A book.
The
old woman was in a lot of pain today. Sometimes it was like that.
She knew it was part age and part illnesses. At seventy six years
old what could she expect. She was peaceful and enjoyed looking out
the windows at the green leaves on the trees that brushed the panes.
The sun shined on them and created wonderful shadows and pieces of
light. There is something that I have to do she thought. Before I
die. I have to write a book. She had been thinking of it for a long
time. It was just so hard to start. To know where to start and why
she had to do this.
This
morning in a dream it had come to her. The reason. The tiny little
thing that she could do to make her life worthwhile and perhaps to
help even one person to live a bit better than she had.
Such
a lost little girl. Such a beautiful little girl, sun bleached brown
hair, green eyes, a perfect face, lithe and slim.
The
cat sat on the mat. She turned her feline head from side to side. She
licked down the front of herself as cats do. The mat was prickly on
her bottom. She stretched, yawned and gracefully wove herself down
the porch steps. Hot sun, so delicious after the cold winter and
spring. Paws sleuthing in the grass. Whiskers shining white. Oh to
be a human she thought. I think I was a human in a past life. I was a
girl. I had green eyes like I do now. Brown hair like I do now. I
walked on two feet, ran, jumped, and swam. Oh what a beautiful little
girl I was.
Then
she forgot. There was a quick movement in the grass. A grasshopper.
It was green and shining. It jumped and she loved things that jumped.
With a quick paw she reached out, extending her claws. Grabbed it. It
wriggled. She let it go. Now was the game. It would last until the
grasshopper finally died. A cat smile curled her mouth. The memory of
a little girl was lost. She was only a mere cat again.
KITTY,
KITTY. Here KITTY.
KITTY KITTY.
HERE KITTY.
The
cats ears twitched then turned slightly in the direction of the
sounds. She turned and bounded through
the long grass, over the rotted tree stump, down the hill toward the
words. The cat knew the voice, the sound, frail, shrill but ever
present in her life. The porch of the small house soon became the
only sight in front of her. On the porch the old woman sat in the
rocking chair. Kitty bounced up the stairs and almost flew into the
soft lap. Kitty purred lightly then slept. Soon the old lady slept
too. All was quiet. It was a cool day for a summer day. The sky, now
gray and a leaden cloud white started to drizzle rain across the
fields. The long grass sighed as it drank. It had been a while and
the sun had been hot.
Do
you want your dinner? Come on then. We will go inside. The rain is
heavy now. A real downpour. The old lady rose painfully, slowly from
the chair.
The
cat jumped down and placed her paws carefully on the now damp porch
floor. Soon the floor would be wet, the rain slanting now and
crossing over the porch rails toward the
front door. The mat would be wet too. Perhaps tomorrow the sun would
dry her mat again. The sun was gone now behind the voluminous clouds.
Low thunder rumbled in the distance. A feeble strike of lightning
shone for a second in the woods. Scared now the cat ran for the
door, over the now wet mat, through the opening where the old woman
stood. She ran to her dish and looked up. Soon food would be in it.
Soon she could curl up on the end of the old woman's bed on the soft
quilt and sleep. Tomorrow perhaps she would find another grasshopper,
or a toad, or maybe even a mouse. Before she slept she would listen
to the rain and the old woman snore. The thunder rumbled again.
Louder now. Then louder still.
The
sun was a bright red orange. Kitty sat on her mat. It was early
morning and the mat was still damp from
the rain but the hot sun had dried it a bit. Sarah rocked in her
chair and hummed an almost silent tune. If you were old you would
know that it was, “Unchained Melody”. Now she sang. Oh my love.
My darling, I've hungered for your touch. A long lonely time. TM Her
voice was scratchy and wavered up and down the scales but you could
hear the melody. She was old now and she reminisced allot. She
thought of the time passed so long ago. She thought of the long years
that seemed like minutes now. Minute after minute passing so fast
they blurred in her mind.
She
turned her head to look at Kitty. Kitty turned her head and pricked
her ears up and looked at Sarah. A thought passed between them. Kitty
stretched and purred. Sarah stopped her song. They looked long at
each other.
Kitty
was thinking of the little
girl again. She stretched again, making herself into a sleek feline
statue. I was a
little girl once she thought and
she laid down on the mat and slept and dreamed.
Later,
Sarah moved about the kitchen tidying up. The kitchen was small and
old fashioned. There was one window and the red sun was shining in
casting a rose glow on everything. It was hot already. She wiped the
perspiration from her face with her handkerchief. As she folded her
hanky she noticed her hands. The wrinkles and the fine lines. Her
skin was like parchment.
It's
time she thought and she glanced at the yellow pad of paper and the
pen that had been on the table for several days now. She sat in the
white painted wooden chair. Her hand reached for the cover of the
paper pad and pulled it in front of her. Her hand grasped the pen and
she wrote on the cover in large printed letters. A LIFE. She flipped
the cover to the back and sat the pad down again. Her mouth moved
into a straight line and trembled a bit. Words are like brushes
dipped in paint she thought and she wrote.
Sarah
wrote for two hours. Her hand was cramped and sore so she stopped.
That was good for one day she thought. I have finally started. Her
hand shook and she grasped it with the other hand. Can I do it? Can I
ever finish this? Will anyone ever read it. Kitty wove across the
kitchen in her feline way and wrapped her body around Sarah’s
ankles. Smooth brown fur against skinny, wrinkled parchment ankles.
Oh Kitty, I have been busy. Can't you see I have been writing. Kitty
said meow. That was the only word Kitty could say. If she could have
spoken more words her tongue would have been a brush laden with the
brightest and most beautiful colors there ever were.
The
year was 1929. Sarah was ten years old. She was a quiet child, moody
and sad. Hitler had risen to the top of the Nazi party in Germany. It
was May. In a few months the Stock Market would crash and the world
would change. Adolf Hitler would become the head of Germany and the
horrors would begin.
In
America the Great Depression would begin to unfold. In the small town
of Plattsburg in the Catskill Mountains it would be a while before
they felt the concussion of these events.
They
always had enough to eat. There were no treats. No candy, not many
cookies or sugary things. Plain food from the garden. Her mother
cooked and canned all summer and fall. The family worked hard. There
was no running water. No central heat. No bathroom.
She
was frightened of the outside world but she had to go to school.
School was torment. The children had nice clothes. Most of their
fathers were, if not well to do, comfortable. Sarah's father did not
believe that children needed dresses or shoes. Just covering their
bodies with whatever was available was fine for him. These things
were never purchased. They were found. In free used clothing bins,
garbage cans and wherever they were available. She and her little
brother worked hard, chopping wood, carrying water from the spring in
the woods, tending the garden and many other chores. Such was the way
of the world for the poor in the small towns of America in the year
1929.
The
small house, not much more than a shack was in the middle of woods
and fields. A beautiful playground for children who liked to imagine.
Sarah loved to imagine. She made paths through the trees and sunny
spaces where the wildflowers grew. When she had been very little she
had plucked blossoms and stems without the roots and brought
them home to plant in her little garden. The flowers had always died
and she hadn't known why. She had made the most beautiful gardens and
they always wilted and shriveled to the dirt.
At
one time, years before, the little house had been the home of an
older gentleman. He had made fine gardens and the growth of the years
was still remaining. The hardier plants had survived and flourished.
Lilacs, Forsythia, Sweet William, and Tulips in the spring. The
Lilacs were the best. Sweet smelling and probably planted to sheath
the smell of the outhouse behind them.
Sarah
thought she should have been a fine lady like the grand ladies in her
books. Jane Austen was her favorite writer but she loved all books.
She would read any book that she came upon. She had none of her own.
She borrowed from friends. She read her grandmothers books that the
stern old lady kept in her tall bookcase. She read The Pilgrims
Progress but understood none of it and stumbled over the more
difficult words. She read Kipling, Dickens, Hugo, Cereal boxes,
Popular Mechanics and Newspapers.
She
loved when the students received a new text book at the beginning of
the school year. At home she read the entire book. At school she was
a B and C student. Very shy with no confidence she was afraid to
speak in the classroom and if called upon would not say the answer to
the questions.
Sarah
loved cats. Every wandering orphan cat found a home in her heart.
She couldn't take them into the house but she managed to find food
for them when they were thin and hungry. She didn't name them. They
were feral cats born in the woods. Cats then were not like the
pampered cats of today. They were scavengers. Something was very
strange. No one, her mother, aunts, uncles or their friends could
understand. All the cats loved Sarah. These cats, and sometimes there
were three or four at a time, followed Sarah in a line. Scraggly and
thin. Heads held high as if they were indeed Princesses, they walked
behind her. When the little girl stopped to pick a flower or to
examine a small brightly colored stone, they stopped, only continuing
when she did. “Sarah's cats” they called them. In the colder
weather the cats loved to creep up onto her father's car tires. It
was warm there next to the engine that minutes ago had been hot when
he returned from a trip to town. They would lie there and bask in the
warmth. No matter how many times it happened her father would not
remember to check the tires under the fenders before he went on
another trip to town. The wheels spun and the cat was flattened. Many
tears and a trip to the little cat cemetery that Sarah had made in
the clearing in the woods. An old breadbox with rusted and peeling
cream paint marked the graves of several cats.
Her
father never said a word about it. There was no I'm sorry, no
condolences just the blank look that he always had when he looked at
her. Her mother scolded her for making a fuss.
