Monday Reruns: It's All In the Reading

(original post date:  April 20, 2011)

Several years ago, I entered a small jewelry store in my neighborhood. The establishment harked back to another time and was probably passed on from one generation to the next. I had gone there to see if the proprietor might be able to repair an antique travel alarm clock that I had purchased at a flea market. The clock had worked quite well for a while, but then it decided to rebel.

While the store owner examined the timepiece, my eyes scanned her small shop, and one of the first things I noticed was a sign: Watch Batteries Repaired While You Wait.

I guess I’m verb-oriented, because my interpretation of that sign was this: If I wanted to, I could watch the proprietor repair batteries while I waited!

(Can you imagine a more entertaining afternoon?)

Interpretation is so subjective.

I have another story on this score, and this one comes from my years in New York. I had been browsing at the Coliseum bookstore, which used to be among the retail features of Columbus Circle. It was probably November or so, because I had stocking stuffers in mind. I quickly noticed a title that would have been appropriate for any member of my family. The title implied a deep devotion (if not outright addiction) to cats.

As I studied the cover illustration, however, I felt confused. There was an elderly person lying in what appeared to be a hospital bed, and surrounding that bed were several people. Those in plain clothes were undoubtedly family.

There also was a nurse and a priest.

But where was the cat?

I looked at how the bedsheets and blanket were arranged over the person lying there. I looked for a lump, figuring the cat must be under the covers.

Then, I returned to the title of the book, and I realized it was Catholics.

(Which explains the priest, of course.)

… There also was a time in between those two incidents – after New York and before I moved to my current neighborhood. I was married to a man whom I’ve previously mentioned in this blog, and since I called him Ben in an earlier essay, we’ll just stick with that…

Anyway, Ben loved to visit a part of California that is about four hours north of Los Angeles, just at the foot of Mount Whitney. There are rock formations there that are awesome, and the landscape is generally, well… what can I say, the dude’s a photographer, and there was no end to the possibilities. So we made the trip together a few times. He’d spend the weekend shooting pictures, and I’d sit by the pool, reading and taking in the remarkable air. Then, we’d meet for dinner and enjoy the quiet, rustic atmosphere of this extremely small town in the middle of nothing but almighty geography.

Once, while doing the drive (which would often begin at the end of a work-week and end close to midnight), we found ourselves behind a particular car, and because we were on a two-lane highway at that point, we remained behind that car for more than a few miles.

And this placement led to some improvisation.

For, you see, the license plate that we were trailing said this: OH BOB

I think Ben started the spontaneous game…

In the tone of a woman who is beyond impressed with a certain individual’s manhood, he exclaimed, “Ohhh Bob!”

I replied, using the clenched-teeth delivery of a wife who has once again found a non-dishwasher safe utensil in that very appliance. “Oh Bob.”

Ben took his turn, imitating a woman who was probably waving flirtatiously from across the room, “Oh, Bo-obb!”

My next entry was scolding, the type of admonition one might use when embarrassed by the inappropriateness of her partner: “Oh, BOB!”

Ben was still in another world. Possibly post-coital. His character sounded quite breathless and was undoubtedly reaching for a cigarette when she sighed, “Oh… Bob…”

When I responded, I sounded more like some 1950’s housewife who’s standing at the bottom of a suburban staircase, her arms folded at her chest. “Oh Bo-obb,” my character chanted, not at all pleased.

I don’t know how many more rounds we went, but it was good to get these feelings out of our systems.

It also was good to reach the changing lane so that we could move on to the next improvisation.

How I Lost a Pound-and-a-Half in Just One Short Year

So I have these bathroom scales, but… being the nonconformist that I am, I don’t keep them in the bathroom.  I keep them in my bedroom.

And a few weeks ago, I walked into said room and saw that little miss Vanna – that young, incorrigible feline whipper-snapper I introduced you to a few weeks ago – was lazing on said scales. 

And she was lazing in such a way that I could read her weight:  7.5 pounds.

Whaddaya know, I thought.  The scales still work!

Fact of the matter is, it had been a long, long time since I had lazed on those scales.

Fact of the matter is, the most interaction I’d had with the scales in (many) recent months was to dust off the top of them.

So…  the other day, I decided to face the music. 

Once I’d arisen and I’d emptied my bladder of those pounds and pounds that it had accumulated overnight, I stood on the scales.

And, frankly, I was a bit shocked that the number was not about ten pounds higher.

I then pulled out my 2012 day-runner, where I knew I’d recorded my weight when I’d last known it.

I had to go all the way back to June.

A full year.

And, whaddaya know?  I’d lost a pound and a half!

My secret?
 

Oh no, honey, I’m not telling you that!  What?  Give away that kind of valuable information?  And for free?

Oh no, honey, if you want to know how I lost a pound-and-a-half in just one short year, you are going to have to subscribe to my Seriously Gradual Weight Loss Program manifesto.

In it, you will find some hints, such as: 

 

     *get over it and live;

 

     *eat whatever;

 

     *drink, too, if you like;

 

     *just don't stuff yourself!

    

As helpful as those points might be, the truth is that I would like to lose about two Vanna’s.  Which is not to say that I want to get rid of this cat, adopt another just like her, and get rid of that one as well.  But, yeah, the 15 pounds that two of her represent is what’s between me and some nice clothes that still hang in my closet.

If I can pull that off, I’ll share more hints.

But, you know what I learned – years ago, when I lost about 50 pounds on Weight Watchers?  Losing weight is actually very easy.  If you want to lose weight, all you have to do is pay attention to what you’re eating.  It’s just that simple.

I’ve not done much paying attention over the past year, but – given that I haven’t, I’m pretty jazzed by the loss!

Goodbye-Hello

 

Vesta.  Vesta-Pesta.  Vessy.  Peanut.  Lil Girl.  Honey Bear.  Vessy-Lou.  Little Bits.  Baby Face.  My Lou-Lou Girl.  Trotsky (a reference to her carriage). 

 

So many names. 

 

The cat who died in early September of 2012 inspired many names.

 

… My most tenured L.A. friend told me once about a class she had attended at a local college.  It might have been a Sociology class.  Or it might have been Anthropology.  In any event, the professor shared with his students that when something or someone is very important to us, we give it a lot of names. 

 

Then, perhaps because he’d scoped his class’s interests adequately, he shared an example:  pot, maryjane, weed, reefer, grass… 

 

You get my drift.

 

I’ve had cats all my adult life, and in some instances, at the end, I’ve had to be the “decider.”  In other instances, a cat died without my having to sign any papers.  Either way, it is difficult. 

 

Either way.

 

When Vesta began to go downhill last August, I wasn’t prepared.  It happened quickly.  Also, I’d been through quite a bit of exhausting “stuff,” so I didn’t trust my judgment as the decider.

 

I took her to the vet on the Friday before Labor Day weekend, thinking we’d need to put her down that day.  But before we had even opened the carrier, the vet asked me what was going on, and I burst into tears.  In response, the kind vet suggested we sit in the adjacent room and talk, leaving Vesta (inside the carrier) behind. 

 

Once we’d sat in the adjacent room, the vet asked about what I was witnessing at home.

 

In response to everything I told her, she said, “That’s an old cat.”

 

Later, the vet asked a final question:  “Do you want to do this today?”

 

“No,” I replied, very sure of my response.

 

So she sent us home, suggesting that we enjoy the long weekend and maybe come back the following week. 

 

And that’s what we did.  On the Wednesday after Labor Day, I watched as Vesta was “put to sleep.”

 

… So many names I’d given to that sweet girl, and I believed – throughout my years of knowing her and during those final days – that I would never meet as sweet a girl as Vesta…

 

And while I knew, too, that mourning takes the time it takes, I also had to think about my dear  Lotto, the (then ) 4-and-a-half year-old Maine Coon who was without a companion.  I had plans to go to the East Coast in early October.  Leaving Lotto alone didn’t feel like an option.

 

So, I had 2-3 weeks to adopt a new member of the family.  And, as I began to take the steps that would make that happen, I considered what I’d learned from all these years of being the person behind the cats.  First, it seems to work well when there is one from each gender, so a female cat was the thing to pursue.  Second, it doesn’t work well when both cats are old at the same time.  (It can get expensive.) 

 

So…  I would need to establish as great an age gap as possible.

 

And so...  because I didn’t want an older cat, I would need to get a kitten.

 

OY.

 

Kittens are cute, don’t get me wrong, but OMG, they also are wired for sound.  And I guess that one of the reasons I don’t fall for them is that they are all…  just… KITTENS.  I mean, you don’t really get to know their personalities until they get older, right?

 

Still, though, it would seem I needed a *kitten*.

 

Fast forward:  I’ve dropped by an adoption event and have met an almost six-month-old gal who is half Siamese/half Turkish Van.  I’ve not previously heard of the Van species, but what I read about them online sounds good.

 

The adoption agency sends me an application form that I am to complete.  As I proceed through its questions, I get increasingly rebellious.  (I’m not a fan of forms.  Hell, I don’t like structure of any kind!)

 

…Having established that I already have cat experience, the form asks:  What is your cat’s favorite toy?

 

“Whatever is within reach,” I type, flippantly.

 

Have you ever had any experience with … torn curtains, scratched furniture, excessive shedding…”

 

“Of course!” I type.

 

(Just give me the goddamn cat!)

 

What would you do if new boy/girlfriend were allergic?

 

“Boyfriend can get shots!” I reply, through my keyboard.

 

(Seriously, if these cat adoption folks really wanted to dig, they’d know!  They’d know that my longest relationships have been with cats.)

 

Then, the question that put me over the edge:  Is there any behavior that you would find unacceptable?

 

This being September of 2012, it was easy for me to answer.  I typed:  “Voting for Romney.”

 

Suffice it to say, I probably would not have scored in a Red State, but insofar as I live in California, that final flippant answer probably sealed the deal.

 

Suffice it to say, too, I didn’t let the adoption agency know that I would be out of town that first week of October.  But, the kitten became mine about ten days prior to that departure, and she remains mine today.  Vanna...

 

 

 

 

Don’t let the relative calm of this picture fool you…  And right, yeah, the name is kinda messed-up.  I mean, after saying goodbye to a two-syllable named cat whose name began with V and ended with A, I chose what?

 

Here’s the thing:  before she officially became mine, I thought about names.  And because she was half Turkish Van, the name “Vanna” occurred to me.  But then, I thought, Oh no.  Vanna White.  No, that is just so wrong!

 

A few days later, my friend Julie came to visit, and prior to her doing so, I told her, “You’re going to help me name my new cat!”

 

After Julie had been here for an hour or more, she suggested the name Vanna.  And it was only then that I remembered discounting it.  It also was then that I realized it fit this young kitten like nobody’s business.

 

Here’s the thing about Vanna.  She sells vowels.  All. Day. Long.

 

Seriously, I walk into the room she’s in, and this is what I hear:  A!  E!  O!

 

And… now that she’s a few months over one year old, I can tell you something else.  I don’t think this little kitty is terribly bright.  She’s done so many things (mildly destructive things) that point to a probable fact:  girlfriend’s curiosity is SO MUCH bigger than her brain.

 

But here’s the other thing about Vanna.  She is as sweet as the day is long.  She’s an angel (when she's not being a devil, that is).  She cuddles with me and smiles and views my lap as some kind of holy place.  She loves giving and getting love.  And:  she has absolutely become Lotto’s new girlfriend.

 

Vanna.

 

Already, I’ve called her by so many names.

 

She’s filled our hearts and changed our home.

 

Here are photos from the Two Cats on an Unmade Bed series…

 

 

Vanna.  She's a keeper.

 

But:  I'll also be keeping the wallpaper...

 

 

Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part IV

A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the final installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.

+++

By the late summer of 1998, I was long-overdue for a two-week vacation. Kitty had died the year before, and at the time of my vacation departure, Mort was doing okay, excepting a runny eye. The vet had given me drops to put in his eye, but more importantly, my friend, Carolyn, had accepted the cat-sitting chore. This was a great relief. Inasmuch as Carolyn is a nurse and a cat person, she was unquestionably up to the task of tending a geriatric feline.

The eye drops, however, were not up to the task.

I got a call while I was in New York. Carolyn had taken Mort to the vet because his eye was bad. It had essentially exploded, and it would need to be removed. I was in my friend Tanya's apartment when I called the vet to follow up. And it was a mixed blessing to have one of Tanya's elderly cats sit on my lap as I made that call.

The doctor already had run the tests to see if Mort could go through the surgery, and the test results were phenomenal for a cat who was almost 18. With the exception of the cancer that was spreading through his head, his blood work described that of a two-year old.

I returned to L.A. on the upcoming Sunday, as planned. And first thing Monday morning, I went to the vet's to visit Mort. There he was in his Elizabethan collar – messy eye and all. I
spoke to him that morning through tears as the vet handed me kleenex. I thanked him for not
dying while I was away, and although I knew he might not survive the surgery, I told him I believed he would make it.

He did get through the surgery, and a few days later, Mort came home. He had one less eye, but he was still Mort. Ever-charming, as he always had been.

Regardless of those charms – his ability to smile as only he could; his willingness to purr whenever there was food in the offing; the impishly clever behavior that always reminded me of Artful Dodger – Mort's cancer grew. It grew through his head and into the remaining eye. But even as that eye became blind, he still continued to purr. He still continued to act as if the next meal were nirvana. He seemed, for a while, to have reasons to live.

But one night, I realized he was no longer happy. And I knew, then, that I had to let him go. I knew we would have to go to the vet's the next day. We just had to.

+++

That last night with Mort, I looked at him across the room. He was sitting in the wing-back chair, and I was sitting in my usual perch on the couch. I was anticipating the next day's agenda, and I was sad. I had been saying good-bye to him all week, lying on the floor with him, crying as I told him how much I appreciated what he had brought to my life.

That last night with Mort, I looked at him across the room, and I suddenly realized that we might not make it to the next morning. I realized this because the space in Mort's face – the slit where his eye had been – was opening up. And it seemed to be opening up rather quickly.

And so I freaked (albeit quietly).

I stood up and began to prepare. Obviously, the stitches had been taken out too soon. (That's why his slit was breaking opened, I figured.) And while I hated the idea of taking him to an Emergency Place to die, I knew there were no other alternatives.

I had clung to him too long. This was the price. Mort would have to die among smells that were unfamiliar.

I went to the bathroom and then intended to get back to calling a local friend who might help me take Mort to the all-night vet.

But: an interesting thing happened (or didn't) in those fleeting moments. When I returned from the bathroom to Mort, when I walked over to him, I saw that the slit had not come undone. He was still intact. Riddled with cancer, but intact.

That night, he slept on my head. And the next morning, I took him to our vet.

+++

A few weeks later, I had dinner with Carolyn, and I told her about that last night with Mort. Carolyn's experiences as a nurse, and particularly her experiences with death and dying, had exposed her to so many situations. She listened intently.

I told Carolyn about Mort's “slit” appearing to open up that night – the night before I took him in. I told her about my scrambling to take him to some emergency place and then realizing that I had hallucinated the change in his face.

“Katie,” she interrupted, “When that happened, and you saw the slit open up – did you see a bloody gash, or did you see an eye?”

“Oh my God!” I replied, realizing for the first time what had appeared that night. “I saw an eye!”

+++

Some months later, Robin was back in L.A. We got together for dinner, and I told her about that last night with Mort.

With a loving smile, she said, “Well, that's just very typical of Mort, don't you think? It was his way of giving you that one last wink.

“But:” Robin added, with the playfulness that is such a strong part of her spirit, “Mort just gave it to you in reverse!”

+++

And I believe he's out there still. Peeing where he shouldn't. Getting people to feed him.
Feeling no remorse for being happy.

Maybe he's curled up on that bench on 113th Street right now. Enjoying his own quiet spirit, but also knowing he's part of the traffic. Feeling that he's safe, but never completely out of danger.

Knowing… that a one-night stand can last for years.

Wherever Mort is, he's winking at me.

And I am winking back.

***

Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part III

A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the third installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.

+++

Mort, Kitty, and I moved again in 1986, this time up to Inwood (“upstate Manhattan,” as Ben called it). Already planning our marriage, Ben and I decided to expedite the cohabitation, and so we established our household in the apartment that he had been renting on his own since he moved to New York two years before. We shared the apartment with the two cats and Brodie, Ben's docile German Shepherd, who had seen her prime and was aging gracefully.

There, and in subsequent apartments, Mort would continue to pee pretty much wherever he wanted. And no attempt at disciplining him would take hold. A few years down the line, after Ben and I had seen the Clint Eastwood movie for which he would get the Best Director Oscar, Ben made a comment.

“You know,” he said. “If they ever write a movie about Mort, it'll be called Forgiven.”

At the time of the comment, we were living in L.A., and our apartment in the Beverly Hills adjacent area became Mort's ticket to freedom. We let him roam at that point because we were on the first floor, because the building's front door was always open, and because I knew there was no way to stop him.

Even with his access to the outside, though, Mort would still play his games with other apartment-dwellers. If they were on the first floor, he'd enter their apartments through their windows, and then he'd do his stray-cat routine, listing and looking hungry. The young couple who lived across the hall from us were responsive to my requests. “Don't feed him,” I said. “He's just pretending, and he's plenty fed.”

(I could imagine the act he'd been playing for them. I had fallen for it myself. I remembered one of the early weeks of Mort's and my life together. He'd been limping. I made a mental note of the limp and decided that if he were still limping two days later, I'd take him to the vet. Two days later, he was still limping, but he had switched legs. He was a pro.)

In addition to working his ways with our across-the-hall L.A. neighbors, Mort also charmed Paulo, the elderly gentleman and professional violinist who lived upstairs. When we moved into the building and met Paulo, he had a dog. But, shortly after the ’92 riots, he had to give up his dog (they both had health issues), and so he was particularly responsive to Mort. They had meals together, Paulo and Mort. I recognized that this was good for Paulo, and so I didn't invade on the friendship. But I always would make sure that Mort “came home for bed,” and Paulo was agreeable to this rule.

One night, when I went upstairs to retrieve Mort, he was asleep and smiling in Paulo's violin case. I also got a whiff of room deodorizer. I didn't let it become my problem. Paulo could buy a kitty litter box if he wanted to, I reasoned. It was his decision.

+++

While we were living in that building, Mort spent a good part of the day outside. And he'd always seem to hear me come home from work. I don't know if he recognized the sound or smell of the car or the radio station I frequented, but whenever I parked on the street, Mort would emerge from wherever he had been, run toward the driver's side door, and greet me home from the day. It was charming.

And it was actually kind of more charming that night when Paulo returned from the grocery store just as Mort and I were crossing the street together. Mort saw his friend and stopped, and Paulo, pulling grocery bags out of his trunk, said, “Tonight, Mort, we're having steaks!”

Paulo climbed the stairs with Mort fast behind him. I went into Ben's and my apartment.

“Ben,” I said, “Mort's just gone upstairs to have steaks with Paulo. We're having cereal for dinner. What's wrong with this picture?”

+++

Mort, Kitty, Ben and I didn't leave Paulo because of the steaks. We left for a bigger apartment. That was 1993.

Our new place was a two-bedroom in the same Beverly Hills adjacent ‘hood. About seven blocks north, it was closer to the commercial drag of 3rd Street. It also was a second-floor unit.

Although our front door opened directly to the staircase that led to the great outdoors, Mort no longer demanded egress. He was in his early teens at that point, and I guess he was settling down. The only time I remember him going outside was when I would go down to the courtyard to sit in a lawn chair and read in the sun. He’d come along, and most often he would rest in the shade under my chair. Otherwise, indoors was fine with him.

But indoors was trickier for Ben and me, and in 1995, Mort, Kitty and I left Ben.

We moved to a second-floor apartment in Los Feliz – the apartment I still occupy today. And although Mort had had plenty of experience moving (this was our 8th apartment together), I guess he entered into these digs with a bit of anxiety. One morning, as I was rushing to get to my downtown job, I did a cat-count, as per my OCD rituals. Kitty was present, but Mort was nowhere for roll call.

Oh dear.

I checked the window screens, which seemed to be intact. But I also knew that Mort had a way of working screens that was near-magical. Realizing that his wanderlust may have returned, I made a beeline outdoors and checked the perimeter of the building. There was no sign of him, so I came back indoors.

Cats, of course, have an amazing capacity to find hiding places, and so I checked around, peering in every corner of every closet, in every corner of the apartment. Mort was nowhere to be seen.

Now on a schedule that would make me late for work, I had one final strategy. I would pull out the can opener and open a can of cat food. Surely the noise would bring him forth from whatever lair he had discovered in our new place.

As I began to open the drawer in which I kept the can opener, it seemed to resist in a strange way. It was heavier than usual. And that’s when I saw the tabby grey fur. Mort had gone into the cupboard below the drawer and then had accessed the drawer via its back end. A squeeze much tighter than imaginable to the human eye, but it was his mission, and he accomplished it.

For the next several days, and until he adjusted to our new home, I would entertain the same ritual before leaving for work. Finding Kitty on the couch or a chair, I’d pet her and say goodbye. Then, I’d go to the kitchen, open the drawer, and wish Mort a good day.

to be continued on March 15th.

Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part II

A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second installment of a four-part story. To begin at the beginning, go here.

+++

My roommate was active in the tenants' group that formed when the building's owners were trying to convert it to a co-op. She was among those opposed to the plan, and they met often. One night, they were meeting in the living room of one of the apartments that was a few floors up and in an altogether different wing of the building.

At some point during the meeting, the living room curtains moved a bit. Mort made his entrance.

“That cat!” one person blurted out. “He is constantly coming into my apartment. I think he sprayed on my couch.”

“That cat!” another person chimed in. “He claws at my screens... He scared the hell out of me one night. I thought it was a burglar.”

“That cat!” said another. “Who does that cat belong to anyway?”

My roommate cowered for a moment or two, but ultimately copped to her knowledge – at least, she did so to one person. And when the meeting was adjourned, she returned to our apartment, and she brought with her that one person – one person who, I imagine, was among the louder complainers.

I was sitting in my room with my friend, John. We were just hanging out, chatting. Suddenly, my roommate pushed open my door and introduced me to our neighbor. Within moments, I was being read the riot act.

The complaining neighbor ticked off a list of Mort's trespassings. And when she was done, she said, “And if I ever see that cat again, I am going to call the landlord and make sure that no one in this building is allowed to have pets!” She stormed off, and my roommate didn't stick around for any debriefing.

Hmm, nice meeting you, too.

I looked at John, who was as dumbfounded as I. (John also was a big fan of Mort.) We reviewed what just happened. We reflected on the negative energy that had prevented a dialogue. We chilled for a bit.

Then, I got out the phone book, looked up the number of the pissed-off neighbor, and I gave her a call.

After I identified myself, I embarked on my unrehearsed line of reasoning. “You see,” I began, “that's not really my cat. I found him several months ago. He had a flea collar on, but no one responded to the signs I posted. And, frankly, I don't know what to do about him. I've put screens in my window, but he just pushes them away. He seems to want to be outdoors. So, I don't know what to do. May I offer to buy screens for you? I mean, I can imagine how disconcerting it must be to have a strange cat trying to get in your living room...”

The neighbor was beginning to soften. Somehow, my disconnecting myself from Mort was the key. She turned down my offer to buy her screens, though she clearly appreciated the gesture. And before we ended our conversation, she followed through on the brainstorming that my comments had suggested. “You know,” she said, “I have a brother who lives on Long Island. They have a nice farm. Maybe the cat would be happy there. Hmm, yea. I'll look into it.”

“I'd so appreciate that,” I said. “He clearly wants to be outside. There just doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.”

“Yea,” she said, “I'll look into it.”

Thank you and goodnight.

I never heard from her again.

+++

By late 1982, my interactions with Eric were heating up. When my roommate made it difficult for me to enjoy those developments in the apartment we shared on 108th Street, Robin gave me an out. Robin was, at that point, slowly reuniting with Doug. (They had split months before, and he had found an apartment on the East Side; now, she was slowly moving to his place – bobby pin by bobby pin). When I needed to relocate, she was ready to cop to her plans. She moved in with Doug, and I took her 110th Street place as a sublet. Kitty and Mort came with me (although Kitty, still pulling the Siamese shtick, probably would have preferred it if Mort had stayed behind.)

Though the space was a share, my room was quite large – and fabulously private. And although the beginning of my time there would be the time I lived with Eric, ultimately that apartment became the place where I would learn to bask in my privacy and make it productive. Never concerned that I had no direct access to a fire escape, I wrote a hell of a lot. It was in that apartment that I came to believe – genuinely – that I was a writer.

It also was in that apartment that Mort came to believe he had wings.

+++

It was really over with Eric one night the following May. And after I saw him in the Chelsea area, where we had our final dialogue and I knew that was the end, I walked the four miles home. I walked through a thunderstorm that night, and when it had passed, and the New York night air had dried my clothes, I got an ice cream cone. By the time I got home, I was just finishing my ice cream, and I was feeling free. As I came into the apartment, I inadvertently let Kitty out into the hallway. I only realized I had done so when I heard her cries, a half hour later, on the other side of the apartment's front door.

I had been spacing out in my euphoria... in my release.

The next morning, when I got up to go to work, Kitty was still present, but there was something missing from the picture. Mort. He was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if he had also escaped the night before, and I silently berated myself for being so caught up in my own situation.

But it quickly became clear that he was not only not in the apartment, he was not in the building, and I grew more concerned. I looked out the screenless window. I looked down from my fourth floor apartment to see if there was a sign of him on the street below. No sign.

I ran downstairs, now fully committed to being late for work. I anxiously walked the front of the building, and somehow I found him. He was still within the building's confines, nestled under a flight of wrought-iron stairs (the kind that are used for fire escapes). The stairs led from the street level to the basement level. But I could not access them. A locked gate barred me from entering.

“Mort!” I cried, seeing him lying there, looking peaceful but dazed in the farthest corner of a space so distant from my grasp.

“You,” he cried back to me, bellowing as he had the first night I met him.

I immediately tracked down Caesar, the building's superintendent, and I brought him to the situation. Caesar retrieved a long-handled industrial broom and made his way down the private stairway. Then, as Mort and I winced together, Caesar swept Mort out of the corner where he had settled to die after his fall.

I ultimately took Mort to a place on the East Side where cats (and all other pets) get better medical treatment than humans will ever experience in this country. I left him there, and throughout the week, the prognosis was grim. Mort's tail was paralyzed, but that was not the worst news. He had a tremendous number of broken bones in his pelvic area, and the damage threatened all functioning in that region of his body.

I remember one moment that week, when I was taking lunch orders from customers in my station. Joanie, our amazingly loving manager, interrupted me. “The surgeon's on the phone,” she said. “They might need to do another operation.”

I excused myself and went into the kitchen, got on the phone and agreed to whatever. I understood the hospital's need to keep calling. Every step was an expense. But what did they think? That I had a cap? A cap at which point I would say no, the cat's not worth it?

I can't imagine putting a price tag on a cat.

+++

Several days later, Mort was ready to come home. I went to the medical center, paid the bill, and was reunited with my sweet boy. Despite the cast on one of his back legs, the gash in one of his hips, and his general grogginess, he seemed fine. He was smiling.

Before we left, the woman on staff gave me instructions regarding how to administer medications and salve the still-opened hip wound. The woman also emphasized the concern they felt as to whether Mort would urinate regularly. She showed me how to check to make sure that his bladder wasn't too full. She demonstrated how to palpate the area and so discern a problem. I pretended to understand.

I then carried him out of the medical center just as I had carried him in: in my arms.

Without a cat carrier (I hadn't thought to buy one), it was a little dicey getting a cab, but finally, a driver allowed our fare. Mort sat on my lap as we rode home, and after several minutes, I felt my thigh getting warmer . And I knew why. “Oh Mort!,” I said quietly, leaning down and smiling at him. “You pee'd!”

And because my jeans had soaked up his accomplishment, the cabbie never knew.

Once again, Mort's actions created an unplanned load of laundry, but I was so happy to have him home. He was my buddy, my hunter, my survivor. We were clearly in for the long haul.

to be continued on March 8th

Mort: I Know You're Out There Somewhere – Part I

A NOTE BEFORE READING: Today’s post and the three Thursday posts that will follow come from a memoir project: five Catalysts and five Constants. The project’s essays are all quite a bit longer than my usual posts, so I am going to share this one in four installments.

Between our junior and senior years of college, my friend Robin and I discovered the bench. It was in a great locale. Private – but in the middle of everything. Safe – but within steps of danger. Kind of like each of us.

The bench was on the Upper West Side. Close to school, close to where we each lived. It was on the relatively wide median of “land” that separated the northbound Broadway traffic from that heading south. The cross-street was 113th, which made it conveniently close to the Yum-Yum ice cream shop, where we each had zeroed in on our favorite frozen treats.

We would end up on that bench many a night that summer, enjoying the late, late night air, enjoying our Yum-Yum purchases, anxious to talk further about the subject that was foremost on our minds: Boys. (Guys.) ( Men.)

Robin always seemed so much more versed in this arena. She definitely had more experience. And she appeared, to me, to have more confidence, too. She dressed sexily – in mini-skirts and heels. She spent time on her hair. And she seemed to flirt with ease. I, on the other hand, always was more the comfort-seeker when it came to such matters. My clothes generally flow. My shoes rarely change my height much. If I can't “do” my hair in two minutes, then it's the wrong style for me. And while I enjoy titillating conversation, I enjoy it most with people I know – well.

Regardless of those differences, Robin and I had become close. We would grow along together for several years. And for several summers, we would return to the bench. We would eat our frozen treats and explore the mysteries of life – which were, particularly in those years, all about our lives.

+++

During the summer of 1981, I was job-hopping as a waitress, trying to find a restaurant where I could hang my apron and then focus on other, more creative things. Robin, who also had donned an apron recently, was taking a break from that aerobic career to attend journalism school. Doug was living with her then, which added a new topic to our girl talk.

One night on the bench, we heard a mournful sound. It was coming from the sidewalk across the street. We looked east to trace its source and saw a grey tabby cat begin to head toward us. Sauntering as he bellowed, he safely made his way across the three lanes of northbound traffic. And although we had cheered him on, he didn't immediately jump into either of our outstretched sets of arms. Rather, he made a bee-line for the shrubbery that was behind the bench. (He was a cat, after all.)

Was he afraid or just being shy? Regardless, there was no way we would leave him in the traffic's median. There was no way we would leave him to tempt the fate of another three lanes of Broadway. He had made it thus far, so the least we could do was make sure we got him to safety. Surely, the person who had put the flea collar around his neck would appreciate our efforts.

Yes, this cat was wearing a flea collar, which – in Robin's and my vernacular – meant one thing: he was not available (as it were). He was going to be a “one-night stand.” The question then became: which one of us was going to take him home?

Robin and I each already had a single cat at home. But, in addition to that, Robin had her boyfriend, Doug, and they had their boa constrictor, whom they cleverly called “Snakey.” She knew it would be dicey to walk home with this new rescued cat. And while I wasn't particularly looking to provide refuge for a second cat (I knew that the cleverly-named Kitty, with her Siamese roots, had no desire to share me), I figured I could at least give this wanderer a place for the night. I'd post signs the next day. Surely, the person who put the flea collar around his neck would be looking for him...

And so, in a rare instance in Robin's and my friendship, I was the one who took the guy home. And, in a rare instance in my life generally, it turned into a long-term relationship. I guess whoever put on that flea collar simply didn't care. If they had, they would have looked for the signs – the ones I posted the next day, all over the neighborhood surrounding 113th Street and Broadway.

+++

I must admit, though, it also took me a while to see the signs. It took me a while to accept that this cat was mine. For the longest time, I was hesitant even to name him. But, one day – three or four weeks into our relationship – he weaved his way into the kitchen on 108th Street, and I heard myself say, “Hello, Mort.”

I didn't know where the name had come from, but it seemed right. And it stuck. Later, I would notice the tag in my black wrap-around waitressing skirt. The tag showed a jungle cat in full-leap mode. The tag said “Mr. Mort.”

So, I had named him, but still, was he mine?

Mort would leave the apartment often, exiting by way of my bedroom window, which happened to lead to the fire escape. Sometimes, he would be gone for a few days, and I would just assume that he had gone home.

One evening, after he had been gone for a particularly long stretch, the building's night doorman appeared at my apartment door. He was holding a very dirty Mort. “Is this your cat?” he said.

“Well... I guess.”

I brought him inside and gave him a jump start on the bath that he would ultimately self-administer.

+++

Another time, I came home in the late afternoon, returning from my waitressing shift. My roommate was sitting in the living room, and she looked less than pleased. “There's a dead pigeon on your bed,” she announced.

I didn't feel immediately concerned. I had grown up with cats who were outdoors a lot and whose access included the cow pasture that was adjacent to our house in Virginia. I'd thought I'd seen it all.

But I'd never seen a dead pigeon on my bed.

Fortunately, it wasn't a bloody mess, but oh, what plumage! There were feathers everywhere. I hadn't planned on doing laundry that night, but suddenly, that was at the top of my agenda.

Oh, and I had to scold Mort. I looked at him, shook my finger and firmly said, “Bad!”

( But through my eyes, I probably couldn't hide the other thing I wanted to say. It was, “Thank you. I love you, too.”)

What was left of the main part of the pigeon was smack dab in the upper middle part of my bed – where the bed's heart would be, if it had one. I knew Mort had brought the pigeon to me as a token of his affection. Not only was I touched by the gesture, but I also was quite proud of my little hunter. He had captured a large bird, actually killed it, and then negotiated its carcass through the steel labyrinth that had become his playground. You just can't help but be impressed.

Shortly thereafter, I bought a screen for the window, but Mort still found a way out. He'd bend the screen's corner and slide right through. He'd then go off on his excursions, accessing the roof as well as the other fire escapes that were installed strategically around the 8-story building and within its airshafts.

And over the course of the next several months, he would bring home two more pigeons. Maybe, though, he had heard some of my scolding, as I noted how the trail of feathers carefully circumvented my bed. Cleaning up those second two wasn't such a big deal, and luckily, I made the discoveries before my roommate came home. We never told her about those pigeons.

to be continued on March 1st.

When Cats Puke

Hmm… having spent New Year’s weekend reading the 2009 memoir, Homer’s Odyssey, I feel a bit tacky offering up this piece. Really, I kinda do.

Let me explain. If you haven’t read Gwen Cooper’s charming book, then here’s what you need to know: it is a remarkable account of a person/animal relationship. And in this case, the person happens to be a woman, and the animal happens to be a cat.

Reading Homer’s Odyssey, I was absolutely captivated. I mean, I gotta face it… admit it: my long-term relationships have always been with cats. And so I love the stories that describe those relationships.

Joy Adamson and Elsa (of Born Free fame) used to be my go-to when I thought of such relationships. But, last weekend, that story got supplanted. By Homer’s Odyssey.

Sorry, Joy and Elsa. Gwen and Homer are the deal. The real deal.

Never have I enjoyed crying so much.

But, oh dear, I’m getting maudlin. And we don’t want that, do we? I know how to fix that, and I’ll do it fast. I’ll return to my original intention. I’ll return to the story that earned the title of this post.

You should know, before you read further, that this piece is a bit graphic. (A “bit?” Who are we kidding!) I tried to share the story with my sister, over the phone. She wouldn’t allow me past what will be the first reference to puking.

(And SHE’S GIVEN BIRTH! Hello?)

Anyway, proceed with caution.

Which is to say, consider yourself forewarned.

… The weeks of December were tense for me, and on the night of Monday, December 18th, I had a major epiphany. I realized why the end of the year always feels so frenetic.

It isn’t the shopping, which I don’t do. (I give presents to people when I feel like it; not when some holiday tells me I should.)

It isn’t the December parties, which I avoid.

It isn’t some need to go to religious services, because… I just don’t affiliate.

No, it’s because I am a consultant. And what that means is this: I don’t work for one organization; I work for several. And what that means is that I am answering to about 6-8 bosses, all of whom are slamming to get work done before the holidays.

Not only that, but the work we are doing (grant proposals, mostly) is deadline-driven. Throwing something on the back burner just isn’t an option. Not if you want to get the money.

And this is money that is sorely needed. … It goes to afterschool projects, domestic violence shelters, and teen pregnancy prevention programs. It goes to the arts. It goes to educational curricula that help children think lovingly. This money makes a difference in our world.

… The morning after my epiphany, I was at my workstation (i.e., the southwest corner of my kitchen). I was anticipating the deadline-meeting day ahead. I’d just got up and made my first cup of coffee.

And, as is my routine, I traveled the internet while waiting for the caffeine to kick in (at which point, I would begin the all-important billable hours).

Within a few moments, I heard a retching sound behind me, and I was not surprised that it was Vesta, the senior of my two cats.

She was puking.

Just behind my wheeled office chair.

Which is when I knew I could not back up those wheels any time soon.

No, I’d need to wait at least 10 minutes.

I’d need to give her and Lotto time to gobble up the puke and make it go away.

(It’s what animals do, people. Regurgitation as feeding. If you’re not familiar, check out March of the Penguins.)

And so I waited, confident that when I eventually rolled back, my desk chair’s wheels would not spin up anything wet.

But as I waited, something else happened.

Lotto (younger, larger cat), who had partaken of Vesta’s puke, walked over to the middle of the kitchen floor and proceeded to do a remarkable impersonation of George H.W. Bush in Japan.

I’m talking projectile vomit.

I’m talking ICK.

And then he moved to a distance further away from me and puked a bit more.

I decided I needed to remain at the desk for at least ten minutes more.

… When I eventually arose from my chair, I was happy to see that the first instance of puke (the one that had been deposited directly behind my chair) was indeed pretty much gone. Sure, a few tell-tale signs, but mostly, gone.

Then, I moved closer to the area of the Bush impersonation, and looking at it, I started to gag.

I coughed in a choking way.

I started to wonder if I would puke.

And what made me gag/choke even more was my wondering: if I puke, will the cats eat it?

Oh my God, this is just becoming so gross, isn’t it?

… Yes, it is, and here’s why.

I don’t mind cleaning up cat puke.

But cleaning up cat puke that is puked-up cat puke is more than I can stand, and that’s why I had issues with the liquid piles that Lotto had left. It wasn’t his own puke. It was Vesta’s. Recycled.

(I’m gagging as I type.)

Fortunately and wisely, I just left large, multi-layered paper towel pilings where he had retched, and I waited a while.

I waited until my impulse to choke had subsided.

Once it had, I cleaned up the mess and met the day’s deadlines. Then, while telling this story to my mom over the phone, I had the best laugh I’d had in about two weeks.

Happy New Year.

(And speaking of 2012, with this being a major election year, I suspect we’ll have much to gag, choke, and puke about in the coming months. Should be fun. Keep paper towels in stock, folks!)

Welcome Home

More than two years ago, and just a day or two after he showed up at my door, I was curious about the breeding of the cat I would name Lotto.

I had a feeling he was a Maine Coon, and so I googled the name.

Within a hit, I saw a picture of a classic tabby Maine Coon.

Within a hit, I knew that was Lotto’s breed.

The description on fanciers dot com reinforced my conclusion: “Lynx-like tufting on the top of the ears...” (CHECK.) “The tail … at least as long as the torso.” (CHECK.) “ …most distinctive features … eyes … large, round, expressive…” (OH YEAH, BABY.)

Lotto’s personality emerged fairly quickly, and it followed the suggestions of those wise cat fanciers. Here’s more language I found on the site:

While Maine Coons are highly people-oriented cats, they are not overly-dependent. They do not constantly pester you for attention, but prefer to "hang out" with their owners, investigating whatever activity you're involved in and "helping" when they can. They are not, as a general rule, known as "lap cats" … Most Maine Coons will stay close by, probably occupying the chair next to yours instead.

Sure enough. To this day, Lotto hangs around me, and I love him for it. When I wash dishes at the sink, he sits on the counter and watches. When I work at my computer, he sits nearby, on his phone book. (Yes, Lotto has his own phone book. It’s the one I allow him to shred. It spares the others.) As for my lap, it took him about a year to consider its value as a resting place. I think that, because he saw Vesta sitting on it so often, he decided to give it a go. But, prior to that, his trespassings were clearly uncomfortable for him. He responded to my lap as if it were quicksand. He couldn’t wait to move on. To sit above me on the back of the couch. To watch over our world.

Yes, the fanciers have it right in most cases, but I’ve also realized – from reading the website’s descriptions – that Lotto is an exception.

According to the site’s language, Maine Coons “are not as vertically-oriented as some other breeds, preferring to chase objects on the ground and grasping them in their large paws.”

I beg to differ. Yes, Lotto’s paws are large, but the dude can catch, and he enjoys our games most when he’s positioned on the bed. From there, he’ll reach for the heavens.

In the bedroom, I stand in the open area and throw toys. From the bed, which is probably more than three feet off the ground, Lotto catches.

But I should be clear: I have not taught Lotto how to catch.

On the contrary, he has taught me how to throw.

… When I reviewed the website’s language on the Maine Coon’s growth potential, I was very impressed. It stated that most members of the breed “don't achieve their full size until they are three to five years old.” Although Lotto (now 3-and-a-half) has maintained his 11 pounds of body weight for a full two years, his coat has fooled me. Every month, something changes, and he looks bigger. Several weeks ago, when he was walking out of the room, I looked in amazement. “When the hell did you get jodhpurs?” I asked him.

But mostly, Lotto isn’t walking out of the room.

Mostly, Lotto is in the room with me.

… This past Monday night, I returned from 10 days on the East Coast, where I visited my mom, a few cousins, and some childhood friends.

I had a great time, but I also was happy to be home.

Happy to see my two cats.

And within an hour of my having parked my suitcase in the bedroom, Lotto joined me for a ritual he first introduced about a month into our cohabitation. Not two seconds after I sat on the toilet to pee, Lotto jumped in the tub and proceeded to pee over the drain.

It’s something we do together.

And it was totally his idea.

… There are all kinds of ways to make one feel welcomed home.

Lotto comes up with the best of them.

...As A Human Being

I heard myself saying it recently. I was referring to someone with whom I have been working. While there have been glitches in that process (and in some of his choices for the work I might do), I nevertheless shared, “I like him as a human being.”

Talk about a lame statement!

It's a common phrase, of course. We've all used it at one time or another, and so we know what we mean. But, standing back and looking at it...

Someone from another planet – someone, say, who is not accustomed to our way with words – might be tempted to ask some follow-up questions.

And the dialogue might go something like this:

Someone from Another Planet (hereafter, SFAP):: You like him as a human being, you say? Okay, let’s say he’s a cat. Would you like him then?

Me:: Actually, he’d make a great cat. He’s very tenacious. Just never gives up.

SFAP:: Interesting. And if he were a dog?

Me:: Oh, he’d suck as a dog. Sit? Heel? Ain't gonna happen!

SFAP:: Would you like him as a camel?

Me:: Hmm… Hard to say. I haven’t been around a lot of camels. I hear they’re nasty. I hear they spit.

SFAP:: Don’t cats spit?

Me:: Well, they hiss, yeah. But, only when it’s called for.

SFAP:: Hmm… What about a cockroach?

Me:: Well, again, I gotta go with the tenacity factor. Yeah, he’d rock as a cockroach. I wouldn’t like him, because I’ve never met a cockroach that I like, but … hmm, you raise a good point. Should I respect cockroaches for their tenacity?

SFAP:: It’s really up to you, of course.

Me:: Right.

SFAP:: Suppose he were a cow? Would you give up meat?

Me:: I really don’t like where these questions are going.

SFAP:: Forget that. I was getting off point. We’re talking about how you “like” him. Would you like him as a bird?

Me:: Yeah, I think he’d make a great bird. He’d probably fly higher than a lot of other birds, or at least, he’d try to.

SFAP:: Tenacity?

Me:: No. It’s more about ambition, really.

SFAP:: So do you think an ambitious bird is a good bird?

Me:: Hmm… Since you put it that way, maybe that’s not such a good fit.

SFAP:: What if he were a frog? Would you like him as a frog?

Me:: I think he’d be wasted as a frog.

SFAP:: So the frog has no use?

Me:: No. I mean, for other frogs, they’re fine. Oh, I’m confused. I mean, I like him as a human being! What’s wrong with that?

SFAP:: Then you don’t think he’s wasted as a human being.

Me:: No.

SFAP:: What more do you need to know, then?

That Ol' Jack Magic - Unconditional Love in a Faulty Structure: Part Two

A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is the second installment of a three-part essay. To begin at the beginning, go here. (Or just scroll down to last Wednesday's post.)

+++

It’s weird for me to think back now on that short dialogue I had with Tim during the pre-Elizabethan era. He had moved into the apartment below mine probably about a year after me. We knew each other’s names, and we had had a few inconsequential conversations, but we were hardly friends. One day, we were both in the stairwell at the same time. I was at the top of the stairs, about to go into my apartment. He was at the bottom of the stairs, leaving his.

“Are you alright?” he asked, in an angry tone. “Because last night, your music woke me out of a deep sleep.” (He was pissed, and he had the right to be.)

“I’m sorry,” I said.

And I let him vent a little more. I apologized again. But I didn’t give the full explanation.

Because I didn’t know Tim then, I didn’t tell him what had preceded that night of loud, let-me-forget-the-day music. I had to put my cat to sleep that day. I had to say good-bye to Kitty, the cat I adopted in New York when I was only 20 years old.

Kitty had been a remarkable presence in my life. When I adopted her at the New York SPCA, I assumed I was bringing back to my college residence a little feline who would entertain my five suitemates and me. A toy; an object for our amusement. But, the tiny black kitten that returned with me to 116th Street wasn’t entertaining. In fact, as I would learn from the vet I took her to a few days later, she was dying.

She had not been weaned properly, and – despite the fatal prognosis – I was given some instructions that might work: I was to combine baby food with appetite enhancer and force it into her mouth with a rubber syringe. My friend Aileen’s boyfriend, Phil, immediately came to the plate to help me with this task, and we were a team. In spite of our teamwork, there always was a lot of sloppy goop tucked between Kitty’s tiny whiskers. But because of the teamwork, Kitty lived. For more than 18 years.

We had gone through a lot, Kitty and I. And part of what we had gone through was what she taught me those first few weeks I knew her: that I could take care of something; that I could give that something unconditional love.

It’s weird to think now that I couldn’t share with Tim what I had gone through the previous day. I only could apologize weakly and walk into my apartment, feeling guilty for having woke him up with the music I was blaring well past midnight. Were I going through the same thing today, he would know it. He would know, long before that last trip to the vet, that my cat was dying. And, just as he has offered to drive me to the airport in the years since, he probably would offer to drive me to the vet. And I would accept. I would be able to share the experience with him. Because he is not just my neighbor; he is my friend.

+++

And it’s weird to think what my apartment might still look like if Deb hadn’t moved into the building. Deb, whose eye and sense of daring, immediately pushed the envelope in her own apartment. Deb, who set a precedent for those who might say, “This is my space.”

I didn’t know Deb very well when I sought her advice regarding the painting of my living room, but I trusted her instincts. So I let her pick out the colors, and I followed her every direction. She helped at times, too, and we giggled as we worked together – something about those fumes, something about the whole endeavor. There’s nothing like moving your entire world into the middle of a space and changing the colors around it. Debbi showed me how energizing those changes could be.

And less than a year later, she again would drive the color scheme. I pointed to Colby, my red tabby cat, and said, “That’s the palette I want for my bedroom.” She fanned through her book of paint chips, starred two colors (neither of which actually exists on Colby), and gave me quick verbal instructions as to how to do a particular faux finish. Then, she was off to Colorado for Christmas. I would spend Christmas painting my bedroom, always with her cell phone number close at hand.

By the end of that week, a phenomenal transformation had taken place in my bedroom. And like some 21st Century cubist Cinderella, I would – from that point forward – sleep peacefully inside something that resembles a square pumpkin.

+++

Something was happening, during that time. I was not just changing the color of my apartment. I was changing the color of my life. The unexpected support from the people with whom I shared a roof was kicking in. The comfort was allowing me to open up, to see what the universe had in store.

I had held nonprofit staff jobs for 12 years, and they were never without their share of problems and frustrations. In August 2000, after an unusually lengthy search, I accepted a Development Director position that commanded a high salary (by nonprofit standards). But a bizarre thing happened at about the same time…

I had plans one Saturday to meet my friend Maria in Santa Monica. We’d agreed to a loose agenda. We would eat brunch wherever, and then we’d walk down Main Street. Browse through the shops. My personal agenda was to treat myself to a bracelet – a memory wire bracelet, specifically. (And this was a rather odd agenda for me to entertain. With the exception of earrings, I had never been one to buy – or care much about – jewelry.)

Maria and I picked a brunch spot randomly, and after we ate, we headed south on Main Street. The first store we came upon had window displays that were seductive. Window displays that implied jewelry. We walked in. And I realized immediately that we had just walked into a bead store.

“Hmm…” I thought, scoping the room. “Maybe I’ll just make a bracelet.”

+++

It’s no secret that I have an addictive personality, and by the time I shared my creations with Julie, who was the first of the neighbors to see them, my bowl o’ bracelets already was teeming.

“I’m so proud of you,” she said, in her warm and compassionate way. “You’re going outside yourself.”

Debbi had just returned from a production trip, and Julie saw her before I did. “Katie’s doing something completely different,” Julie told Deb. “And I’m not going to tell you what it is. You just have to see!”

I remember that night in late summer when I debuted my bowl o’ bracelets on Debbi’s stoop. I watched as my neighbor friends pawed over the new collection, trying them on and modeling them for each other. Julie already had bought one. Now Deb and new neighbor Sara would make their selections.

to be continued on September 7th.