Wrestling Rascals

Mittens on the left, cuddles on the right, nap in rare November sunshine
Mom gave up on dogs when raising my sisters and me. Buttons ran away. Ginger succumbed to distemper.
My mother found tomcats more independent, resilient, and less cost. Our toms would disappear for months and return maimed from buckshot. A former farm-girl, Mom doctored them. I cannot remember the name of one family cat.
           The summer before my junior year in high school, my boyfriend drove me to a pet store. I fell in love with a Cocker Spaniel’s puppy-dog eyes. Without consulting my mother, I took Sweetie home. We became inseparable stargazers. Sweetie my pillow, I confessed what I could not tell another soul.
           Ten years later after many wanderings, I at last settled into our first house and took Sweetie off Mom’s hands. With a husband and two small children, I had no time for stars and confessions. So this is what my mother sacrificed for her daughters to hold and love a pet.
Sweetie’s health declined rapidly. Perhaps she grieved for my mother. Deaf, Sweetie walked into our street one day. The car stopped without injuring her, yet the screeching brakes left me shaken.  
           A neighbor offered to drive Sweetie to the Humane Society. Young and overwhelmed, I accepted. Sweetie’s sad, knowing eyes when I said good-bye still haunt my dreams with regret.
In the following forty-two years, my husband and I have considered adding a puppy to our household. A canine presence supposedly discourages deer invasion and property damage.
However, I will never again put down a pet. And Mel will not suffer again the loss of his dog mangled on the road. We inevitably return to Mom’s conclusion about tomcats.


Cuddles longs for the wide blue yonder



After eighteen years of hunting, our beloved cat Mo rests in our backyard below his gravestone. In perfect timing, our friend Sue emailed a photo of darling kittens waiting for a family. Perhaps they were the answer to reducing our varmint population. And there’s nothing like frisky kittens to relieve heartsickness.
Two Sundays past, not a mile away, we first laid eyes on Mittens and Cuddles. “What do we owe you?” Mel asked a neighbor.
“Nothing, just a good home,” he replied.
“Do you know the sex?” I asked.
“No, my wife can tell, but she’s not here.”





We set the kitties’ kennel, potty, and food in our barricaded kitchen. I recycled spools of thread and paper bags for toys. This distracted the pair from chewing on the leather ties of my L.L. Bean slippers. What one did, the other followed, pouncing and biting and pawing.
The first four days Mittens and Cuddles hid under the Hoosier cabinet whenever frightened, which means they spent hours huddled there. They lapped their water together. Slept together. Waited by the john for their turn.

Mittens plays in a paper bag



Today, after the rascals wrestled a good while, Cuddles curled up for an afternoon nap in the kennel. Mittens stretched out on the fluffy bed Mo rejected.
 Dear Reader, I’m guessing Cuddles is a tom, Mittens a queen. Mom would know. In her old age, she held her cat Socks on her lap.

History of Trees

Old Oak with four toeholds, a favorite stop on my country walks
I’ve walked my country roads for twenty-nine years now. They’re glad for my company, especially this season when their trees cast off their color and I applaud their performance. Lindens. Sugar maples. Red maples. Swamp birch. The Oaks still cling to their leaves. The poor Ash and their tragic end. I’ve already forgotten their structure and leaf. 
There’s one ancient Oak in particular that waits for me. Her extraordinary girth is nailed with four toeholds. “Come play,” they beckon.
            I smile and say, “Not today. Have obligations.”
            Truth is, I’d be trespassing. And what if I fell from a limb? My agility and strength aren’t what they were three decades ago.
But those four toeholds won’t leave me alone. Who nailed them to the tree? A young farm boy, or a hunter? Or a tomboy like me? How long ago?
My last walk I stopped and touched the four boards. “Now listen Grandmother Oak, I just want to know your history. I’m not going up. That’s absurd. You’re not my tree. And if you were, I’m a senior citizen, for heaven’s sake.”
I have a soft spot for trees. As a child I climbed gnarly trunks to pick little green apples. Swung from many a branch. I carved my initials and my husband’s, and a heart around both, on a tree’s bark. We shinned up, hung from it. Posed for pictures. We snoozed in the shade and breeze.
I grew up with trees, I tell Grandma Oak. I’m known amongst my kinfolk for swinging from a branch of a dead tree over a cliff in Kentucky. Of course the dead tree and over the cliff parts were my mother’s hysterical perception. She meant no harm. She never was a tree swinger and didn’t know better.  
            My three girls climbed trees when they were young. My husband and I drove them from our Detroit home to Blake’s Cider Mill in Armada to pick apples for applesauce. We loved my mother’s chunky applesauce with cinnamon. She preferred the indoor sport of cooking.
Our friends Barb and Denny and their three boys followed us to Blake’s for a few autumns.  A perfect match for kids chasing and hiding in an apple orchard.
In the midst of limbs loaded with apples, it seems I was born knowing the legend of Johnny Appleseed. What American child doesn’t know the pioneer nurseryman and hero who tramped from his home in Massachusetts to Fort Wayne, Indiana, planting apple seeds?
Wait a minute. Massachusetts to Fort Wayne, Indiana? That means Johnny could’ve planted trees in Michigan. He owned over 1,200 acres of orchards in the Midwest. That’s quite a history for a barefooted man who sold trees and hard apple cider for pennies.
Dear Reader, this may sound preposterous, but is it possible Johnny Appleseed hammered those four toeholds into Grandmother Oak? Has my imagination swung over a cliff on a dead branch? 
Well, I do have a history of soft spots for trees. I think Johnny would be pleased.

While Dusting My Bedroom Furniture

Front, Maid-of-Honor jewelry-music box, and Al's Christmas gift from 1967

It’s an overture to dusting my bedroom dresser. I wind the key to my Maid-of-Honor jewelry-music box and lift the lid to “Lara’s Theme.” Omar Sharif comes to mind, those years of teenage infatuation.
My older sister who married in December1968 knew the song’s mandolin pulled on my heart's strings. I sang “Somewhere My Love” along with “We Can Work It Out” and “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” They all vibrated through my vocal cords in conviction and hope.
My husband and I married in January 1970. My sister’s gift has since survived many household purges to produce a tidier bedroom and benefit the Salvation Army. The box’s artwork of a woman reading a letter remains holy—a piece of many parts bind us together, no matter our history, differences, and distance.
What the keepsake and song represent is tangible. The honor to stand beside my sister, hold her bridal bouquet while she declared her vows, is a powerful experience. I cannot deny this any more than the large white jewelry chest that dominates the center of my dresser. Christmas our senior year of 1967, my boyfriend Al removed a tablecloth from my gift like a magician. I had no idea how I’d fill the three tiers and lower drawer of what resembles a queen’s treasure chest.
Al was the first to contribute with a small, silver heart locket and chain. Both chain and locket wait secure in the original box on a hand-painted plate from my mother’s dining room bureau. The box is stacked atop others holding gifts in need of repair and polishing.
Considering my early nomadic marriage, those unsettling years of the Vietnam War, it is another manifestation of grace that I still possess these gifts. As I rub Old English furniture polish into the dresser’s mahogany finish, I’m grounded again to a marriage of forty-eight years.
This is why I find cleaning my furniture a rewarding chore. Often I’ll explore the contents of each box and pouch to review the stages of my life—to remember the places Mel and I have traveled and what beautiful trinkets have sprung from them—and pieces inherited from our parents.  
It’s a comfort to dust the lawyer’s bookshelf that belonged to Mel’s mom and dad. As I read the spines of books we hauled from their home in Grand Rapids, titles such as Prefaces to Peace and The Music Lover’s Handbook, both acquired in 1943, I learn something new about lovers separated by WWII. Perhaps someday I’ll read their copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls.
I wipe my tall dresser, the bedside table we inherited from my mother, and my grandmother’s three-tiered table. All bear photos of family gone to glory and still with us. They tell love stories and sing songs I hide in my heart.
Praise God, dear Reader, my many loves are with me. All is working out. There ain’t no hardship high enough, ain’t no loss low enough, to keep me from dusting my bedroom furniture.