Actually, Athena is settling out is more accurate. Athena, it turns out, is not who we were told she is. Her original name was not Athena, it was Sweetie or Sweetie Pea – it is hard to tell which because her original papers say Sweetie Pea with the Pea crossed out – and she is not – as billed -  a sweet, loving, animal. That is not to say that she doesn't have her charms. She does; but cuddly is not one of them.

Athena, or Precious Mae – as I sometimes call her for no known reason – likes to be outside. Really likes to be outside. The wild is strong in this one. A typical day starts at about seven when I let her out. She then comes in once or twice to feed and goes back out. She has a couple of nests  – or stakeout positions – in different places. One is under the front deck, another is crouched down by an agave, and a third is about 75 feet from the house under a butterfly bush (Buddleia globosa). I know there are more.

If we go out and call her, about 50% of the time she will come over – usually on the run – and if we are out in the garden, gardening -say – she is delighted and will run over to rub our legs or get a pet. Anytime she comes in the house after eight at night, we close the door, trapping her – so to speak – with us. I used to have a theory on training cats: when you want them to come in, call them several times and if they don't come in, close the door and turn off the lights; they soon learn to come in at last call. Not Athena, it turned out that she was thrilled to stay out all night.

The morning after her all nighter, she came in to eat as soon as I opened the door, ate, and bolted. Perhaps afraid she might miss some important outside event or not be ready when called to a Kitty mission. But she is not stupid, when it was raining on Sunday, she took one look out the open door – didn't even bother to step outside – and then spent the afternoon on the bed.

When the rain stopped, she was back out.  When we first got her, she was very skittish ducking and running with any sudden movement. We would tisk tisk and knowingly say that she must have been abused. Now she is much calmer which we atribute to her being outside and our staggeringly good cat skills. After the usual eight PM trapping, she will lay around the house, occasionally come over for a pet or belly rub, sleep on the bed with us – off and on – and spend the rest of the time looking, longingly, out the window. 

For me, two of the  most powerful books on the Holocaust are The Winds of War and War and Reremembrance.  Reading about Aaron Jastrow, and his niece Natalie, being sucked into, eventually, the  Auschwitz concentration camp is excruciating even though it was not the main plot, as I recall. or is it real. But there is something about giving a face and a personality to one -OK, two in this case – poor, doomed soul that packs an  immense punch.

I remembered reading that Margret Meed once said in an answer to a question on what can one person do? Can one person or a small group of thoughtful people change the world? Indeed, it's the only thing that ever has. (It tuns out that is not exactly what she said but it is pretty close.) I was reminded of that when I read a comment to a ta-nehisi-coates blog. The comment said

One of the most sobering things I've seen here in Germany hasn't been at the concentration camps. It's on the streets of essentially random cities, towns and villages. The paving stones in front of certain houses have been engraved to acknowledge that the residents of the house were taken away to X concentration camp. One stone per person, often several generations of a family. Birth dates are given as are dates of death . . . if known. One simply can't walk past something like without thinking what . . . how . . . shit.

The pavers are called stolpersteins and they are by a German artist, Gunter Demnig. Each brass paver – really a brass cap made by the artist – has the name of  a woman, man or child who was  deported by the Nazis. By himself, at first but now with others helping, Deming came up with the idea of turning the millions and millions of people killed by the Nazis – primarily Jewish people, but also, Roma, homosexuals, retarded people -  back into real people. Back into neighbors that lived next door or, even, in your home.

For as long as I can remember, I have been interested in cars – loved cars, really.  And the best month for car lovers, when I was young, was October. It still is. October is the month that the new cars for next year hit the showrooms.

When I was a young teenager, before I could drive, we would walk down to what was then known as Auto Row and visit each dealership. It was thrilling and I still remember it today. Then the dealers were all American except for one small dealer, British Motors, that sold Jaguars, MGs, Triumphs, and, I think, Alfa Romeos. Cars like Chevrolet, Plymouth, DeSoto, and Oldsmobile each had their own dealer and we would spend an afternoon looking at all of them. Now, according to Auto Week, there are 340 cars and trucks on the market and no way to walk each dealership. Even more thrilling.

My first actual car getting experience was when I was fourteen. My mother asked my advice on what car to get and I suggested a Buick Century. That was 1954 and the Buick Century was a hotrod with the small Buick body and a big Buick – the awesome Roadmaster – 322 cubic inch V8 that put out 177 raging HP.

My mother agreed – I was the family car expert after all -  and bought a white (with a bluish cast so, in some lights, it looked pale, pale blue) brand new, hardtop convertible.

Two years later, I got my first car or, more accurately, collection of car parts. A five window deuce. (Technically, a deuce is a 1932 Ford and my car was a Plymouth, but What the hell; it was close enough to call a deuce.)  I also acquired, separately – I think -  a ford flathead engine with 3 Stromberg 97 carburetors, and a 3 speed Lincoln-Zephyr transmission. Eventually, the parts became a car that looked much like the car below, including the black primer and channeled body, except nowhere as good. My deuce ran, but not really good enough to get anywhere.

Meanwhile, my grandparents were getting old and had stopped driving so I bought their 1948 Pontiac 4 door sedan – what the hell, again, if it had been Italian, it would have been called a quatroporte – and that was the car that first took me backpacking.