It's not that I don't have something in mind to write about. I do. Lots. But, work words must be written first. So, for today, I give you photos of a pink sky on the last evening of 2011.  Until Monday, dear readers. The Husband and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. As we wandered we wondered if we would come across Mr. L. Gatto Cat in one of his favorite hang outs. We were quite surprised to see him hanging out on the fence when we got home. (This was two nights before he left our lives forever .) Such an amazing sky, don't you think? Hollister, California, that's where we live. Nope. I'm not talking about that silly store.

It happens. A loved one gets too old to cut her (or his) toenails. That same elderly loved one who can still drag a nine-foot ladder across the backyard and prune a lemon tree, when no one is looking. In my case, that is the Mama. I could take the Mama down to a nail salon. But, the idea of a stranger touching one's toesies is creepy. And, you never know if the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money really changes her gloves after each customer. That protection is more for the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money than for the customers. Forget about trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there is the matter of the strong smell of chemicals. I've walked passed open doors of nail salons and been hit with a big wham of oppressive odors.  The stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money also wears a face mask, which makes me wonder why customers don't wear them either. Heaven knows what breathing in the toxins for even one minute does to your health. Of course, there is the

A strange thing happened on Monday afternoon. For a second day in a row, the Husband and I decided to go outside and get our bodies moving and make some sweat happen. But, that's not the strange thing that happened. The day before we pedaled our bicycles up and down. My choice. Monday was his choice. Walking. Sigh. I realized, again, on Monday that I don't really like walking long distances unless it's on a beach, in a park or wilderness, or on city streets lined with shop windows. I like to be distracted as I walk. Plod. plod. plod. The Husband is much taller than me, which means he has a long stride to my short plod. We both walk at our own pace. So, the husband is almost always ahead of me, but circles back when he gets to a corner. He gets more walking in that way, and I get a chance to be alone to  think or not to think about things. Okay, now this is when the strange thing happened. As I got to the second block, a wonder took hold of me. I wonder if I c

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