Moving Day

Jim stepped a boot-clad foot up into the cab of his yellow Peterbuilt, grabbed the wheel and swung into the seat. He banged the door closed. Through the open doorway of my house I could see him in the rattling cab, fiddling with his tunes before he took off down the 10 to LA. His moving crew, some local guys from the street corner in downtown Las Cruces, had already headed to the bar for a beer and a burrito. As I turned to go back into the house, he blasted his horn, and caught me with a wink and a smile. I waved one arm, and with the other, I pulled the collar of my blouse close around my neck.

The house inside was dark and considerably cooler than the desert heat in the front yard. I liked it that way. The sun had always seemed too bright, the sky too blue, the landscape too bare and brown. A puff of air stirred the dust on the tile floor as I closed the door. I walked over to the patio doors, my flip-flops snapping and echoing in the empty room. A band of smudges at dog nose height and a handprint on the glass door were all that was left to remind me of what I was leaving behind. I glanced out and saw that I’d forgotten to pack the pottery planter I’d bought on some day trip to Juarez. Damn. To beat the deadly boredom of my life here, I’d taken to driving my little station wagon across the border illegally without insurance. It seemed a real adventure, with the thrilling possibility of getting kidnapped or robbed and stabbed.

I walked into the kitchen to check the cupboards one last time. Black marks against the wall marked the positions of our chair backs, and the scratch on the counter brought back with startling clarity images of the broken glass and spilled tequila. The space the refrigerator occupied was empty, its snake of a icemaker hose dangling from the wall, a water drop waiting to fall from its mouth the minute I turned away. One by one I pulled open the drawers and doors. The only thing I found, aside from the usual crumbs in the corners, was a stray Corona bottle cap that I stuck in my pocket.

I put the house keys and garage door opener on the counter, locked the door from the inside and slid out into the heat. My car had been sitting on the street for hours, boxes stacked and crammed so high I’d probably get a ticket. Heat waves radiated upward from the metal: I was always shocked that the tires didn’t just melt into the asphalt. It was too hot to touch the door handle so I wrapped a towel around my hand, opened both doors and gingerly sat on the front seat. A chug and a shudder and the old station wagon started up. The air conditioning was shot, but the fan worked. I rolled the windows down and drove away. I didn’t look back.

Holiday Decorations

This year I hoped we would have a tall Christmas tree, one that when we put the star and angel on the top, we’d need to climb a ladder. Long branches drooping under the weight of ornaments, skimming the piles of wrapped gifts. A tree that I could sit under and hide from Santa – next Christmas I’d probably be too big. Instead my father went to his Greek friend at the vegetable stand on the highway crossroads and got the smallest tree they had. My little sister and I didn’t get to go with him to get the tree. He just showed up with the little thing.

I had never thought of our family as too poor to have a proper-sized tree. We seemed to have everything we needed: two kids, a mom and dad, a car, a house that was the same as the others on the block. The same, except for this year. This year our rooftop wasn’t outlined with colorful lights. Plywood Santa and his reindeer staked out their territory on the lawn next door.

With resourcefulness and resignation, Mother draped the coffee table with a cloth so the tree was at least as tall as we were. She hauled out the old cardboard boxes, dusty and dented and taped together at the corners. Inside, each ornament was wrapped carefully in worn tissue that we saved to rewrap them after the holiday. I worried about the tree lights. They were old, with cloth instead of plastic sheathing the wires and an old fashioned plug. Paint had cracked off the lights in some places. It was my dad’s job to put up the lights. Then he disappeared into his study while we draped the tree with tinsel and colored balls. Even though it was small, our tree sparkled while we admired it and listened to carols that evening. I wanted my father to share our excitement, but he said he was busy through the tightly shut door.

On Christmas morning we drove the two hours to my grandmother’s house so we could finally, finally open the presents. Santa had left our stockings to stave off our begging to ”just open one present.” This was the only day of the year that my sister and I could eat candy before breakfast. My mother’s sisters and their families filled our grandparents’ tiny house, but Mimi, my father’s mother was not there. “Where was she?” I wondered. I missed having her lap to sit on and her pillowy chest to lean against. Daddy told us that we’d visit Mimi on our way home. After a long day of playing and eating, we drowsed in the back seat heading for home.

Mimi had moved to a new house, one with a parking lot, a cross on the wall above her bed, nuns, and lots other ladies. At her bedside in the hushed and unfamiliar room I stood by my father as he sat stiffly in a chair. We looked at her, and that she didn’t know me, her favorite grandchild, scared me. We didn’t stay long.

It was dark when we arrived back home, silent and empty. My father went to his bedroom while Mother put us to bed. Usually Daddy tucked me in, first wrapping me in a blanket tightly – the mummy bag – and then drawing the bedcovers up to my chin, but I guessed tonight he wasn’t feeling so well.

10 Snarky Suggestions for Holiday Prezzies

1. The old adage, one must buy a present for oneself for each present one buys for another lends real meaning to the concept that it is better to give and receive.
2. Just so you don’t look cheap when Aunt Alice opens the heated toilet seat you so generously gave her this year, remove the original gift tag that shows Uncle Bob gave it to you last year.
3. Save yourself from the embarrassment of giving the same gift back to the person who gave it to you by removing the original gift tag at the last minute so you don’t accidentally forget.
4. Refer to last year’s gift list to see how much they spent on you so you don’t spend any more money than you need to.
5. Save the receipt for the sweater you bought for Cousin Susan, just in case Cousin Susan didn’t get you anything this year, so you can return it for one in your size.
6. Look through your closet for items you haven’t used, such as the set of wooden hangers, or something you have barely used, such as the size eight blouse, that doesn’t fit anymore. They will make perfect gifts for someone you hardly ever see.
7. Or (see #6 above) return the items to the store and buy a new gift that might be more appropriate.
8. Or (see #7 above) if you see something at the store you like, this might be the gift you get yourself to equal what you have bought for someone else (see #1 above)
9. Perfect gifts that you don’t have to buy include the place settings and overnight kits from your last First Class trip on United, tiny jams and mustard jars you found in the hotel hallway on somebody’s used room service tray, giveaway t-shirts from your company’s marketing department, and pens from your insurance broker or accountant
10. You can thrill your daughter with a hand-bound story about how cute she was and all the excitement it caused when she got her head stuck in the supermarket turnstile and it won’t cost you a dime.

The Cardinal Beret

The Swiss cheese, a baguette, and a container of cole slaw filled the grocery bag I packed for my grandmother. The slaw was from my mother’s famous recipe, and used a tarragon-flavored vinegar. I slipped in a bottle of 2001 Ridge cabernet at the last minute. I knew grandma liked wine with lunch, and hoped it might make her happy. She’d felt so sad this holiday season, her first Christmas since the death of my grandpa who died last December at age 61.

It was the winter break of my freshman year at Stanford. I’d led a sheltered upbringing in our small town of Half Moon Bay, isolated from the world over the hill. Grandma lived in San Francisco, so I had to take the train. My mother didn’t drive or have a car, and because I lived on campus in the dorms I usually walked wherever I needed to go. That was fine with me, because I was happier spending the days in my room reading than partying with the other students on my floor.

My roommate Susan gave me a lift to the train station. I loaded the bag into the back seat and adjusted the cardinal beret over my long blonde hair. Grandma had given me the red cap and a matching poncho when I was accepted at school, she was so proud. She had taken up knitting as a way to keep hands busy during the lonely evenings. I tried to spend time with her but had never gone to her apartment in the City by train before; she’d usually drive down the Peninsula and take me to lunch at Il Fornaio or Carpaccio’s.

Susan pulled up to the curb. “Give me a call when you leave the City. I’ll pick you up.” I took the bag, stepped over an oily spot on the pavement and shut the car door. “Thanks! It should be around 7 o’clock tonight,” I said.

The train was already there, so I rushed to buy a ticket and board. The only seat I could find was next to one taken by a man in a dark jacket and pants. He looked nice enough, so I went ahead and sat down. His jacket was grey Gucci and his dark hair curled around the neck of his cashmere sweater. I noticed a diamond in his ear, probably half a carat at least. When he spoke to me, it was in a rich accent, something I’d never heard before. “I am visiting from Italy,” he told me. He introduced himself to me as Rommy, short for Romulus.

The hour-long ride to the City seemed much shorter as we chatted about everything from music (I like Patti Smith, and he likes any type of jazz) to food (I like dim sum, and he likes barbecued flank steak) to art (I love Robert Arneson’s ceramic sculptures, and he likes photography by Mapplethorpe). By the time we arrived, I felt that I’d known him forever. I had his phone number and he had mine. “How about sharing a cab to your grandmother’s place?” he said. “I’m going that way, anyway.” I took him up on it because it had started to rain, and wasn’t looking forward to walking the seven blocks.

When the cab stopped in front of Grandma’s apartment, Rommy jumped out and ran around to my side of the door to open it for me. I blushed to think that I was really starting to like him. “I’ll give you a call later on tonight, if that’s ok with you,” he said. I nodded and turned to grandma’s door, my key in my hand.

Grandma opened the door before I could turn the key in the lock; she was so lonely that she was listening for every sound, waiting for me. When she opened the door, I rushed by her and ran into the kitchen. I threw the bag on the counter and screamed, “I found the man of my dreams!” Grandma hurried into the kitchen and held my shoulders, “Tell me about him!” We talked for a while and then I realized I was hungry. I opened the bag and took out the cheese and bread and slaw. Grandma opened the wine with her well-used ScrewPull. It was then that I discovered that I’d forgotten to bring any Dijon. “I’ll run down to the corner and get the mustard — we can’t do without — it will only take a minute!” So I ran out to the little French deli to get the mustard.

I didn’t notice that Rommy was sitting across the street in the bus stop. He must have been waiting for me to leave, knowing that I had to have Dijon. He knocked on Grandma’s door and in his charming manner, convinced her to open the door. Once inside, he grabbed her, konked her on the head, and stuffed her into the large freezer in her basement, planning to dismember her body and eat her later (he’d already eaten a large breakfast just outside the women’s locker room at the 24-Hour Fitness in Palo Alto.)

When Rommy removed his trousers, he smoothed the sandal-toe panty hose he always wore up around his hips. He took off his shirt and Gucci jacket and slipped into Granny’s 38D Wacoal bra. Then he opened her drawer and found a black negligee. It fit perfectly, so he wrapped a scarf around his hair, slid into Grandma’s bed, and pulled the covers up to his nose.
I returned, out of breath. The door swung open as I started to put the key into the lock. What’s up here? Grandmas didn’t answer my call, so I walked around her apartment to see if anything was out of the ordinary. I peeked into her bedroom and saw that she was in bed. “What’s wrong, Grandma?”

I walked over to the bed and sat on the DKNY duvet cover. She moved just a little and pulled the covers up tight against her lower eyelashes. “Grandma! I never noticed that you had such large hands before!” “All the better to knit caps and ponchos for my dear granddaughter,” she said.

She kicked at the covers — it was getting warm in the room. I saw a foot under the New Zealand virgin wool blanket. “Grandma! I didn’t know your feet were so big!” And she replied, “All the better to run in the Bay to Breakers, my dear.”

Rommy became warmer and more agitated and the Chanel scarf fell away from his hair. “Grandma! What large ears you have, and I love your diamond stud,” I said, almost petulantly, because Grandma had never bought me a diamond for my birthday, even though it was in April. Everybody knows that April’s birthstone is diamond. Grandma replied, “All the better to hear you beg for more things, even though I am on a fixed income.” I understood, and with tears welling up inside, said, “Oh, Grandma, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me all these years — the tuition at Crystal Springs School, the trips to Paris and China, everything! I love you Grandma!”

Grandma smiled, and reached out to hug me. It was then that I noticed her abnormally large canines, shiny and white. “Grandma, what large teeth you have,” I cried. Rommy sprang from the bed and attacked me, but I had realized at that moment he was not Grandma. “All the better to bite your neck and eat your sweet meat,” said Rommy.

I ran from the bedroom into the kitchen. Rommy caught my Manalho Blaniks ankle strap stiletto; my foot slipped out of it. Swiftly, I unbuckled my other shoe, and with a strong blow, I gouged his eye out with its heel. Rommy groaned, fell to the floor and with his dying breath whispered, “Grandma is in the freezer. If you thaw her, she will have had suspended animation and won’t know that time has passed.”

I ran to the JennAire freezer and lifted the lid. I hauled Grandma out. After about an hour, the pink came back to her cheeks. “Where’s the Ridge?”

“Oh Grandma! I love you so much! I am so grateful for all your help! Without you I would never have been able to go to Stanford!” I hugged her and kissed the red tip of her nose.
The End

An Afternoon Boat Trip

The smell of the boat’s diesel engine and the lurching movement made my stomach roil. I took another sip of the tea. I wondered if I’d throw up this time. I never knew if the feeling would go away or get worse. My husband Michael, our friends Paul and Linda, and I were on a day fishing trip about five miles out of the Mendocino harbor. Our two-year-old daughter Lisa was sitting on the floor of the cabin playing with her doll. Maybe the unease I felt was anxiety. I’d never felt safe with Michael at the wheel, whether it was our car, the boat, or our lives. He’d wanted to live on board the boat. I wondered about his sanity, and found us a little house on solid ground.

I didn’t know he was looking for a boat until he took me down to the dock at Noyo harbor, the fishing center of Fort Bragg. He led me down the floating dock to a boat with Mary J lettered in crude hand painted letters on the bow. How could I be impressed with the peeling paint and the ungainly lines? Its oily smell? The sad little bunk under the front deck and the rusty two-burner propane stove? I guessed that this was a working boat, not one to be admired, but one considered a necessity if he wanted to belong to the fishing community.

Our friends Paul and Linda were lying away from the wind on the aft hatch cover, smoking a joint, and listening to Jimi Hendrix on the tape deck. They were both from New York, with exotic accents.

I had bent down to pick Lisa up when I heard a snap and a whomp, the crash of the cabin glass, and felt shards rain on my hair. The Mary J listed starboard, its mast broken. Lisa screamed, and I clutched her, trying not to cry myself. Through the doorway I could see dark water slapping, threatening the deck. Our broken mast pulled us sideways into the oncoming swells.

The rotten, splintered end of the mast that missed hitting Linda by inches. Paul was lying on top of Linda. She was yelling. His sunglasses skittered across the deck and stopped by the coiled rope. With great effort, it seemed, they dragged themselves up, moved back to the stern, and sat on the deck.

Michael ran up the bow and down to the cabin door where I stood. He grabbed my shoulder. “Hold the wheel into the seas or we’ll go down!” he yelled over Linda’s cries. I took the wheel. As I held Lisa in one arm, I clamped my fingers around the spokes of the wheel into the oncoming seas, piloting a boat for the first time in my life. The stiff sea breeze sharpened my senses. I looked out at the glittering Pacific, its horizon shifting like a kids’ slow-moving seesaw. I strained my eyes searching for something, someone who could possibly help.

The oily engine smell rankled my nose. Even over the grind of the engine I could hear Michael shouting to Paul, “Pull the mast and lines alongside, watch your hands, careful now!” I tightened my grip around Lisa, anchored my sandals against the base of the captain’s chair, and with my strong left arm held the course westerly, into the oncoming seas. My thighs wedged against the seat, my feet splayed outward. I rode the waves crest to trough and back to the crest, and softened my knees. I breathed in deeply, loosened my shoulders, and I thought to myself: this isn’t the beginning of my career as a ship’s captain, but it’s the end of me as a fishwife.

Michael stepped back down into the cabin, lifted the mike off the box, and called for help. The radio answered in a scratchy voice, ”What is your position?” Even though it had been only minutes since the mast broke, it felt like we’d been out here forever. Each wave knocked the mast against the boat’s side, pounding the old wooden planks and I heard the bilge pump start. I didn’t even know if the tattered life jackets would hold up under our weight. I looked at the horizon past the choppy water and knew that we had a chance of sinking unless help came fast.

Michael responded with our general location, and after about ten minutes I saw a couple of fishing boats making their way toward us, bobbing up as we bobbed down. As they came closer, I could see they were regular guys, fishermen out of Noyo Harbor. They came alongside us and helped us secure the lines and broken mast to our boat. We limped in to the harbor, listing but now safe.

In the silence during the drive home, I made up my mind. The following week, Michael took the Mary J out on an overnight fishing trip up the coast. I packed the suitcases in the trunk, set Lisa on the back seat and drove onto the highway going south. I had to take him by surprise this time, or he’d defeat me again. I’d had time to prepare. My wallet held the money that I’d been saving for months. My friend Linda agreed to let me stay at their flat in the City. I had tasted control, and I liked it.

I wanted to clean out my closet

Organized Living was having a sale on wooden hangers, buy 3, get 3 free. So of course I needed them, 60 of them. My closet needed them. All my clothes would be lined up neatly, from red to orange to green and blue, with black and white at each end, hanging on beautiful wooden hangers instead of the snaggy plastic ones. I marched out of the store with steely reserve: today is the day I will actually do it. I will clean my closet.

At home again I pulled open the closet doors, matching their squeak with a groan, “What am I doing on a nice day like today, inside cleaning my closet?”

”It’s not something you can put off any more,” I heard my mother’s voice nagging me inside my head. So I wheedled to myself, “Besides, you might find something you’ve been looking for!”
I pulled everything from the floor of the closet out into the room. What was that Pilates thigh-squeezing appliance doing there? I’d been looking for it since my birthday. Next to it was my beach bag, which spilled some sand onto the floor. My old bathing suit was inside smelling like seaweed and suntan lotion. Aha – and there were the clothes I bought on sale for when I was going to lose those 15 pounds. I unhooked the hangers from the rod, an armload of stiff old starched shirts, scratchy woolen sweaters, that silk tank top with a thin plastic cover from when I actually took my clothes to the cleaners. These I tossed on the bed. I had to sit down and take stock of the situation.

As I looked up into the closet, I noticed some boxes on the top shelf. I needed the ladder to reach them. The ladder was in the garage with the new hangers, so I went out to get them. What a fantastic day for a walk, I thought, as I looked around outside. The new flowers I’d planted needed watering, but such a nice day. The ladder was way in the corner of the garage, behind my bicycle. I’d had the bike tuned up last weekend, but hadn’t had a chance to ride it yet. “Just a spin around the block – you deserve it, having spent all week in that cave of a cubicle,” I told myself. So I wheeled it out and down the driveway. My neighbor Jack was in his front yard, so I stopped to chat. “Wait a minute,” I heard the scolding voice in my head say, “what are you thinking? Get back in that house and clean out your closet this instant.”

Again in the bedroom, I set the ladder up, climbed it and pulled down an old box that was tied with an old wrinkled red ribbon. My fingers felt the dust on the top and my nose reacted. I placed the box on the bed, pushing the clothes aside. The masking tape label read, “round doilies, etc.” in my mother’s handwriting. I couldn’t remember seeing this box before, but it must have been there for at least 3 years, since she’d died in 2002. I pulled the ribbon off the box and opened it. It smelled faintly of my parents’ hall closet, and again, quite dusty. Inside was a faded green tablecloth and some yellowed potholders wrapped in crinkled white tissue. Some of the cloths had appliqués and embroidery, hand crochet and cutwork.

I seemed to remember a long-ago family gathering, the green cloth not so faded as it is now. Then came a scene from my grandmother’s kitchen, complete with a fragrant angel food cake just out of the oven, and those potholders hanging in a neat line on hooks.

I spent the rest of the afternoon looking through the pieces, wondering where they’d come from, who made them and when. It was dark outside when I finished putting the old things away. I put the box back on the shelf, and the hangers back on the rod. I think the closet can wait for another day.

Bridey needs a sister

I had almost postponed my trip into the pet store when I saw the “Cat and Kitten Adoptions Today” sign on the highway. But I decided to call up my rusty assertiveness training and give it some practice. Even though I’m a sucker for the cute little furry things, I am a single mother to an only cat-child. It’s difficult to raise one alone. I pulled my coat tight across my chest, and with chin tucked to neck I marched into the store. My only mission: cat food.

The energy level in the pet store was high: people humming with conversation, customers crowding about, and less room, it seemed. The heady scent of kibble, rubber chew toys and catnip permeated the air. The owner’s large golden retriever was sprawled next to the cash register as usual, oblivious to the buzz. Her right paw twitched along with her eyebrow as she chased a gopher around in her dream. Folding tables topped with cages in the middle of the store blocked my path to the salmon-flavored gourmet veterinarian-endorsed dry cat food.

Inside each wire cage were two to four kittens nested in torn newspaper. Some were trying to nap while others rolled, growled, and bit at each other’s necks. I felt my lips press themselves into a determined line. I averted my eyes. I looked for the salmon colored bag on the crowded shelves, but I saw a little movement in the nearest cage and had to investigate. When I was sure that no one was looking, I stepped toward the cage to get a better view of its contents. I smiled a bit. But I caught myself: This is not good. I must force my feet to walk right by them. With steely resolve I decided to take another path to the cat food bags.

As I made my way over towards the shelves, I almost bowled over the tiny grey-haired woman who was clutching a clipboard. I guess it was because I’d been squinting my eyes so I couldn’t see the kittens. I apologized and checked her for obvious bruises and cuts. She had a nametag pinned to her sweater that read, "Geraldine.” She had kind, watery blue eyes. At that instant, I knew that I was in trouble. She was the enemy.

"Hello, we have some kittens that we are adopting out to good homes." She led me to the tables and we both bent over to look inside the cages. The furry little bundles squirmed, and my eyes rested on the one that's different from the others. I found myself already picking out the one I’d like best. The one with the same color and markings of my cat. She was brindle, brown fur tipped in black and with golden eyes. Her chin and front paws were a soft, velvety white. All the other cats in the cage, and there were four of them, were all black, or black and white. No one would be able to tell that she’d been adopted.

I had been thinking about adopting a homeless kitten for some time, but I always change my mind. My cat is named Bridey. I met her in the animal shelter in New Mexico where we lived, when I was looking for my lost cat, Dorian. Dorian disappeared and we never found him. I searched for over a month around our desert subdivision and made daily visits to the animal shelter to look for Dorian. I think that a coyote caught him.

I recycled the kitten adoption thought in my brain. Why not have another kitten to keep Bridey company? She must be lonely all day while I am at work. Plus, only cat-children tend to be spoiled. It would be good for her to learn to share.

I looked Geraldine in the eyes, I’d like to give that kitten a good home, I said. I told Geraldine that I liked that one because her markings were just like my cat. As soon as I heard myself say the words, I thought what a dumb thing I’d said – what kind of reason was that to get a cat? Because it matches the one I already have? I really needed to watch what I said. Don’t just blurt out anything.

“Just fill out this form,” she said as I took the clipboard from her. I could see that this was going to take some time. The clipboard held four pages with questions on front and back. There were more questions than there are on the DMV driving test. The form asked all the usual questions plus some interesting ones like, “What if you move away, what will you do with the cat,” and “How many hours a day will you spend with the cat,” and “What other pets do you have, who is the vet, when did you last take your pet to the vet, and why did you take your pet to the vet?” I was kind of surprised that they didn’t ask me for my height, weight and swab my cheek for my DNA.

Now, I figured these are reasonable questions, designed to root out people who aren’t in love with animals. So I sat down in a folding chair and started to write. By the time I got to the last page the cramp in my hand hurt pretty bad. I rubbed my neck while I thought up the most appropriate answers; the answers that would make the animal adoption people believe that I really do love cats. Bridey sleeps on my bed every night, and has me well trained. I am her unpaid door opener. She lives in my house rent-free and doesn’t have to do any chores.

With the form completed, I was turned over to another woman, heavy-set with arms folded across her generous bosom. Her nametag read, “Erma.” Erma was wearing a long flowing dress patterned with calico cats. Over her dress she has a fleece vest with a silver cat pin. Cute little cat earrings adorn her ears.

Erma eyed me critically and said she could start the interview. Interview? A tiny terror gripped my throat. I swallowed hard. My head started to throb. I just wanted to give a kitten a good home. A home with a respectable parent. A home with a warm bed and good food. A kind and loving home that would be the envy of all the other cats in the neighborhood. It occurred to me that maybe I was being a little paranoid. So I focused on her questions. I gave myself a little pep talk: this can’t be that hard…you can do it. I cleared my throat and smiled confidently.

“Is your cat an indoor or outdoor cat?” she queried. She had a slightly nasal tone. She tapped her foot on the carpet impatiently. I noticed that her socks were embroidered with little kitties. I knew this question was on the form I filled out, and she was looking at it. I couldn’t remember what I had written. I had tried to answer the questions the way I thought they wanted me to answer them. Overall, though, I was pretty honest.

Wondering if it’s a trick question, I said, “My cat goes inside and outside at will except at night.” Sweat trickled down the inside of my elbows. I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I’d never had a job interview that was so difficult. “In fact, she will come in one door and a minute later ask to go out another,” I chortled, as beads of sweat developed along my upper lip. I saw the thin skin around Erma’s eyes tighten. She drew a long breath in through her nose. “Well, the cat you want is an indoor cat, only,” and her stress was on the word only. Immediately my mind started running like a hamster on the wheel. How could I get out of this? There was no way to keep a cat inside the house with Bridey running in and out of every door and window.

“She has never been outside and can’t ever go outside. She is not trained to be scared of wild animals.” Now, something in what she said started my mind to work. I think that animals, especially cats, are instinctively cautious. If a cat hasn’t been outside, it probably won’t want to go there; but if it wants to get out, nothing will be able to stop it. So after a few more questions, she figures I pass the test. I nearly fall off the chair with relief, but my pants are so sweaty they prevent me by sticking to the seat. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I promise to keep the kitten inside at all times.

They give you a week of waiting time to make sure that you don’t change your mind. Then they visit your house to see if you were indeed, truthful. I buy the cat food and drive home. The farther I get from the pet store, the more apprehensive I am feeling. What if they come over to bring the kitten and I don’t pass inspection? What if Bridey bites the kitten on its neck when Erma sets it down in the living room? What if they check my references and find out that once I had eight cats and no litter box because they all went out through the broken pane of the kitchen window?

I start wondering how I was going to keep this cat inside if my other cat was always going in and out. Would the new kitten have issues? I know that my Bridey will be jealous and mock her new sister through the closed door. Will the new kitten plot fiendishly to get out through the chimney? What if something happened to this kitten?

I thought of my Dorian and the coyote. Even though there weren’t any coyotes around here, we still have cars racing along the streets, the mangy tomcat, skunks and raccoons, and the threat that someone would kidnap Bridey because she’s so friendly. Bridey hadn’t liked it when I took her to the vet the last time. She’d been beat up pretty bad by the new neighbor’s cat and the vet gave her stitches, medicine and a cone collar. Even though she controls the bird and gopher population she’s lucky she is still alive at six years old. I began to reconsider my opinion of myself as a good mother to Bridey. No good mother would expose her precious to danger, disease and possible poisoning this way. It would be more reasonable to keep both cats inside, instead of one in and one out, and I could start now in the rainy season. I got out the earplugs to prepare for Bridey’s complaints. Besides, the birds in the neighborhood will thank me.

The skill I never learned – softball

Every year in March since I’d started my job at the software company the email popped into my computer, softball season is here – join the team! Not one for after-work camaraderie, I’d always clicked delete and moved on. But after 4 years of hearing about all the great fun they were having and especially that they’d finally won the top honors that season, I was determined to join. Luckily for me there wasn’t a tryout and this was a coed team short on women players.
I’ve never thought of myself as the overweight 50-ish woman that I am. In my mind, I am a youthful, energetic person who loves aerobics and cycling. Never mind that I stopped going to the gym every day when I started working for the software company. Although I’d been on several cycling tours in Europe, my training was done for three or four months prior to each trip, and it had been two years since that killer visit to Greece’s torturous mountain roads.
I remembered the days of high school softball and the only team sport I played after school. A dim recollection of being socked in the chest with the softball didn’t discourage me – I have better reflexes now. Fond memories of my father tossing the ball for me to hit superceded any of those thoughts. The fact that I couldn’t throw the ball worried me a little, but what the heck, I can learn anything I set my mind to.
My husband and I drove to the sporting goods store. One of my favorite photographs of him is one that was taken when he played varsity baseball in high school. He was a catcher. He still even had his catcher’s glove. So he would be able to advise and help pick out everything for the first game.
First I needed shoes. I tried on several pairs and chose the black leather Adidas with this long tongue that folded back over the laces and attached with Velcro. I felt much taller in these rubber-spiked shoes. Very professional looking if I might say so myself as I admired them in the mirror.
Over in the glove section, I was amazed to see a whole aisle of the store lined ceiling to floor with gloves for ball playing. Gloves for left and right hands, sizes from tiny to giant, lots of colors in light and dark, black leather with soft furry lining to protect the wrist, contrasting laces of every imaginable style. Gloves specially for catching, first base, pitching – I was surprised there weren’t specific gloves for afternoon and evening games.

My favorite color – in defense of green

It wasn’t until we had moved to the dusty beige high desert of New Mexico that I realized how much I missed green. Growing up on the California coast, green was a given. Especially in spring, when the hillsides and fields, riotous with golden daisies and purple heather, settled on a broad blanket of green. Huge cypress with verdant wings protected the meandering olive manzanitas that marked the streams. The dusky green Pacific on a wintery, stormy dark day when the waves battered the beach. Our trips back to visit friends reminded us just how much green meant to us.

Even as the desert was devoid of so much plant life, it was also stingy with another kind of green – the kind you keep in your wallet. So after trying for more than 4 years to find a living we moved back home to the coast. Back to our house which we promptly painted green.

I guess I never really thought about green being my favorite color, but thinking back to my childhood, I can remember lots of green: the dark green sectional sofa, cars in metallic green and medium green. Green crayons, smelling slightly oily in all the special tints and pastels. The green trim around the windows, and the humongous green lawn in front of every house. Everyone in my family had green eyes of one type or another. And there was always the green dress my sister got when school started, when I got the red one: for me, that green was envy. It must be the comfort color of my childhood that I long for. My new sofa is green, and my laptop has a green cover. My eyes are greener when I wear my favorite green shirt. Even my toes are green.

Now I am wondering what this all means. I’m sure some expert has published psychological profiles of those who favor green over the dominant ruby red. Of course there are the dull green hospital walls, and the pale green interior of the IRS office that hold bad memories. So let’s say that my green needs to be lively. This must be a good thing. Maybe my love of green means that I love life, that I need to have space to grow intellectually, and that Christmas trees make me happy. But green in nature seems to be found just in minerals and plant life. Who ever heard of a green dog or cat? Does this mean that I feel more comfortable in nature, rather than around pink or brown or black people? But dress them up in green – that’s another story.