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 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

I heard these three Mama-isms quite often when I was a small child sitting at the kitchen table: "Don't lean on your hand. God will get mad." "Don't sing at the table. God will get mad." "Don't play with your food. God will get mad." The husband told me he was told similar things as a kid. Just not the part about "God will get mad." His parents usually said something like: "Don't lean on the table. That's not polite." Since the Mama had to remind me more than once about not doing certain things at meal time, I must've figure God wasn't mad at me at all. And, look, I still sometimes play with my food.

 "I like to pick tomatoes," the mama said, looking up as she continued picking cherry tomatoes from the depth of the green vines. "They should hire me." Yesterday morning, the mama, the husband, and I picked tomatoes at a local organic farm. It was having one of its few U-pick days for the season. We discovered this opportunity a couple of years ago. We don't pick a lot of tomatoes. Just enough to freeze to last us until the next growing season. For us, that's about 25 to 30 pounds, which is about equivalent to what the Mama used to get from her tomato plants. With each year, the yield has gotten less, so finding a place to get a deal for organic tomatoes is really perfect. This year, the Mama wanted to tag along for the picking. She doesn't like to go out much so it made the adventure an extra treat.  She was really enjoying herself out there amongst the rows of tomatoes, plunked in the warm sun on her green plastic bench from home. The Mama had worked

Yes, finally. Thank you, dear friends, for waiting patiently. Here's Part One to my  quest  to find perfume for the Mama. Because I was buying perfume online, I purchased a bunch of samples so the Mama could decide which one or two she likes. My decision of which samples was based on the descriptions. The Retailer: I went with DSH Perfumes.com , based in Colorado, because they had the best descriptions and prices for my budget.  Roll-on Perfumes DSH had some perfumes on sale because they were being discontinued or were made on a temporary basis. I chose two perfumes in roll-on format. It turns out that the roll-on formats are easier for the Mama to handle. en Fleur: "...A necklace of island flowers that stirs the soul: the one and only Plumeria."  No brainer there. I love the smell of plumeria, and I wanted to share the happy scent of that one with the Mama. The mama's reaction: Okay. butterfly: "...it is fresh and clear...It is vibrant, colorful and alive! b

"I want perfume for my birthday." That's what the mama said to me yesterday in the middle of the drugstore. It was the first time she ever requested something special for her birthday. Usually, when asked, she'll say, "Nothing. Don't get me anything." The moment after she said she wanted perfume, I got scared. Did she want to buy perfume right then, right there? Thankfully, not! The only perfumes you can get in a drugstore stink as bad (or worse) as the odor you smile while driving by a compost factory, or a field freshly laid with manure, or plain old skunk spray. Yuck.  I'm not even talking about the minutes after the eau has dissipated and you're now sniffing the burn of alcohol and who-knows-what chemicals. Sigh. Most perfumes give me a headache. Some make my nose get stuffy. Worse yet, others make my face start itching. Still. The mama doesn't ask for much. So, this afternoon I jumped through the hoop, and spent hours on the Internet res

Today's letter is E . For more E posts, please click here . I've just only settled into a writing groove when it's time to go to the kitchen again. About eight years ago, the Mama's health was failing because of poor nutrition. All she wanted to eat was cereal or frozen waffles and 2% lactose-free milk. Thank goodness for milk. Maybe if she didn't work so hard and long in her flower and vegetable gardens, she could've made do. But, the Mama can't stand still. And, as we all know, when we live alone, we pretty much eat what we want to eat and when we want to eat it. So, about eight years ago, it was quite obvious that her high-carbo, minuscule protein diet had taken its toll on her body. The decision wasn't easy for everyone involved, but it was made. The mama, the husband, and I became roomies. Today, the husband and I seem to spend a lot of time in the kitchen every day. Me cooking; him washing dishes; and me, him, and the mama eating. Most days, three

Today's letter is V . For more V posts, please click here . "When I'm gone, you take care of your mother," the daddy suddenly said to me one evening. He did not wait for my response. He knew I would promise. I was in my late 20s. At the time, the mama and I still clashed, mostly about what my life should be. At the time, I really didn't think I could ever live with her again. Several days was about all I could handle being around her. Thirty years later, the husband and I have been living with the Mama for over seven years now.  It took at least the first four years for each of us to get the hang of starting to live together. That's life.  Nothing wrong with that. The almost 90-year old Mama has slowed down. But only some. When she gets it in her head that she wants something done, she wants it done pronto, and she wants to do it by herself. Usually, she comes up with these projects while we're away.  For instance, one morning she asked that we help

The Daddy, mid-1970s. My favorite photo of him. Twenty-nine years ago on this day, the Daddy died from a heart attack. He was 76 years old. Maybe he didn't pick how or where he died, but I think he was happy it wasn't at home where the Mama would've come home to find him after a long, tiring day at work. He was always protective of her. That day the Daddy decided to go to lunch at the senior center with his good friend Danny, one of the godfathers of mine. The Daddy hadn't been there for quite a long while. He hadn't been feeling well, but those last three days, I was told, he'd been going strong, visiting, babysitting, doing so many of the things he liked to do. So, there he was sitting at the lunch table. He was bending down for a spoon on the floor, I was told. He was there longer than he should have been.  "Hey, 'Pare (short for compadre), what you doing down there?" called a friend. Then, a scramble to get help for the Daddy. That was it. Whil

A few weeks ago, the Mama and I cut back her banana trees and she stripped off the dried leaves. A banana blossom had actually made it through the frosty days. It was quite yummy. The Mama decided to leave quite a lot of the trunks in tact. Usually, she likes to hack them almost to the ground. It shall be interesting to see how tall her tiny groves grows. Here's a close-up of how happy part of it looked last year.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr. Temperatures have been dipping into the 30s and 40s the past month. Ha! So what! says this blooming rose in the Mama's garden. Head over to Alphabe-Thursday , hosted by Jenny Matlock, to read other N posts.

Su- sieee! is how the mama calls for me. When she urgently wants me, she puts a long emphasis on the second syllable. If I don't answer in two or three beats, she calls again. Su-s ieeeeeeeeeeee! So, dear readers, in case you were wondering, that is why I italicize the second syllable of my name. The mama had not planned to name me Susie. She had another name in mind for me.  But, the mama was foiled by her accent and the nurse who was assigned to get my name from the mama. "What is your baby's name?" asked the nurse. "Tessie," said the mama. "Susie?" the nurse asked. "No," the mama replied. "Tessie." "Susie?" "Tessie." "Susie?" "Tessie." "Susie?" The mama gave up. "Yes, Susie." That's the story the mama tells me. After all these years, I'm still thankful the nurse couldn't understand her. Today's Christmas song is "Thank God It's Christmas,&qu

Asking for help can be so difficult for some people. The mama, for instance. The nearly-90-year-old woman  is stubborn about asking me to help her with the harder chores in the garden. But, she gladly takes the help, if I happen to give it without asking, "Do you need help?" It's taken me awhile to recognize how silly that question is.  It's similar to asking a visitor if she would like something to drink. According to the Mama, you don't ask, you just serve the drink. So, I've learned to keep my eyes and ears open to what's going on when she's outside. For instance, when I hear the sound of metal scraping against cement, I head outside to see what the Mama is doing. And, usually she has set up the ladder against one of her many trees to pick some fruits or prune tree branches. "Here, let me do it," I say, as I shove my feet into my shoes. "I can do it," she says, as she's about to climb the ladder. We spar back and forth a coup

Here's what this week looked like for a professional writer who hasn't been doing much writing lately. Be forewarned: You may fall asleep. That's okay. I may already have. Sunday The husband and I bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Although several friends had recommended it, I did not put it on our list of choices because of the cost.  At the store, we got curious and looked at it. Then all of a sudden Jesus appeared. "Can I help you?" he asked politely. (Really, the sales guy's name was Jesus. Not Hay-soos, but Gee-sus.) Very long story short, with Jesus' confidence about the machine and the store's return policy, we decided to invest in the machine. Monday I vacuumed part of the house. Result: Three containers full of dust. The mama made a mistake on her absentee ballot, so I took her down to the courthouse for a replacement. As we headed up the stairs, she said, "I feel so ashamed for making a mistake." In all her 50 years of voting, this was

The mama constantly works. She sows and maintains her gardens. She breaks to eat lunch and to read the daily news. Today she also napped.  Unusual. We both wondered. The Sunday 160 is hosted by the Monkey Man. A 160 is 160 characters, including spaces. To learn about it and to read other bloggers' Sunday 160, head over to this page .

For this Wordless Wednesday and Outdoor Wednesday , I give you a look at the Mama's garden. This is how the mama's garden looked in April of this year. The mama's garden as of last week. Can you see her at work? The mama gave her first gourd of the season  to her friend. The mama chops the banana plants back every winter. By summer they are in full bloom again. The Mama's sunflowers had to be over 12 feet tall, three times taller than her. Today, we celebrate the mama's first day of starting another trip around the sun. Joy!

"Que sera, sera. . ." The husband looked up from the Sunday comics. "Whatever will be, will be. . ." He looked down the hallway. The mama had already wandered out of sight. "That's the first time I heard her sing," said the husband. "She's getting ready to sing tonight at the novena," I said, just as surprised as him. "I don't think they'll be singing that song," he said. "No," I said, "But they should." Unfortunately, the mama didn't have the chance to sing. Her ride never came to take her to the second night of the novena of mourning for her friend. That's a Catholic Church ritual of praying that soothes the souls of the departed's loved ones. My definition. Fortunately, the mama didn't seem to mind that she had been forgotten. She was probably relieved. She did not have to deal with the question that people seem compelled to ask her. How old are you? It's not a question anyone

Our child is growing. Til today, she felt shy to go to social events. Now look. Two days. Two parties by herself. Before we know it, our 80ish mama will be dating. --- This is a 160 Character Challenge, hosted by the Monkey Man . Give it a try. What can you write in 160 characters or less? You must count spaces, too.