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We had a day of sailing on the Baltic so we took the time to get comfortable with the ship and get used to our new routines. The first thing we did every morning was spit 2 ml of saliva into a test tube for COVID testing. I had no idea it took so long to collect that much spit. And it’s hard to spit when you’ve just waked up and your mouth is dry. I learned to drink extra water during my Limitless viewings. Had to pee like a racehorse a few hours later but I had some spit. I got rather zen about the testing. We’d been tested before boarding the ship and if I was going to get COVID, there was probably nothing I could do to stop it. Might as well relax and enjoy the ride. And check out the ship.

There was a small pool/hot tub in the center/top deck of the ship. There was also an infinity pool and hot tub in the back. I would’ve gone swimming but I forgot my suit. Suits were for sale at the spa but when I was free the weather was usually too cold. I thought it would be warmer when we booked the trip. I’d googled weather and learned that it’s usually around 70 degrees in that part of the world in spring. Mother Nature obviously didn’t get the memo because it was usually 65 degrees or lower. And it rained every other day. I should have packed more sweaters and a thicker coat but I made do. Back to ship ammenities; there was a putting course, a shuffleboard court and a running track. Gordon ran every day but I took advantage of none of it. I spent my time recovering from our tours.

The food on the ship was great. The first Viking trip I took was a Danube River cruise. German food was mainly served and I found it fatty and uninspired. Except for the strudels. I really like those strudels. Anyway, on the Baltic cruise there were three main restaurants: Manfredi’s (Italian), The Chef’s Table, and The Restaurant (guess they ran out of names and went with the basics). Manfredi’s is self-explanatory. The Restaurant had a diverse menu. But The Chef’s Table had a set 4-course meal with complementary wines. We had the lamb menu the first night, Chinese food another, and seafood the last time. Each meal was excellent as were the wines. We had steaks at The Restaurant and pasta at Manfredi’s. The wine was always excellent and plentiful which didn’t do Gordon much good since he doesn’t drink but I had a good time. We usually had dinner with Bill and Dawn and compared tours. We always had lots to talk about since we only shared one tour. Oh, and the guys had the Good Old Days to remember and discuss. I’m glad we all took the same cruise. They were fun. Anyway, there were other cafe type places for less formal meals. The World Cafe was open most of the day. The Pool Snack bar served hamburgers and hotdogs (I had one with shrimp and mayo; only in Scandinavia but it was good). There were at least three other areas where you could get pastries and breakfast foods. We over-indulged the first two days then simplified things by having milk and a cookie for lunch. I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough TUMS to last the trip otherwise.

During the day there were lectures that educated and music that soothed. I liked the piano player and guitar player but avoided the piano/violin duo. The violinist was slightly pitchy and it was like chalk on a blackboard–although I was probably the only person it bothered. We played (and lost) trivia contests. There were some smart people on board. The first evening show was a medley with four kids and the back-up band. The songs and choreography were professional and enjoyable. But the show I especially enjoyed featured the cruise director, Heather (wish I could remember her last name). The first show I saw her in, she asked if everybody liked opera. Crickets. I figured we’d be forced to listen to a soprano that was the equivalent of the violinist in the atrium. Just as pitchy but much louder. Well, Heather sang the mezzo aria from Carmen and she was great! She claimed to have sung Carmen in 30 productions all over the world. I believe her. She had it down. Then she sang show tunes with the band. She was good. The second show she starred in was even better. She sang jazz and more show tunes. She claimed to have found her niche. I think she did. She got to design her own cabaret show like a Vegas revue and she didn’t have to screw anybody to do it–like in Vegas. She also didn’t have men pinching her –although I don’t think the men on the cruise could have moved fast enough to grab her if they’d wanted to (the demographics on these cruises skews old). Nice gig. A nice well-paying gig. I asked her how they scheduled her time. Did she work two weeks on, two weeks off or what. She laughed–howled really–and said she worked the entire season with minimal breaks. In the Baltic I guess that means four months on, eight months off but I don’t know. She earned her money.

A pianist called Harry the Piano entertained us with two shows. He did mash-ups of music and told stories about playing for the Queen. The stories about celebrities he’s worked with and for were good but his ability to play a Beatles song as if Mozart had written it was amazing. I’ve never run into anyone else who could do that as well.

There was also a magician who did two shows. I love magicians; I can never figure out how they do the tricks so when he had a seminar about doing basic magic tricks I was in the front row with Dawn. Gordon and Bill giggled at us but I was fascinated. And I felt really stupid when I learned how simple some of the tricks were. The magic is in hiding the effort. I forgot the magician’s name but he was a really nice. We talked about his son learning the business. He was even on the Penn & Teller show. I asked if he fooled them and he said ‘no’ but you have to be really good to even get on. They only take the best.

There was always something to do on the ship. And if you just wanted to read a book and listen to classical music (which I did) there was always the 8th deck reading room with the comfortable chairs, wolf skin furniture covers (probably faux), and great views. I enjoyed my time on the ship.

I haven’t been able to write anything coherent lately due to life getting in the way but here’s a flash fiction story I wrote years ago. It was a winner of the “Will Write for Food” contest put on by the Southern California Writers’ Association. We were given a picture and instructed to write a 250-word story inspired by it. Following is the picture and the story I came up with.

Learning Manners

            In 1969, I was a rebellious teenager. So my parents, deciding that I needed to learn appreciation for them and civilization, sent me to stay with my grandfather in the mountains. He didn’t even have TV. The first week, Grandpa put me to work in his vegetable garden. Next to the garden was an old sign that was a thesaurus of verbs warning people to stay off the plants. I hadn’t seen another person for a week, so I asked Grandpa why it was there. Grandpa was cleaning his shotgun at the time.

            “Well,” he said finally, “I had a young feller used to run through my property. I asked him nice not run in my garden, but he said he wasn’t running, he was jogging. Every time he ran through my garden, he said something sassy. So, I put up my sign and added the word. Just to let him know I was paying attention, you see.” Grandpa paused, inserted two shells in the shotgun, and snapped it shut. “Well, when I ran out of room for words on the sign, I peppered him with my gun here.”

            I stared at Grandpa, horrified.

            Grandpa grinned. “I didn’t use buckshot,” he assured me. “Just rock salt. But it got the young feller’s attention. Which brings me to you. Your mama asked if I could teach you some manners. You think I should?”

            I mended my fractious ways. I didn’t want Grandpa teaching me manners.

My cat, George, died today.

Sixteen years and four months ago we went to the Burbank animal shelter to find a kitten to keep Duhgie company. Nellie had died a month before and we were all lonesome. We decided we’d get a female kitten. We hoped Duhg would react better to a female. So, we toured the facility. In one cage was a mother cat who’d been brought to the shelter and had given birth to five kittens. The kittens were now about 8 weeks old and ready for adoption, so we picked out a pretty little black & white girl. But kittens are like potato chips to Gordon; he can’t have just one. “We can’t expect a kitten to handle Duhg all by herself,” he declared. “We should take one more.” A fuzzy little black & white kitten stared up at us curiously during the discussion. He seemed the bravest of the bunch, so we took him, too. And, of course, he was named Curious George. Gordon was in an Albee frame of mind, so he named the female Martha. I thought it was an unpleasant play, so I shortened the name to Marta. And our family was complete for a while.

Duhg never grew to like the kittens and he died two years later–mostly out of spite, I think. We still had the tuxedo twins, so we were happy. Marta died from unknown causes when she was almost 11 so we got another kitten so George wouldn’t be alone. I think he would have preferred the solitude, but Gracie was here to stay.

George was my buddy. He sat next to me on the couch as I wrote. He slept on my side of the bed. And he always got what he wanted. If he didn’t care for the food offering, he’d politely stick one claw into my leg to get my attention. The claw treatment would be repeated until he got something he liked. He eventually weighed 18 pounds from all that food. He had huge teeth and claws, but he never used them in anger against us–just to get better food. And no matter how many times you changed the water in his bowl, he preferred the downstairs toilet. He waited until I flushed, (he liked a fresh bowl) then he’d be butt-up in the toilet like a drunken frat boy. He protected the house from raccoon incursions. He’d sit at the cat door, hissing and spitting, and if a raccoon nose appeared he’d swipe at it with those big claws. One night a coyote was sniffing at the cat door. I turned on the light to see and Georgie charged out the cat door, tail up and fluffy, ears back. He chased that coyote across the backyard and over the fence. When he didn’t come back, I thought the coyote had a well-marbled cat snack and I went into mourning. But 15 minutes later, Georgie sauntered back into the house, looking very pleased with himself. I didn’t know whether to hug him or bellow at him so, I did both. “You could have been killed!” I screeched as I hugged him. “That coyote would eat you!” George just purred. He’d protected his house. He was my brave, brave boy.

He also brought new vernacular into the house. He had long hair on his “pants” and in his early days feral cats would literally scare the crap out of him. We called it having a case of “stinky butt” and I’d throw him in the shower with Gordon to get cleaned up. Georgie would look at me piteously as if asking, “Why are you doing this to me?” But he never raised a claw. Maybe he appreciated the bath.

George left giant pawprints on the stairwell walls for us to remember him by. When he felt frisky, he’d tear up and down the stairs And, of course, he never used the steps; he careened off the walls. He left Sasquatch prints all over. And he knew when the luggage came out, he was going to be alone with Gracie for a while. So, he peed all over an unguarded suitcase. I didn’t know a cat could have that much pee in him. He drowned that suitcase. I learned to hide the luggage. He also insisted on having an indoor cat box that was exclusively his (Gracie goes outside–she lived a rough life before she came to us so she can handle peeing outdoors). And his box had to be clean. If it wasn’t, he’d pee on the dirty clothes pile. Message received. I cleaned his box.

He was the most beautiful cat we’ve ever had. He was my Gorgeous George, a good, noble cat. And now he’s gone. I had him for 16 years and four months–and it still doesn’t seem like enough time. Already we’re feeling the chasm he left. No one is giving me ‘The Claw’ to get a treat or different food. No one is sitting next to me and purring. No one is parked facing his food bowl, waiting for something he likes, and clogging traffic. He was spoiled rotten and could be so annoying. But I want him back. And I can’t have him.

There’s a hole in my heart. And it’s bleeding.