Songs My Mother Taught Me

Last night I saw a program about the great opera singers of the world. It stirred memories that had not been acknowledged in many years.

My mother had a magnificent voice. She was a true diva. She had the flare, voice, beauty, and temperament of a diva. She was tall 5’7 and svelte with rich black curly hair, black eyes and porcelain skin. However, she was also possessed by an inability to break from an oppressive home life in which she was forced to give her wages as a seamstress to her parents. It was from her I inherited my gift.

At three, she was adopted from the Foundling Home in New York City. Unfortunately, when her new parents, who had dressed her in a white satin dress and a big white bow, brought her back to Ohio she was used as a slave child. They were immigrants from Italy.

Italy is a place of sun, warmth, and supposedly love. The thought of these people farming this child out for such work and her suffering even greater abuses at home brings me an unfathomable despair even now. I learned of this misery only upon the birth of my first child when mom thought that I was mature enough to hear of such things.

When her parents prevented her from receiving singing lessons from a well-known teacher, she settled for the boy next door, the ditch digger. However, only after she lied about a nonexistent pregnancy, which allowed for such a marriage in the thirties, was she allowed to marry my father.

Seldom, did she sing for others. Nevertheless, we went to the Metropolitan Opera often. We ate very poorly, but we went to the Met. Though the three of us sat in the highest tier of the old Met, just envision the stage being the size of a small matchbox, my sister, mother and I were always dressed in lace and satin, as she had become a seamstress of the finest caliber.

I spent many hours being dragged in tow traveling the Bronx from fabric store to fabric store looking for the perfect pieces for outfits for the next opera season.

When she was not sewing, she was at a local school for the blind where she worked in the laundry. I remember watching the churning washing machines after school while sitting on a stool in a corner. It was actually a child’s chair.

In retrospect, I realize that it was the only place she could sit in that room.

Even as a child I wondered how the loud plop plop of those huge machines affected one whose soul was anchored in melody.

I do not know how she did it, but she managed to teach some of the blind nuns how to mend their cloths. It was the early fifties and credentials were not as important as they are today. Ultimately, she was allowed to teach the children, branched out to all areas of activities of daily living, and ended up on the President’s Council for the Blind in Washington taking part in writing the original curriculum for home economics for blind children.

However, she never did what was dearest to her heart. She never sang. Instead, she cried. She cried when I sang, when my sister sang, when Beverly Sill’s sang and when Joan Sutherland sang.

I don’t sing anymore. Unlike my mother I was allowed to attend Julliard. I have had my time on the stage. Not long, successful on a small scale, but I at least had my chance.

Strangely, I never had a great desire to sing. However, that is another story. I had some fun, some recognition, and some challenges. Like anything in life, things loose importance. Friends ask me to sing. Ego prevents the sharing. The notes are not as powerful, the breath is weak. I am lazy and have found other ways of expression. In truth, some of the words to arias I learned as a child have tiptoed out of memory.

I have a good and happy life. However, last night I cried: For myself, my mother, lost dreams, relief from the responsibility of natural gifts. I was alone-it was a low cry-steady-with the measured breath of the past. It was almost as if it was another person. It came out of my mouth but emanated in my heart. It was my mother.

Copyright © 2009 by m.m.sugar






Songs my mother taught me!

Songs my mother taught me
In the days long vanish'd
Seldom from her eyelids
Were the teardrops banish'd

Now I teach my children
Each melodious measure
oft the tears are flowing
oft they flow from my mem'ry treasure

ANTONIN DVORAK

I like a man who knows what he is up against!

"Woman is at once the serpent, the apple-and the bellyache."

H.L. Mencken

"I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man."

G. Meredith

"Are you visiting women? Do not forget your whip!"

F. Nietzsche

Prejudice is like charity!

The KKK has returned to Long Island. No great conspiracy is suspected. However, how can we be sure that the person who is leaving KKK flyers on windshields is a lone bigot without a support system? We cannot be sure.

Hundreds of flyers have been found in several parking lots: perhaps just a hand full of bigots. Does it matter?

“Join the Klan and save our land” is the message. ”We of the United Northern & Southern Knights of the Ku Klux Klan are unapologetically committed to the interest and values of the white race!”

Veterans of the Confederacy established the Klan in 1865 to guarantee white Southern supremacy.

Long Island evidenced it’s particular brand of bigotry in the early 20’s when the white robed bigots burned crosses in villages throughout the counties. This movement was overt. It is estimated that close to 25,000 men and women were members in good standing attending meetings and even parades without shame.

African –Americans, Catholics, Jews and foreign-born Americans were all targeted.

Long Island was a place of equal opportunity discrimination.

There has been relative calm since then with the occasional bigot who can be found in line at the movies, at the coffee shop or gas station.

So what is happening? Fear of a black president is thought to be the driving force behind this resurgence.

Catholics and Jews are relatively safe these days though those from Mexico are certainly experiencing the sting of discrimination as our job ratio has proportionately grown in their favor.

However, African- Americans have continued to be burdened with the biggest slice of the prejudice pie.


This country was founded on the premise of equality.


Where did the baby boomers learn their prejudice? From whence came the newest generation's prejudice?

It’s like charity folks-it begins at home!

Fight For Freedom

An old war is being fought in California. It is about Civil Rights. This is supposedly the most liberal and conscious country in the world. Yet, not every person has equal rights. Lack of knowledge, old belief systems, religion, .........

We are not there yet. Fear is a great enemy. People fear things that they do not understand and thus it is branded as bad/unacceptable.

Freedom is a given in this country. You are not supposed to have you fight for it. Yet, the battle goes on for the sick, poor, elderly, gays, women, and all minorities.

It starts in our own small corner. It starts with acts of kindness and attempted acts of understanding. It starts with accepting people as they are. Unfortunately, not everyone is capable of such magnanimous purity of spirit.

Those of us who do understand can attempt to be a bit more understanding while we are being teachers, sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce. Nevertheless, we must simultaneously fight the good fight!

For “The superior virtue is not to be free but to fight for freedom”

Nikos Kazantzakis

copy cat

This is how I felt before I read and watched The Wishful Writer's last blog.







This is how I felt after reading, and watching The Wishful Writer's last blog.

Change Happens?

Yesterday it was hot and muggy. The windows were wide open and my cats sat on the windowsills basking in the sun. Today I attended a seminar wearing two shirts, a turtle neck and a jacket of significant weight.

So what's going on? It's change, one of the things we can depend on when it comes to weather.

Alas, some things never change, they are a given, such as death and taxes and the extant prejudice against we who love others of the same sex.

I know that I am preaching to the choir, so accept my apologies. I am just so fed up. It's the old choice argument.

Why do people say that we choose this lifestyle? Surely they don't believe it, no one is that stupid, are they?

Today, at the university, I sat with two women in their forties who shared that they were returning to college. During the break, a mere 20 minutes while I was desperately scoffing down my lunch, I witnessed this conversation.

"What do you think?"
"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure"
"He's good looking, he could probably get a good looking girl, that is if he bothered to try!"
"Well you know, they don't even bother. I think that at some point at least, well don't you think they get tired of the experimentation?

One turned to me. "What do you think?" she asked.
"What? I 'm sorry I guessed I missed it."
"The lecturer. Do you think he's gay?"
"Probably." I said with a broad smile. "We gay folk make the best lecturers. I always get excellent evals from my own students. We have a flare for it I guess."

I am hoping that I have at least one of them as a student in the Spring semester!

Sugar, sugar, everywhere!

Today I found the ultimate in debauchery, bubblegum flavored toothpaste!

Candy really is my favorite poison. I bet you thought that it was the other thing. I can eat candy just about any time anywhere. Not just any candy however, I have my favorites and sometimes it is by season. Take Halloween for instance. Though Halloween lends itself to diversity, I do favor candy corn. You can find most any candy on the shelves in October except one, my most beloved candy of all, Nicco's, I love you hearts that come out for Valentine’s Day. Pure unadulterated sugaaarrrrrah!

At Easter, it’s the marshmallow peeps, and raspberry chocolate covered eggs and at Christmas, it’s the entire box of chocolates that people bring instead of fruitcake. Thank the goddess.

When I was a kid I used to steal candy from my sister’s Halloween and Easter baskets and I was accused of biting the head off her chocolate Santa’s at Christmas. I never confessed to that!

With both my pregnancies came threats of hospitalization. I ate, now I guess you will doubt this, at least three candy bars at night and sometimes many more. Scouts honor! I could not help myself. Just think of it, one Baby Ruth then a Fifth Avenue bar then a Milky Way followed by a Three Musketeers. Love those Musketeers!

My husband had to hide the stuff. There were threats of passing out, diabetes, harming the baby. Nothing worked. I had a stash everywhere in the house. Food, sex, socialization, writing and even reading baby books were passé. I had a mission, not purposeful but unconquerable, to consume as much as the white stuff I could in the shortest amount of time.

To this day, I have been known to go out in heavy rains at midnight if I really want a piece of candy. By the way, I don’t keep it in the house. The temptation is too great.

I am an equal opportunity sugar consumer. Pie is last on the list; Key Lime is ok as long as it is smothered in whip cream. There are two preferable ice creams, pistachio and butter crunch both of which must be heavily laden with caramel syrup and marshmallow whip and whipped cream. I can be quite appreciative of the right cake; tiramisu has been the pick for at least ten years.

I kind of rotate through the year and right now, it is red Twizzlers, Ju Ju Bes and Reisens.

I have met people who have no tolerance for the stuff. They abhor the taste of sweetness on the tongue. What is the matter with these people?




Sugar is addictive. Comfort food? I know the score, the symptoms. Before I got this addiction under control, I would walk around in a daze. Sugar is just like cocaine and opium. They are all natural substances, cocaine is the refined product of cocoa leaves, and opium comes from poppies and sugar from the cane.

Distinct from the others like alcohol etc., if you are savvy enough you can enjoy a bit of a sugar without going off the deep end. I have a rule: two a day. Whatever they are is just fine as it still beats the days when I was chemically compelled to consume an entire bag of miniature tootsie rolls and a bag of chuckles at one sitting.

No, I am not kidding!

Sugar, like any other addiction is an escape! Sometimes I will go for days without any simply to prove that I can. Remember what Benjamin Franklin said!

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar



“Thou hadst better eat salt with the Philosophers of Greece, than sugar with the Courtiers of Italy.”

Choice

It’s Africa hot. I know Africa. I have slept during the night in 30-degree weather and begged for air and shade by the next noon. Wearing layers of clothing, as instructed, I peeled each layer off in frenzied delirium as I marked the passing of every morning hour.

Ah! Sweltering here on Long Island in the middle of October? The sun has come and gone throughout the day. It is dreary and virtually menacing. There is no breeze so the ginger tinged leaves hesitate, waiting for permission to descend to the steamy ground. The majestic oaks still secreted under the sprigs are anxious to flaunt their bark, their armor, ready for the winter confrontation. Everything awaits the natural progression of life.

I need the sun. When the winter comes, anything is bearable as long as there is sun.

The east coast seldom disappoints me. Most days are favored with bright light. During the coldest record breaking snowstorms the sun has brilliantly shown, indifferent to the other forces of nature and the expectations of mortals. Such sovereignty!

It is different where she lives. In Scotland, the rain comes on most days of the year, blessing the earth, keeping it fertile and green for the sheep and cows that graze across the road from our home.

The days are short. When I fly in it is dark with the sunrise coming two hours after landing. As we drive over hilltops on the west, it is a roller coaster ride along the sea, first steeply up and falling quickly into the cavernous valleys. The surf crashes briskly against the rocks and then again slides down into the oblivion of the Firth of Clyde.

In winter, dark cloaks the town by 5 pm. One is suddenly embraced by this nightfall prompting thoughts of mortality and extinction. It is a primitive place with a church whose dead have rested there for hundreds of years. Evenings are spent with a gas stove rendering one grateful as the hardships of past inhabitants are considered.

Two worlds, one bright, the other either coming out of the darkness or into it.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

"The difficulty in life is the choice."
George A. Moore



"Between two stools one sits on the ground."
Francois Rabelais


“I’ll have that one, please”
H.B. Tree

When love comes late Part II

Love came to me late in life or perhaps I finally came to love.

We both wish we had known each other in the bud of youth. She has a picture of me in my early twenties with long flowing hair. She has confessed that that is with whom she makes love to on occasion. I have a picture of her with a wide-open face revealing the totality of her character through pervasive blue eyes.

Yet, we know each other in the glow of maturity, motherhood, warmth, compassion and passion of pure glee mixed in with the frantic grasp of those drowning at the side of the Titanic, so we know love. It is richness like that of the gems that come from her native South Africa and broadness like that of the ocean standing like a forbidding parent between us.

We have been on different wavelengths since we first spoke. Different: cultures, humor, spiritual belief systems, I could fill up the page.

It has been a difficult time. Yet, from the beginning, I had a sense of her. At first, there was observation, which slowly brought me into an unconscious meeting of her half way. I assert unconscious because I thought that I was still on the observation deck.

She is quite the charmer. Those of you who read her, well need I say more?

Though she calls me the impossible American, I tend to give people space. However, she is as demanding as she is a smoker, unrelenting, constant, resolute; gives no space “just do as I say sweetheart”.

I am called impossible because I say, “yeah right?”

Somehow, in the last year the observation deck became a vague memory and I quickly, but I must admit wholeheartedly, slipped into conscious awareness that I was in love.

Scary, I had been so well protected. Armed, I had worn the psychological chastity belt of the Crusades my entire adult life. Intimacy was not my forte. Playing with impossible relationships always followed by the predictable lamentations was my custom.

We are finally on the same page. Upon rising, I check in, her day is well into the afternoon. We speak many times during the day: Common things, life things, just to exchange, nothing of great import.

Yet, it is a connection. We speak of holding each other on a rainy night. The simplicity is undeniable and incomprehensible.

She will be on my side of the Atlantic in two weeks. There will be twenty-nine days of tenderness, hilarity, ardor, arguments, and then the trip back to the airport.

One wonders what side of the pond each one of us will die upon!

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

When love comes late

"Love's like the measles-all the worse when it comes late in life."


Douglas Jerrold

An Essay on Criticism

"Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or judging ill"

Alexander Pope

Take a second look!

We have lived across the street from each other for over 30 years. Several years ago, her husband had a stroke. Her six kids have been quite attentive to their father’s needs. They take turns keeping him in their homes for weeks at a time. They take him to the doctor, physical therapy and they have all changed their families eating habits to accommodate his health needs.

Yet, they have forgotten about their mother. I began to see changes in her about a year after his stroke. At first, I thought that it was stress. A woman who took her appearance seriously was wearing slippers to the store. Our past exchanges were seldom lengthy as she was always in a rush with such a huge family. However, during the last two years she has ignored my hellos, walking past me as though she didn’t know me, left in the middle of her own sentence, or left without answering my question about her husband’s health.

I became somewhat suspicious. Last week I spoke with her eldest daughter who accused her mother of jealousy and anger due to the families concern about their father. “Mom has become rude. I cannot believe it. She doesn’t return calls. She hasn’t come to appointments. She’s even claimed that she’s unaware that she promised she would take Dad for the day or baby sit with one of the preschoolers. We all angry with her, for goodness sake we are taking care of Dad to make it easier for her. She disappears for an entire day and she’s not keeping the house in order. My god she’s rebelling like a teenager!”

I asked a few questions. My neighbor's dismissiveness of me was simply coincidental with her husband’s illness. Her entire family was so focused on their father that they had been overlooking the fact that their mom was suffering some form of dementia.

Twenty days and counting.

This relationship, this insanity has been going on and off for four years. Long distance relationships are a horror except when you are together. The only time we get along is when we are cohabiting-wait-isn’t that the way it is supposed to be?

We flow, we are yin and yang, soft and hard, male and female, master and what? We share some characteristics of the roles we are, not play. Within our individual persona, there is a deep river of character, an intransigence that bows to no other’s laws whether written or assumed.

I have always known my essence. A formidable, yet feminine woman, my Italian heritage and theatre background supported my eccentricities allowing for their acceptance as my norm. As a young woman, I pranced around in spiked heels, and depending on the occasion, smooth white plumps, in the most devious manner, climbed their way out of whatever taffeta or silk I was wearing at the time.

Men fell at my feet.

She was the antithesis. The boy is extant- has always been there-will die there. Yet, it was only upon our meeting did he step out, however cautiously, at my behest. Then there was a proclamation.

This will be the first time we are actually together on our anniversary. I am virtually childlike in enthusiasm yet calculatingly mature but corrupt in my plans. I have planned this and that and THAT and THIS!

We resemble dolphins, gliding through the water together, close, no space for bubbles. Where we are is an ocean of silent exclusivity. The world goes on without us; we have little need of it. Wordless, neither of us can aptly describe our togetherness. If you have loved, you have experienced its simplicity. Not physical passion: the clutching of hearts, so engaged, rendering them unavailable to acknowledge even the existence of others.

Twenty days to go. There will undoubtedly be a couple of brawls before then, even a breakup. Neither of us has ever been accused of being possessed of calm temperament or mental stability.

Yet, we do have a rule, no matter what, no matter what side of the pond, when the plane lands, somebody’s waiting.

The child is gone!

The following is a repeat of an earlier blog(different blog, those who know me)and the following are comments after the event.

Repeat after me, “I will never never never,” now finish the sentence with a deep breath and a loud shout, “let my adult child come home”. Now beat your chest repeatedly with your fists!

The Chinese say, “Whenever there is something to be said or done say and do the kind thing.”

No! Stop! That most assuredly does not apply to grown children. Do you know why? Because no matter how old they are.

They remain children. They act like children, they whine, leave lights on, leave their wet towel s hung over the door after a shower, leave coffee cups all over the house and leave oatmeal bowls that are so old that the spoon has permanently cemented to the bottom of the dish thus qualifying it as a piece of modern art. They leave their opened attaché cases sprawled on the dining room table, a no-no since they were ten when school bags turned into the size of carry on luggage. They park their cars behind you even after taking a blood oath to refrain from committing such an atrocity. They disavow using the last piece of tofu even after being informed that it would constitute your last meal of the day and the worst of all is the look of incredulity on their faces when they are confronted!

And, still no vegetables!

Well after five months of cohabiting-the child is gone!
Virtually nothing is in the way. There are no dishes in the sink and the avocado I was watching with an expert eye strangely remains in place. No towels are sprawled on the bathroom tile and the dining room table suffers only an occasional paw print on the newly polish wood.

I held my breath the day the child moved out. Bookcases careened down the stairs of the almost century old house leaving track marks and a few chips on the thick swirls of white paint that brightened the way. The journalist's multipurpose desk, a half moon measuring a good fourteen feet has left a vacancy in my formerly crowded upper office. There are no wires, except my paltry few, to trip over. I had moved my writer's wares and professorial junk into a corner of the room.

How did I do that? I never had enough room in the upper office. Now it is a sports stadium without a game.

I miss the unconscious bursts into my room and the commandeering of my 10 magnification mirror that holds center stage on my vanity.

The force to be reckoned with will occasionally pop in to sit endlessly at that mirror lamenting the tortures of TV journalism on the skin. I will hear what is going on in the studio-but now second hand. While the child was here I overheard calls from all over the world at all times of the day and night.

Margo Moon had said that she was sure I would miss the child when gone. I said no.

So I can be wrong sometimes!

And then there is love

This was our third or fourth transatlantic call. Thus far our rapport was incredible. We were speaking about our marriages, kids, hobbies, dislikes, health, homes, music, books, language, fidelity and then about the pets we have had.

I told her about Felix sleeping on my bed all these years. There was a brief silence on the other side of the Atlantic and then a jaunty. "Ah, you sleep with a dead cat? Surely you are joking!"

"Well, he is safely ensconced in his little white kitten who is rather gray by now. But, yes. I was so distressed at his passing that it took me nine years before I was able to adopt the twins. So we all sleep together now. I introduced them when I brought the twins home. I told them that this was their eldest brother and they had to give him respect."

Silence!

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Why I sleep with a dead cat-the end

In the next fifteen years Felix and I went through graduate school, divorce, major family battles, kids off to college, the dawn of brilliant physical and mental health, psychotherapy and a couple of unsuccessful love affairs (with the male type).

Through it all, Felix slept with me, all he ever wanted to do was lie next to his mommy. He slept on my feet or on top of my head. We read together and listened to the downpour of rain on the flat roof of my office. We played with the wire of my cell phone, I flipped to him and he flipped it back and then tried to eat the plug. I ate the cheese on the pizza and he ate the crust. I rubbed his belly and he slept on mine.

Upon my return from a brief vacation in September 94, I observed the little fellow slowing down. Well he was 15 so I guessed it was normal. However, he did not want to go out! “What’s the matter with you?” I asked him repeatedly. “Don’t you want to go out and play? Don’t you want to go out and bully some unsuspecting little feral creature?" I was angry! How dare he change his ways! How dare he change my life, my dependency, my security!

No response!

At his October appointment, I was told that he was in kidney failure. We tried medicine. Nothing worked. His decline was rapid. “Put him down now,” said the Vet.

I didn't listen, I never listen.

I watched him sit day after day while I attempted to live and work in the world. I came home hoping that he would be better. However, he would just sit. After a while I moved him to the window as he could no longer jump. Then he stopped eating; he sat there: a ghost. I begged him to get better, “just a little better please.” Then my plea changed to, “die, please die. I don’t want to have to do this. I don't know how to do this.”

I was a coward. He no longer looked my way. He was like a clay figure, where I put him; he stayed, whether on his side or on his hunches. His eyes stared ahead. He had left long ago. I needed one more night with him.

I held him, sang to him, put ice chips on his lips, and wiped his eyes with cool wet cotton swabs. I combed him and begged forgiveness, not for what would occur the next day, but for having failed to have acted earlier. We sat on our bed all night.

And I promised that he would sleep there forever.

The next morning I placed him in his padded bed on the passenger seat of the car. Tearfully, I said. “ You and mommy are going for a ride, so hold on.” On the way, I told him of all the wonderful sights. The gas stations and stores and, the motorcycles parked outside of local delis and when we got closer to that place, the wonderful expanse of land on either side of the road; the visible mirages up ahead which looked cool on this day. As we approached our destination, I felt as though I was entering another zone of existence.

After searching for weeks I found a little white stuffed kitten. I placed his ashes, wrapped in foil and plastic with his significant dates in the belly of the stuffed animal. It's almost fifteen years later: Felix still sleeps with me.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Why I sleep with a dead cat-continued

The rest was a blur. We had a barbecue. The kids toasted marshmallows. I loved to see the sparks of burnt offerings flit into the air and extinguish into nothingness. Each time a spark began to die, I followed it until it was carried by the wind, even into the blindness of nightfall. I know I tried breathing in the sweetness of the cool air but it was contaminated by the smoke emanating from the cigar languidly hanging from his fingers.

We got the kids into bed after the usual battle to get them to brush their teeth and settled in front of the TV. I alternately smiled and nodded my head and rhythmically commented to prove my presence-to myself.

Zeitgeist! I knew I was not alone. I was a member of the Stepford Club: unwilling, but finally cognizant!

The next morning I opened the side door to feel the sun on my face. The kids were off to their last school day and he was off to work. I knew that the kitten would be somewhere for me to discover. It was a little girls ballerina shoebox and there he lie in a minute bundle smaller than I recalled from the previous day.

When I decided to name him after my dad, I researched it’s origin. I had not known that Felix was Latin for happy or fortunate. Then I remembered a phrase from my Latin studies at the girls’ academy. Fortuna sequatur, let fortune follow.

It was then that I designated tiny Felix as my lodestar.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar

Why I sleep with a dead cat-To Be Continued

Just love meows! I sleep with two breathing creatures and one who has been in the "other" world since Nov 4, 1994. I have written about it in one of my books. However, it bears repeating-well-just because.

His name was Felix. He was named after my deceased father. He sauntered. He was the neighborhood tough guy. Yet, I was allowed to rub his belly. He knew his mommy. The kids would dare their friends, unbeknownst to me of course, to rub his belly. Just imagine the hell that that caused me!

One day in 1979 I lay in a deep depression. I had everything a girl could ask for, a great husband, wonderful kids and a lovely home. I was a hypochondriacal mess who at one point firmly believed that I had contracted typhoid fever. Along with that, the muscles in my legs noticeably danced and I somehow, overnight had developed deformed arthritic fingers.

Let's just say I was a little self-referential. What I was was fucking bored out of my mind, out of love, never had been, and working real hard at keeping my husband, a good but exceedingly boring man, the head of the family in the best christian tradition.

May the christian south forgive me!

Came a knock at the door. "Lo, the dawn cometh!" A scrawny kid stood shaking at the door holding an equally scrawny kitten.

"My, my mother's gonna kill it and if my mother doesn't, my father's gonna kill my mother!" he breathlessly screeched.

I was so upset that I forgot about my arthritic fingers and grabbed the little boy. "Are you OK?" I asked. He gave me this incredulous look.

"Yea!" he said. "They're gonna kill the cat not me!"

Well I was gonna kill the little bastard-fucking big time-for scaring the shit out of me. "Please, please will you take him? Everybody says you feed all the animals. That's why they call you the cat lady."

"What?" I hushed in an almost soundless delirium. "They call me what?"

"Yea, didn't you know? That's why I knew you would take him."

"I'm not taking any cat little boy. Are you OK? Are you afraid that your father is going to hurt you in some way?"

Repeated look of incredulity!

"Lady," he said with the right corner of his mouth skewed up and his eyes squinting in fear, while attempting to liberate himself from my claws. "Can I please go now?"

His body fell away from my hold. As I looked first up the block and then down, I did not say a word. I was not breathing. He shook his head, turned and ran down the path. The kitten's head was visibly bobbing from side to side. The sun was dimming. It was a June night. My heart had stopped. The kids were playing in front of the house. The knots in my fingers were systematically unwinding before my eyes. A disembodied spirit, I walked into the den. My husband was sitting in his favorite chair puffing on a cigar with his left hand while he was beginning to conduct music with a glass of bourbon in his right hand. He was listening to the pianissimo lamentation of Beethoven's Sonata Quasi Fantasia. He was listening to my life.

Copyright © 2008 by m.m.sugar