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Vince and Melanie the Goats

This is from Vince's column on February 15. True story.

The hardest part of having a pet isn’t the care part: feeding, watering, cleaning up. No, the hard part is naming your new friend.

I’m one to talk. My baby book notes that my first pets were a pair of goldfish which I named Flopsy and Mopsy. (I was a confused child.)

I had a duck named Fred, a turtle named Fred (I liked the name Fred) and a chicken that was such a non-pet-like pet that I never bothered to name it.

I didn’t get my first real companion pet till college, a cat. (My mother didn’t like cats or dogs. Fish were an ideal pet to her.)

I knew nothing about cats. I assumed they were like the dogs I had seen on TV and you could train them. So I set out to train my cat to come to the food bowl. Simple enough, right?

I would put out food and yell, ‘Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” which I thought was the universal kitty call. Apparently it wasn’t. He might come. He might not.

I decided he needed a little Pavlovian training. So I would whistle one of the two songs I could whistle, the theme from “Lassie,” and put out the food. And thus my cat became Lassie.

(The other song I could whistle was the theme from the “Andy Griffith Show” so Lassie was only a whisker away from being named Andy.)

Since then I’ve had cats, dogs, parakeets, pretty much everything but snakes or lizards. So I’ve named many pets: Petey the dog, Macy the cat, Fred the rabbit.

But until this past weekend I had never had a pet named for me.

Here’s how that came about. My wife Melanie was on a business trip to D.C. last week. Her conference got out mid-afternoon Saturday so she decided to drive partway back, spending the night with friends in Pearisburg, Virginia. Those friends, Pete and Mary Jane, have what the real estate ads call a baby farm. They have cats and dogs and horses and peafowl and goats, 57 goats.

And one of the 57 goats – apparently a nanny goat – chose Saturday night to become a mommy goat.

My wife says she and Mary Jane had just sat down at the dinner table when Pete came running in from the barn carrying the newborn goat in his arms, crying that the mother had rejected it and they should call the paramedics in Blacksburg. (Instead they called their daughter Maria in Blacksburg.)

Pete and Mary Jane ran around looking for blankets and steam pots and defibrillators and oxygen masks, leaving only one person to hold the baby goat, my wife. She has midwifed cats before but this was a first. She rocked the goat and cuddled it to keep it warm. She even encouraged one of the dogs to clean it.

Soon the little kid (that’s goat for baby) was up on her legs, wobbling around the kitchen. That’s when Maria and straightened things out. It seems the kid’s mother didn’t abandon her; Pete got the goats mixed up. The mother was off birthing a second kid causing Pete to think she had abandoned the first.

All the kid needed was a little TLC and she was alright.

As my wife was leaving Sunday morning, Pete and Mary Jane gave her the good news. They were going to name the goat that she had saved Melanie.

“I’m honored,” my wife stammered, not sure she really was.

And since there was the second baby goat, a buckling (boy goat), that also needed a name they were going to dub him Vince, as in Melanie and Vince.

It’s the first time anyone has ever named anything after me, much less a goat. I am honored.

I hope that someday Vince the baby goat gets to meet his namesake, Vince the old goat.

Staten to serve as grand marshal for Kingsport Christmas Parade - Kingsport Times-News Online

Staten to serve as grand marshal for Kingsport Christmas Parade - Kingsport Times-News Online

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A TALE OF TWO TORNADOES
Part I

The National Weather Services has declared October 21st Fall Severe Weather Awareness Day in Tennessee, Mississippi and Alabama. Historically, November has been an active month for severe weather and tornadoes throughout the country.

Having been through a hurricane, a flood, an earthquake and two tornadoes I take this very seriously. By far, the worst of these experiences were the tornadoes.

I know several people who would love to see a funnel cloud. Not me. Being from Northern Illinois, known as “tornado alley,” I have absolutely no desire to see a funnel cloud. I have never seen one and I hope I never do. That’s wayyyyyy too close for comfort.

The morning of my eighth grade graduation from Carl Sandburg Junior High in Northern Illinois, my mother woke my brother and me up at 6 a.m. She said she had a headache so we should go downstairs. This didn’t make sense to my junior high mind.

I respectfully said, “Since when do we have to go in the basement when you have a headache?”

She said, “Just hurry. We are going to have a tornado.”

I looked outside. It was a beautiful June morning, and was sunny as could be. I didn’t argue with my mother because it was the morning of my graduation from Junior High and I wanted presents, like lots of clothes for high school.

We went downstairs quickly but not before I grabbed my transistor radio (boy, am I dating myself) and the cat. As usual, the cat was useless and showed no signs of fear that bad weather was on the way. I turned on WLS in Chicago, the strongest station we could get. The weather report was clear. There was no mention of tornadoes.

My brother and I sat downstairs, thoroughly convinced our mother had lost it, but then, it got pitch black. The basement was partially underground but we could see a small portion of the swirling dark sky through the windows.

The wind picked up and then we heard it: the freight train sound.

It really does sound like a freight train. We got away from the windows while we watched the exterior wall expand and retract. It was made of brick. The sound was deafening and our ears hurt from the vacuum.

It ended after about 20 seconds. We went upstairs, rather shaken, then ventured outside. Thank God, we were spared. Most neighbors had minor roof damage, but some on the adjacent streets weren’t so lucky. Roofs were gone and walls were blown away. Trees were toppled and twisted into pretzels. Cars were moved and there were boats in a park across the street.

Still clutching my transistor, WLS interrupted morning programming with a weather bulletin: we may be experiencing bad weather this morning. That was an understatement. There were no civil defense sirens that morning. This was a complete surprise, a stealth tornado, and it did millions of dollars in damage – back when a million dollars was a million dollars - in Northern Illinois and Indiana.


Not knowing the complete extent of the damage and whether buses would be running, my mother drove me to school. After dodging fallen trees and electrical lines, we rounded the corner and found there wasn’t much of a school left. The damage was unfathomable to me. The gym was gone, as were many classrooms. Had this thing hit two hours later, with school in session, there would have undoubtedly been an even worse ending with casualties and fatalities.

As students arrived at school, the teachers and principals met us in the parking lot. They said we would not have school today. This was pretty obvious. The eighth graders were crushed. What would happen to our graduation? They told us that other arrangements would be made for either tonight or sometime later in the week. The PTA phone tree later called and informed us that graduation would go on as scheduled at a local high school that sustained little damage. I’ll never forget that sight when we rounded the corner that morning. It wasn’t until years later that I understood how life-threatening this was.

That night, still in a daze from the day’s events, I asked my mother how she knew a tornado was going to hit. She said, “Because my head hurt.”

So much for the multi-million dollar Doppler weather and storm tracking equipment. My mother’s head hurt.


To put this in context: I spent the majority of my time during the spring of my fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth grade lined up against the lockers. The civil defense sirens were going off continually from March through May. At the height of the Cold War, during fourth and fifth grade, we weren’t sure whether the Russians were invading or a tornado was coming. The sirens were the same. The teachers didn’t know either. Imagine not knowing if you were going to be blown away or blown up. It’s a vivid memory. I remember girls crying, nervous teachers and jumpy principals. We were simply told to put our hands over our heads and be quiet. Sometimes this was for hours at a time. At least it got me out of math, which I hated.

The moral of the story: If your mother has a headache and tells you to go to the basement, do it! No questions asked…..

Part II – Later this week.

Photos courtesy NOAA

THE DREADED PROFESSIONAL SHRUG

Have you ever had an auto mechanic, doctor or a repairperson give you “the shrug?” I have had this happen many times, and it happened again today. In other words, they can’t fix the problem so they shrug and say, “I don’t know.” I dread the shrug because I know it is going to mean a lot of money to replace or fix something.

Because we are writers (and in my case, even worse, a PR person), we can’t fix anything including the four-month-old towel rack project of Vince’s. So, we take it to a professional. You name it, we can’t fix it. My friends, Pat and Hooper, can fix anything. They have multiple tools and replacement parts for everything. In our house, if it can’t be fixed with duct tape, it goes to the shop, the doctor, the vet or the garbage. This includes cars, vacuum cleaners, cats, plumbing, electrical and anything else. Because of this we spend a lot of money. Neither of us got the “fix it” gene.

I go through vacuum cleaners like some people go through beer before an SEC football game. I have four broken vacuum cleaners in my garage. I never knew why I had this problem until last weekend when I was in Northern Virginia. My friend Marie said, “It’s cat hair.” The light bulb went off in my head. Having gone through at least twenty vacuum cleaners over the years, it never occurred to me that it could be cat hair. Coming from Marie, another animal lover with rescue cats and dogs, this was brilliant.

The last vacuum cleaner broke about three weeks ago. It was going along fine and then I smelled rubber burning. I looked at the wheels, which I assume were made of rubber, but they were still there. I called to Vince. He said maybe it needs a belt. I knew better than to ask him to fix it. So, I let it sit for three weeks. I was about to retire it to the garage where the rest of the vacuum morgue resides, hoping that it would miraculously regenerate itself one day and it would be fixed. The dirt was beginning to get to me yesterday which means it was pretty bad. So, I put the most vacuum in the car and went to the vacuum repair place.

The repairman said it needed a hospital stay to be diagnosed. I picked it up today and they guy gave me “the shrug.” He didn’t know what was wrong. One more vacuum down the drain. He couldn’t figure it out.
The van from hell.............

Then there was the case of the infamous van from hell. To avoid getting sued, I won’t say exactly what kind of van it was (besides a lemon) but it rhymes with Lodge Fairavan, the worst car I’ve ever owned. From the day I bought it, it overheated. I went to four different auto repair shops, including the “Lodge” dealer. They all gave me “the shrug.” Nobody could fix this piece of “garbage” (can also rhyme with “scrap”). Finally, I heard of an old German guy in Woodbridge, Virginia who prided himself on fixing the most difficult problems. He did diagnose the problem, but he couldn’t fix it. The fan was installed upside down. He shrugged and said “I don’t know how to fix it.” It was returned to the dealership with a few “constructive” comments. That was a tough “shrug.” I never bought another “Lodge” or “Fhrysler” vehicle again.

When a doctor tells you they don’t know how to fix something, it’s really disheartening. Having really bad knees because of an ice-skating and dancing habit I had in younger years, is not good. When the Washington Redskins doctor looked at the x-rays and MRI’s, he said, “How do you walk on those?” He shrugged and said he couldn’t do anything. I have falling kneecaps and they aren’t going to get better, even with surgery. I am probably about 200 pound lighter than some linebackers he regularly saw, but I was a hopeless case. That was another depressing “shrug.”

The vet and my old cat Belle is a “good shrug” story. Belle was given six months to live three years ago. Belle forgot to look at the calendar because she is still alive, happy, fat and eats like a horse. The vet can’t figure out why she is still alive, so I got a good “shrug” from Dr. Seifert a few weeks ago.

The only person who has never given me the “shrug” is my hairdresser, Missy, in Dale City, VA. She is so good that I go up there, 1,000 miles round trip, twice a year. I have a great hairdresser in Knoxville, but Missy is like part of the family. She has been doing all of our hair since 1985, before Julianne even made an appearance. I first went to her with awful hair that someone in D.C. messed up royally. Dry, split ends and an awful brassy blond, I pleaded for help. At the time, I think Missy was all of about 18, but she knew color. She fixed my mess by reverse frosting.
Color of Lindsay's hair , a result of "Sun-In"

Another time, Lindsay came back from my mother’s in Florida one summer with a hair disaster. I took one look at her as she got off the plane and I about fainted. She apparently had been attacked by an army of “Sun-In.” Remember “Sun-In?” That real cheap lightener that made your hair a greenish-orange? We all used it in high school, but that was in the 70’s! I immediately called Missy, telling her it was a hair emergency, and could we come that afternoon. Once again, Missy didn’t “shrug,” and she fixed Lindsay’s hair in time for her first day of high school marching band camp. This took many months to darken and then lighten, and it cost far more than the “Sun-In.”

Missy stuck by us through thick and thin. She repaired everything… like when Maren cut Julianne’s hair and when Julianne cut Maren’s hair. She also did all the up-do’s for the proms and homecomings throughout high school, an emergency foil frost before Lindsay’s wedding, and great styles twice a year for all the shows I directed at the retirement community. Our kids are almost the same age, two are moms, and it has been fun to keep up with her over the years.

Thanks, Missy, for not “shrugging” and never giving up on our hopeless hair.

We still can’t find anyone who can fix the towel rack. Anyone want a free broken vacuum cleaner?

BIG CAT DIARY EVERY DAY

My weekday life revolves around “Big Cat Diary” on Animal Planet every day at 2:00 p.m. Lunch, meetings, travel, you name it, the world stops. Both Vince and I have to see the big cats every day. For anyone who has not seen this, you are missing a real nature experience.

This BBC production is extremely well done. The compassion shown by the researchers and crew is evident. They follow families of lions, cheetahs and leopards in the Masai Mara Sanctuary in Kenya. Each of the three hosts is an expert on one or more of the cats. Braving ungodly weather and bugs, the crew brings it to you raw. There is nothing show biz about this show. This is filmed out in the wild and it isn’t always pleasant. Never does the crew interfere, as much as they get emotionally involved, when a cat is hurt, maimed or killed. They are simply there to record the cats’ lives, and they do a fabulous job of it.

Big Cat Diary films several months out of the year to coincide with the wildebeest migration. Jonathan Scott and Simon King began this project in 1996 and were joined in 2002 by Saba Douglas-Hamilton. They guide their four-wheel drives over some rugged terrain, and sometimes as many as 60 crew are assisting in filming and spotting the cats. Every segment is impressive.

The crews follow these cats for months and sometimes years; from birth to adulthood and, unfortunately, in some cases, to death. The cats, as they say, “write the script.” Names are given to the big cats and their cubs, and you soon find yourself developing a bond with the cats. There is one common denominator to every show; the plot. Cats chase prey, cats kill prey, cats eat prey and share with cubs. It sounds gruesome, and it can be. What comes across is that the cats’ lives consists of a never-ending quest to find the next meal for themselves and their families.

Sometimes, the show can be very funny. The lion, cheetah and leopard cubs are adorable. They wrestle and tumble and jump and run, all in preparation for the day when they have to hunt on their own. The moms are highly protective, and they are continually teaching the cubs how to hunt. The dads are kind of deadbeats, but they do defend their families when another male tries to take over the territory.


The lions are my favorites. They are so regal, and they remind me the most of my housecats. I think they have a smile on their faces at times. They are smug because they are the kings of the cats. The lions are the most feared among the big cats because of their sheer size and power. These social animals live in prides and will kill anything that threatens the pride, including the other big cats.

The leopards, by far the most reclusive of the three breeds, are fascinating. They kill their prey, and then drag them up high into trees so other predators can’t steal them. These are the master climbers of the cat race. The crews have the most difficult time finding these cats, and it takes more spotters to locate them than the other breeds.


The cheetahs are not only speed machines, but they have quite a sense of humor. They frequently jump on the Big Cat Diary Jeeps to gain a higher vantage point. In addition to doing several unmentionable things on the Jeeps, they recently ate a still camera that one of the crew left sitting out. The very expensive camera soon became a cheetah chew toy, but the crew could only laugh. The cheetah’s mischievous and humorous behavior was described recently as “…typically cheetah.” Today, as the cheetah once again jumped on the Jeep, Jonathan Scott said, “We are nothing more than a moveable termite mound.” The cheetahs have no fear of humans. They are the most vulnerable of the big cats because of their relative small size, but they have speed on their side.


All the big cats fear the hyenas and water buffalo. If more than a few hyenas gather, the cats scatter…even the lions. And the leopard and cheetahs fear the lions.

I have a soft spot for the big cats because of my own house cats. With seven permanent rescue cats, I see great similarities. Though they have no food worries as the 24/7 cafeteria is always open, the similarities are striking. The big cats may be stalking a wildebeest or Thompson’s gazelle in Africa, but my cats have the same body language, gestures, approach and attack when chasing a fly. I’m glad I’m bigger than my cats.

Cats, cats, cats, big or small - Whenever we go to a zoo, we head right to the cats, whether it’s our great Knoxville Zoo, or any zoo. When we are on vacation, where do we go? The zoo. This summer, even with my broken foot, we hobbled around the Ft. Worth Zoo and the Gainesville, TX Zoo. I’ve been to zoos in almost every state and foreign countries. The Columbus Zoo, Brookfield Zoo, Lincoln Park Zoo and San Diego Zoo are just a few. Some people go to museums; we go to zoos.

The big cats touch my heart. Last year, when we got married, I wanted to do something for the big cats at The International Exotic Animal Sanctuary in Boyd, Texas. Rather than feature fancy centerpieces and favors, we had pens printed with the name and website of the Sanctuary. From what I’ve learned, we raised lots of money for them!!

If you like the big cats and quality TV (for a change), then Big Cat Diary is the show for you. Seeing these magnificent cats in their natural habitat is a humbling experience every day. It always makes my day go better. Just don’t call me between 2:00-3:00!
Photos courtesy Big Cat Diary, Animal Plant; Google Images, Big Cat Diary

THE INFAMOUS GREAT WHITE STYROFOAM COOLER
Today I am plagiarizing. This was Vince’s column from August 26. I am running it in my blog because he received lots of comments on the cooler column. Everyone can relate. We all had them at one time or another. We had one until a month ago.

*****

STYROFOAM COOLERS ARE CONVENIENT, CHEAP –AND OH SO ANNOYING
By Vince Staten
August 26, 2009, Kingsport Times-News

The Styrofoam cooler is one of the great inventions of the twentieth century.
It’s convenient, lightweight, inexpensive and it works. You can load
it up with drinks, pour on the ice and you are set for the day.
There are just a couple of problems….
I picked one up at the grocery the other day before heading on a trip.
It only costs me four bucks.
Okay, there’s a reason I bought a Styrofoam cooler. I have a “real”
cooler, hard plastic Coleman with beverage holders on the top but when
I went to get it out of the closet, I discovered that one of the kids
had borrowed it and somehow lost the plug. That means when I filled it
with ice and the ice started melting, water would run out all over my
car.
So I bought a Styrofoam cooler because it is convenient. And cheap.
And because my good cooler was out of commission.
I filled it with drinks, covered them with ice and we set out on our trip.
We were driving merrily down the road when it started. Squeak. Squeak.
The Styrofoam was rubbing up against the back seat and making that
annoying squeaking sound. My wife stuffed newspapers between the
cooler and the seat and it quit squeaking. For a couple of seconds.
Then the squeak returned. So she put towels between the cooler and the
seat. And it quit squeaking. For a couple of seconds.
Then she pulled it out from the back of the seat. But then the bottom
of the cooler began rubbing against the bottom of the seat and it
started squeaking again.
Let it go, I said.
So we drove along with an annoying squeak, squeak.
I turned up the radio.
But it didn’t drown out the squeak.
I started thinking about a solution. Could we somehow suspend it in
air between the two hand grabs? I toyed with that idea for about 30
seconds till the squeak got to me.
I took matters into my own hand. I reached around while driving,
intent on pulling the Styrofoam cooler forward.
And my hand went right through the cooler wall. Convenient,
lightweight, inexpensive and breaks with ease.
Good job, I thought. Bust up your cooler.
Then I heard it: squeak, squeak, squeak.
My wife had a great suggestion: What if we take the drinks out of the
cooler. There won’t be any weight to cause it to squeak.
It worked!
Take all the drinks out of the Styrofoam cooler and it doesn’t squeak anymore!
It doesn’t keep your drinks cool…but it doesn’t squeak!
I left the busted Styrofoam cooler on top of a garbage can at a
convenience store. I’m sure as I write it is down by the river filled
with bait.