temporarily soared — the trap had been sprung!

But it was not Jonas. It was Boris.

Boris looked a lot like Maud, only bigger, smellier, and possibly meaner. Boris was loathe to leave the trap but, after some firm encouragement, he tumbled out and scuttled down Jonas’ hole. “Are they in cahoots?” I wondered bitterly. We reset the trap with more honeydew and went to bed.

This morning, the trap sat empty as did, unfortunately, my flower pot; Jonas had removed the last leaves from the plant I had struggled to keep alive during his tenure below our porch. Discouraged, I left for my German class, sure that Jonas was destined to live as our perpetual nemesis.

And then:

At 1:41 pm, July 19, 2007, four squirrels and two possums later, Jonas plopped himself down into the trap and…pow. Now we just need to figure out what to do with him. Suggestions?

There is a new wrinkle in our groundhog saga.

Four squirrels and no groundhogs later, we have decided that Jonas saw the writing on the wall and bailed. We have not caught glimpses of him scuttling beneath the porch when we check the mail. He has ignored the veritable buffet of fruits that we have placed outside the hole and inside the trap. Most tellingly, he has not re-excavated the holes we have spitefully, partially filled. Yes, it seems that Jonas has departed.

This does not, however, mean that we are wildlife free.

When I went out to check the trap this morning, I was greeted by a creature even more despicable than a twenty pound groundhog:

This is not Jonas. This is Maud, a possum. This is uncomfortable for all involved.

It’s uncomfortable for Noel because he has a long, troubled history of vehemently loathing possums. While you may dislike possums, Noel hates possums with a kind of murderous passion. Really. It’s uncomfortable for me because I have a weird, conflicted attitude towards possums. For the first twenty years of my life, I thought opossums were cute, quirky little things that hung upside down and had cool tails. I blame this grossly erroneous conception on Bambi. After finally seeing a ‘real’ possum during my junior year at Covenant, this lovely childhood delusion crashed and burned. They’re gross. They’re really, really gross. And, of course, this is uncomfortable for Maud because, well:

Farewell, overgrown rodents. You need not return. Thanks.

As you may recall, we have a groundhog beneath our feet.

But now, oh Jonas, we’re pulling out the big guns. We brought in the Cassel-hunter and we’re blogging all the fun to be had here.

During an early childhood trip to Virginia, I saw what seemed — to me — to be the most amazing, magical vehicles. Strange contraptions of pastel plastic, the vessels glided across the calm lake, among the waterlilies and ducks, passengers pedaling leisurely. A paddleboat. What a fabulous idea. And thus began a lifelong dream of, someday, propelling one of these fantastic crafts myself.

Basically, I’m saying that I was dreaming about paddleboating for a good five years longer than I dreamed of getting married.

Noel made fun of this fascination rather mercilessly. “They’re silly,” he told me, “you can’t really steer them, it takes more energy than it’s worth, and they’re silly.” And while I silenced my praise and pleading for a while, I was hardly dissuaded.

And then, yesterday, it happened. As a (half) birthday gift, Noel took me to Forest Park and we, indeed, went paddleboating. And I had a blast. We pedaled and paddled through the Post-Dispatch Lake, under bridges, and around the fountains in the Grand Basin at the foot of Art Hill.

Noel, was, of course, correct about the unfortunate physics of paddleboating. It’s certainly not efficient and I was surprised at how quickly my legs started to feel the burn. At first I was startled. Was I so out of shape? How were these retirees across the lake doing this? Then, I realized: being married to a quick-walking, strong-thighed husband does set the bar rather high in terms of velocity. While other couples pushed their legs in languorous, smooth strokes, the Weichbrodts pedaled vigorously, finding the vessel’s peak speed and then metronomically maintaining the pace. Romantic and aerobic. We’re cool like that.