In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now approaching my late 60s, wowza! I tell you a lot of creativity is still to be found in this old young self. In you, too, whatever your age. Welcome to my barefoot world!
The tale of Mr. Cat ends today. For the earlier segments, please go here: 1. The prequel 2. Mr. Cat's first appearance 3. So says Mr. Cat 4. Seeking Mr. Cat It has almost been a month since Mr. Cat was part of our lives. In all, Mr. Cat was with us for six weeks, from just before Thanksgiving to right after New Year's Day. We really couldn't have asked for a better Christmas gift than his presence. Okay, I won't leave you hanging about the half-naked man with which I ended the story last Thursday . Unlike fictional stories that would introduce such a minor character, nothing happened. Short and simple, the true scene played out as such. "Is that your cat?" I asked, pointing to grey cat beneath the bushes. "Yes," he said, nonplussed, as if every morning he opened the door shirtless to answer an old lady about his cat. That cat which, by the way, quickly ran into his house. "Sorry," I said, thinking that I would not be riding
T his is the fourth installment of the tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat, "our" cat for a very brief while. If you wish to read the earlier segments, please go here: The prequel Mr. Cat's first appearance So says Mr. Cat On the evening of January 2, Mr. L. Gatto Cat mewed loudly at the front door. It was only 8 p.m. He had left the house only a couple hours ago. "What are you doing here so early?" I asked as I opened the door. It was only luck that I happened to be walking by the door. Otherwise, I would not have heard him over the Mama's TV in the living room and the husband washing dishes in the kitchen. "Meow. Meow. Meow," Mr. Cat said, rubbing my legs, then rubbing the bottom of the door. He stood inside the door, looking out. "Do you want to come in or not?" I asked, holding the door open. "It's cold." "Meow." "In or out? Out or in? Make up your mind," I leaned over to pet him. "Meow." P
Last week, I began the tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat, "our" cat for a very brief while. Here are the links to the prequel and Mr. Cat's first appearance . I was just minding my own business. In the late afternoon, I liked to hang out under the old lady's rose bushes to grab some of the last of the sun's bubbles before it scooted over the rooftops. The old lady had a very pleasant and tidy garden. No leaves to muss me up. No rocks to dig into my body. The plants and her house protected me from the wind. And, best of all, the birds flocked to the bird feeders on the tree in the middle of the yard. It was only right that I politely said "Thanks" whenever the old lady, the bushy-haired tall guy, or the younger old lady walked by. The guy always petted me and said kind things to me. I didn't get much of human talk until evening. As for the women—they ignored me. I think the old lady was hard of hearing. The younger old lady sometimes glanced at me
Although Mr. L. Gatto Cat was "our" cat for a very brief while, he made quite an impact in all of our lives—the Mama's, the Husband's, and mine. Click here if you would like to first read the prequel to the Tale of Mr. L. Gatto Cat. "Hello. My name is Susie. I live up the street. Are you missing a cat?" It was a warm April evening. The husband and I were walking up and down our block, looking for the house where a young, friendly grey cat might belong. That morning, at breakfast time, the cat had sauntered up to our screen door and mewed as if to say, "Let me in." "Go away," I said through the screen door. "You don't belong here." "Meow, meow," it answered. A couple hours later, the husband went to fetch the mail. The cat came out from under the rose bushes. He petted the cat. On the way back from the mailbox, the husband stopped and petted him again. Yes. I have been told that I married a man who wa
This is what the Husband, the Mama, and I wrote on our 2011 Christmas letter (Yep. We're that kind of people.): The gang of. . .<our address> has expanded to four. Mr. Cat, aka Mr. L. Gatto Cat, aka Mr. Lionel G. Cat adopted us around Thanksgiving Day. A stray budding YA kitty, he suckered us with his cuteness and friendliness. Mr. L. Gatto Cat left as suddenly as he arrived into our lives. It was almost like he had been on vacation and we had been his vacation destination. He was given a winter shelter. He was fed topnotch food—no grain fillers. And, he had attentive humans to pet and play with him when he was not sleeping. Mr. Cat cat slept a lot, I tell you what. I never knew that cats sleep so much. We had cats when I was a kid. Lots of cats. There were always at least three or four of them wandering outside in the backyard. During the winter, they slept in the garage. Almost daily, they liked to slip into the house when anyone went through the door to the garage.
This is my rough sketch for the cartoon that I want the Husband to draw for my future obituary. Death is sporting a Hawaiian shirt. Me, a flouncy skirt. "Hello. What's your name?" asked the young man. "Death," said 18-year-old me. It was a late afternoon nearly 50 years ago. My answer, of course, gave him a start. To this day, I have no idea why he even walked over to the swings where I was sitting, the only person in the park until he and his friends drove in and parked near the bathroom. Our paths crossed once before when I was in first grade and he in second. In high school, I perceived him as being one of the "wild and tumble" guys. And, wouldn't you know it, he eventually would become a pastor. Instead of making a quick getaway, the future pastor sat on the other swing next to me. Not really what I wanted. He seemed sincerely concerned that I had called myself Death . He probably thought I was suicidal or maybe psychotic. Far from
The Mama is the other significant character who will grace this blog from time to time. Here's a look into her nature. "They ask how old I am!" the Mama exclaims. Sometimes she says it out of the blue, a few hours after having come from a party. Or, it may come a day to two later, after she has finally let the question get to her. The question that she thinks is so rude to ask: "How old are you now?" Her standard answer, "I am 100 years old."After asking her age, they (the people who haven't seen her in awhile) then want to know how she stays so healthy (translation: not dead). Her answer, which I'm really not sure she says so sincerely: "I eat rice. Rice does not make your face wrinkle." The Mama reads the newspaper daily, as well as listen to the evening news, and sometimes the noon news. "They showed Goodrich (Gingrich). He was crying," she said, with a note of of amusement. "I have never seen a politician cry
Neither the Husband nor I are pack racks. Not much, that is. He still has one or two boxes of college textbooks, and I have a box, or two, of research from the mid-70s about Filipinos in the United States for a book idea that has been on the back burner since, well, at least 1979, the last time I was living full time in the hometown. I think we—the husband and I—have been very good about consolidating and downsizing our belongings since we moved in together way back when. I came with 40+ years of personal stuff, both single and married stuff, along with some of the pre-me things that belonged to the deceased husband. He, the Husband, came with his 40+ years of personal stuff, both single and married stuff, along with some of the pre-him things that belonged to his deceased wife. I had lived in a one-bedroom apartment, while he had resided in a studio. Together, we moved into a three-bedroom house with a big basement. Surprisingly, we had no problem filling in the space. Quickly,