Marcellino

Into the hills we ascend, the wind strips through our hair as we cut the curves like a couple of  bees.  On the back of Marcellino's vespa I hold on  to what would  be the ride of my lifetime.  We're just a couple of kids going up and down life's road,  on a journey discovering and finding out who we are.   I am back in Italy again with my new friend  Marcellino it's the summer of 1986. We pull up to a cafe bar, I being the green horn don't know what to order,  juice sounds refreshing to me.  Marcellino  grinning, suggest in a mischievous  whisper,   I order succo di cazzo.  He thinks it would be really funny if the new American girl orders COCK JUICE from the young  male barista.  This would be the beginning to a string of jokes and fun times we would share together.

Marcellino Bonuccelli, is the bread maker in the town of Camaiore Italy.  For the most part he lives a nocturnal life preparing bread by night to be fresh and ready for the town's people in the morning.  A labor intensive job,  he has his task down to a routine.  Sometimes, me and a few of his local friends  would hang out at night and watch Marcellino prepare his bread.  I remember watching thoughtfully, as this young man worked with his white cotton apron wrapped around tightly.  I thought every single loaf of bread has a part of him in it, what a wonderful gift to share  and put out there ~ bread for the people.  We would joke and laugh while Marcellino mixed his flour and water.  It was a physical job with a lots of noise, slinging pounding and kneading, puffs of flour settling.  Piles of doe smacked against the wood counters were left to rise. Finally the ovens were set and the bread baked to golden perfection.   Sending out aromas that waft scents of fresh baked bread down the neighboring streets.

I was the new kid in town,  an American girl ready for adventure.  I explained one night at the bakery to a small inquisitive crowd Perla, Kathia and Lucia I had seen a bat.  Of course I had forgotten the proper italian word for bat and was saying something like suck bird in Italian.  I knew how to explain that it was in the bedroom with Sandra and Renzo.  I think they all thought I was talking about various  sexual acts  that went on upstairs in the bedroom.  The correct word for bat is pipistrello and it helps to flap your wings  and show your teeth when you say it.  I was always getting myself into trouble like that.

 Out of all the kids I met in that town I felt closest to Marcellino .  Even though he spoke absolutely no english we seem to relate and understand each other on an artistic level.  He painted pictures, a trait he learned from his mother. We both have mothers who are artists and we share the same names Marcello and Marcella.   Being a budding artist myself I found a friend and a companion I could relate too.  Besides that Marcellino was truly kind to me.

He had me over for lunch one day.  He lived with his mother and sisters, they shared a small apartment  above the local grocery store and bakery where he worked.   He seemed nervous that day and complained his stomach hurt, there was something vulnerable about him that made him endearing and most of all approachable.  His smile still remained, his round expressive eyes sparkled with laughter but behind the shiny surface was something deeper.  I could feel it but not fully understand the debt of what lay beneath him.  Does anyone truly understand another person's feelings?  He made me lunch,  a good cook he prepared pasta and meat sauce with a side dish of cauliflower.  He joked and told me it was horse, cauliflower in Italian is covalofioure and  horse is covallo.  I fell for his antics always.

His mother sat on the couch while Marcellino prepared me lunch she looked at me suspiciously.  She seemed sad and withdrawn. Yet somewhere  behind all her darkness she seemed slightly amused and was perhaps a little happy to see her son with  with a women.  She said very little but I knew she was full of passion and had many thoughts inside of her.  I could tell by her paintings that were all over the apartment. They expressed a life of pain yet colorful and dream like.  Exotic in nature with  bright green leaves, red and yellow flowers, birds in a fantasy landscape.  There were paintings everywhere  that hung  and lay up against the walls.  I wanted to see them all,  curious by nature these works of art were in a language I could understand.  Art is like that... if you're lucky  it can take you places.... beyond a verbal language, transcending towards a universal visual language.  My mind swirled with the images, I could see the soft brush strokes had been tenderly applied. The subject matter was bold with daring colors.  How ever beautiful I understood the dramatic intention and swooping motions they were like an exotic bird in chaotic flight.

Marcellino asked if he could show me his studio.  If there's one thing artists love to do is see another artist's  studio.  We dream about the perfect studios a  huge white room with plenty of great space to spread out, tall ceilings and large plate glass windows to let all the natural light come in and shine upon your lovely objects of art.  He opens the door- and it's a closet.  The size of what would be a janitors closet deep with a tiny window at the end.  From the center of the room a lone light bulb hangs from the ceiling with a pull down cord.   Just wide enough to reach your arms out  and touch your fingers tips from wall to wall.  Piles of canvases are lined up on either side of the walls and in the center sits a non assuming wooden chair in front of an easel.  I soak it all up in one breath.  He proceeds to show me his work.  Flipping through his paintings frantically, he chats  in local dialect. I most likely understood  next to nothing. It's like Charlie Brown's mom.  I look and study his paintings one by one.  They are so beautiful and allegorical.  His brush strokes are carefully and ever so delicately applied in a smooth, even, soft and controlled manor.  Just as  his mother before him,  he has taken her technique and applied it to his own stories.  His stories unfold in colorful images.  I see a boy, a man, a suit a briefcase, he is naked he is clothed again I see the vulnerability.   The colors are bright  the pallet is something out of a spring bouquet, vibrant and  full of life. We talk a lot I understand very little of what he is saying but in my heart I feel so much. He mentions to me that his mother suffers from psychiatric problems, she is disturbed.  I know this has to be hard on everyone. I go away that day with my heart weighing heavy,  I respect the art I have seen and  feel  guilty for all the education and art space that I have been so privileged  to have.  Marcellino, makes art in a closet and was taught by his ailing mother, on top of that he bakes the bread for the town!  I don't know how he does it all.  I feel much closer to Marcellino now that I have seen his studio and his mother's paintings. It's been a good day, I leave his apartment never knowing when I will see him again but I always do.

The door knocks,  I am home alone up stairs in the bathroom.  It's Marcellino he has decided to drop by. I am caught off guard but happy to see him.  I fluster around in my broken Italian and he ask me what has happen to my finger.  I have blood soaked toilet paper and masking tape wrapped around the end of my right index finger.  I try to explain but he keeps asking me if I had recently hit my finger with a hammer because I had been carving marble with a hammer and chisel.  I am a novice but I explain no, I had recently gotten on an old outdated train and flipped down a side chair in the aisle that was on a spring and it flipped right back up and smashed my finger up against the inside wall of the train.  This was all extremely complicated to explain.  There was a lot of hand motions and me flailing around with my bloody finger.  On top of that I had to explain only just minutes before Marcellino arrived  I had been looking for a band aid in Sandra and Renzo's bathroom it was extremely hot up there and I opened the window and some how  the dam window came flying back down and smashed my already injured finger again!  There were no band aids and this is why I had toilet paper and masking tape wrapped around my still bleeding finger.  We just laughed what else could we do.

Marcellino was a good friend to me,  many times we would go off on little adventures. We would explore remote towns by vespa and sit at cafes and sip our cappuccinos out of real ceramic cups,  walk the rivers edge and skip rocks and travel by train to Florence and visit famous works of art.  I fell asleep  once on the train ride back from Florence.  Tired, I suppose from all the walking in the sun and trying to talk Italian. I am known for being able to fall asleep anywhere.  Marcellino makes fun, mocking me with my mouth wide open as my head bobbles  back and forth to the motions of the train. A strange man sits next to me.  Marcellino sits across from me his eyes sparkle in delight as I catch flies with my mouth wide open.  At least I didn't fall asleep on the strange man's shoulder, I have done that before.  I never could figure out when Marcellino slept.  He had a nervous, artistic energy, his personality was so colorful, bright and witty. He was my eccentric and vulnerable friend.


Eventually the States were calling me home.  I had exhausted my funds and seen the seasons change several times. It was December  the streets were cold, drab and dreary.   I longed for the warm comfort of home  and family. I was homesick for my parents and wanted to spend Christmas with my sisters and brother again.  Marcellino and friends had prepared a going away party for me.  We gathered in a family style restaurant where the tables were long and had wooden benches on either side.  The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and pizzas baking in the wood burning forno. We ate and laughed and everyone made me feel very loved.  They gave me a super huge pink and white soft teddy bear as a going away present.  I carried this carnival sized bear on the plane with me home along with marble polished spheres and other souvenirs.  My bags were heavy with memories and a pile of  letters that were from anyone that ever wrote to me while I was away.  All of these mementos I would carry on  the plane, along with  a bottle of grappa.  Needless to say I looked rediculous with  my pink straw hat on in the middle of winter, people were staring at me.  What I didn't realize was what I was leaving behind me was a wonderful warm bunch of friends that would all go their separate ways just as I was.  Some would marry then later divorce others will have their own kids that are now married. Then there are those I would totally lose track of and forget their names completely.  I will always remember my friend Marcellino.  A talented  young artist and baker, who showed me the country I  so dearly love ~Italia. He made me laugh, smile and feel comfortable about who I was.    Over the next few years we would correspond very little I would receive notices of art shows with a  little scribbled un-legible note attached. I sent him a collage I made of Sophia Loran in an antique  marble bathtub with a burning house in the background.  Eventually the letters tapered off completely.  We had our own separate lives and the miles set us apart.  The computer age would finally take off into a full blown house hold fixture and cell phones would become the norm, not that I ever knew what to do with either one of them.  Regardless the times they were a changing... I slugged on with various jobs and tried to keep myself a float.  My romantic dreams of being a famous artist took to the back burner as the reality of paying bills and just making a living were at the for front. I had made a life for myself staying creative but mostly being domestic in my new little cute old house in Waldo tending to my garden and hanging out with my fluffy cat Pooky.

I would eventually return to Italy, but not for another 12 years.  This time I  brought a friend with me Amanda.  After plenty of sight seeing, we found our way back to Camaiore.  The streets and the people look familiar, but I am removed- too much time has passed. I am once again the foreigner, stranger (straniera).   I go to the bakery and anxiously inquire about Marcellino.   His sister runs upstairs and in a few minutes Marcellino appears smiling as if I had never left we are talking, hugging and carrying on like old times.  I introduce him to my friend Amanda and tell him where we are staying.   He has a cell phone now which is all the rage. He gives me his number,  we make plans to get together soon.  There is a big religious festival coming up, where the town  of Camaiore literally carpets the streets with colored sawdust and flower petals.  Magnificent tapestries are laid out by the towns people.  They stay up all night preparing each one more dramatic then the other.  It's a tradition that has been going on for centuries and will most likely continue.  The carpets of colored sawdust (Pula, in local dialect)  are applied with elaborate stencils.  That night, Marcellino and I go grab an ice cream, we stop for a quick photo in front of one of the stencils.   Camaiore is celebrating the birthday of Corpus Christi.

The groups of citizens tappetari have competed during the night to deliver the most beautiful rugs that can be seen during the morning and then be erased by the passage of the procession of Corpus Domini.

The streets are full of people we walk around the tapestries.  Everyone is pumped and excited the town is alive with creative adrenalin. Late that night Marcellino and a group of his friends gather at his apartment.  He is going to make his friends,  Amanda and I a feast.  We don't actually eat until around Midnight, I am glad I ate that ice cream cone before dinner.  Every thing was wonderful our faces are beaming from all the excitement, it feels so good to be back in Italy again with my good friend Marcellino and to share the fun with Amanda.

Like so many vacations Amanda and I spent our time rushing from one awesome spot to the next.  Soaking it all up in a whirl wind if time.  In all actuality we could of dedicated our time sketching and pondering the many angles of even a not so famous work of art or just one spot and still not have done it justice.  Regardless the days flew by and are now faded snap shots tucked away in a box.  Towards the final days of our trip Marcellino asked me one Sunday if I wanted to go to the ocean with him.  I replied yes as going to el Mare is such an intricate part of the Italian culture.  Being a midwesterner that knows nothing but the prairie, I never could relate.  Maybe it's my Aries fire sign that keep me at bay.  I asked Amanda if she would like to join us.  She has opted not to go.  She is nursing a bad case of the cramps and has a broken heart that is weighing heavy over yet another unrequited love.  I can relate and don't push the subject.  Besides that we had been spending a lot of time together virtually every minute of the day and night.  Sight seeing,  breaking bread  and even sleeping in the same bed together.  I thought she could use a break.

Marcellino and I head off  in his little beater red hatch back. Up the coast north and then into the hills.  He explains it is a remote beach that not very many people know about.  It will take some time to access the beach but will be well worth our efforts.  I agree nodding what ever....  Forty five minutes later we arrive at a non assuming dirt parking lot, there are but a few cars parked there.  We take off on foot along a dirt path, we are climbing along the edge of a hillside zig zagging our way up,  I can smell the ocean and know it to be near but still I cannot see it.  The climb is strenuous but Marcellino assures me that we are close to our destination.  Some thirty minutes later we reach the summit and peer down below.  There in front of us like  some kind of cheesy, Lost Paradise  movie (but this time it's for real)  the great big sky opens up reflecting on the blue ocean that  greets us with a roar as it slaps up against the sandy shores.  We are totally secluded with a back drop of  rocks and moss. There are no cabanas or snack bars, no need to have money here because there is nothing to buy. I look off into the distance toward the  west  homeward  there are  miles and miles of clear blue ocean laid out in front of me. We stop for a moment to look and  listen.   I take a photo of Marcellino pioneering the landscape.  We head down a rugged path with  rocks jutting out.   Marcellino slips,  his feet go out in front of him.  He lands smack down on his ass.  I feel so bad for him like in some way I am responsible.  I wonder if he has had enough sleep or when exactly does he sleep. I ask if he is ok.  He tells me in a pathetic boyish way he needs to "far la caca."  Make a shit.... go to the bathroom  OH... I am not sure what to do.   Some how he manages and in a few minutes the warm sandy beaches are at our feet.  We plunk down and all is well.

There under the sun we laid out with just a few other topless sun bathing women. As the tide rolled in for the umpteenth, billionth, infinitesimal time Marcellino confides in me and tells me he's gay.  My reaction was like he just ordered a pepperoni pizza, it just wasn't that big of a deal to me.  I already had my suspicions anyway.  He then encourages me to get into the ocean, I felt intimidated by it's great enormity, like it could swallow me up.  I never was too keen on water, partly because I have  this recurring dream that I am with  large bodies of water.  It's different every time but there is always water.  I wonder what the meaning is behind these dreams.  Reluctantly  I go with him into the cool waters, we begin to frolic. I pretended I  am a  dolphin, then a mermaid.  Marcellino playfully picks me up into his arms and throws me back into the ocean.  I giggle like a nervous school girl.  After a while I tire and am ready to go back to the beach and lay out.  Marcellino continues to splish and splash without a care in the world he is in heaven.  I watch happy to see him in his element.  It's good to be in your element and to know what it is. As for me that would be the forest deep dark and enchanting the scent of dirt below and the dappled light above.

After a while we decide to take off and head back to town.  On our way back we stop off in the famous marble carving town of Pietrasanta.  Marcellino has told me of a fountain tucked away up a winding road next to a park.  It's called Michael Angelo's fountain,  here is where one of the greatest artist that ever lived drank the sweet spring water that runs down from the mountain above.  At one time this was his town, where he did business sculpting such masterpieces as the Pieta.  If you drink from this ancient marble fountain where the likes of Michael Angelo and many other greats have drunk, you will return to Italy. Don't we all want to return to Italy?  Italy is full of many little superstitious places where if you rub the brass nose here or caress the doors there you will be granted this...  We find our way up the steep, cobbled  street and reach a park that over looks the town's square below.  There at the park are several local men, workers they are wearing the signature blue Italian coveralls.  There must of been three or four of them all hunkered down, nose to the ground looking and searching in the grass of this small quaint  park.  I am feeling anxious to drink the waters from Michael Angelo's fountain but am curious as to what these full grown men are doing.  Have they lost something valuable?  Marcellino explains they are looking for four leaf clovers!  How funny is that, I just remember before I left for Italy I had asked my mother what she wanted me to bring her back from Italy.  She replied very matter of fact, " I don't need anything just bring me back a four leaf clover."  I along with these men am now hunting for the proverbial good luck four leaf clover.  We giggle and meander around for a while, it's late in the afternoon the sun is starting to set.  Exhausted and tired I know Marcellino needs to get going he has to start work in a little while.  We both drink from the fountain and take a couple of photos  as proof.   I am satisfied to no end knowing I will return yet again to the country my grandfather called home ~ Italia.

Once again we head off down the road, as we are heading out of town Marcellino pulls over to a cafe.  He wants to grab a quick expresso before he goes to work to bake the bread that night.  As we are walking towards the cafe I look down and there is a terra cotta planter out on the patio.  It is over grown with weeds, there is a clump of bright green clover hanging over the side.  I scan the leaves for one quick second and EUREKA!  I scream, Marcellino jumps he thinks I have been bitten by a bee. Quattro fogli I found a four leaf clover.  I pluck the clover  triumphantly and place it inside my wallet pressed safely for the return home to give to my mother.  It's been yet another great day, I go home and tell Amanda all about it.  Marcellino heads to work to bake the bread that night.  While he is  diligently working Amanda and I lie asleep together in our bed dreaming of large bodies of water. 


Like so many other vacations it was time to head back to reality.  To go home to our cats and jobs and resume life at it was.  Amanda and I had one last blow out good time in Rome. We stayed up all night hanging out at the Colosseum with a couple of guys named Ignatzio and yes Fabio.  With no sleep, we barely made our flight back to the states.  Exhausted we slept the whole way back in the plane.  As we slept the plane soared westward across  massive large bodies of water,  the atlantic ocean.  


Years later I would finally (sort of ) learn how to use a computer.  I would google Marcellino and find him on myspace. I would friend him but hear no reply.  There is a slide show of his work on his myspace page it feels good to see his work again, but still no reply.  Several weeks ago I found  out very inadvertently through a mutual friend that he died.  She thought I knew, I was shocked.  She explained that it was a mountain climbing accident, the weather turned bad there was ice, he slipped and fell to his death.  I search the internet for more information, there are photos of a helicopter carrying his body through the air.  There are so many things about his tragedy  I wonder about.  I fall back to wondering  if he had gotten enough sleep that day.  I don't know what to think I am grief stricken. 


I think back to  the last time I saw him it was was when we went to the sea.  I loved that day.  I remember before, standing in the bedroom with Amanda as she tells me she doesn't want to go.  I wish that I would of said here's a bunch of Ibuprofen for your cramps.  Life is too short to waist on a broken heart, this might be the last time you ever see him.  Then I realize with great humility I need to take my own advise.  I am guilty of so much more. How many times have I wallowed in my own self pity and wasted what could of been a beautiful day.  Squandered away my time here on earth in self doubt or negativity.  My heart goes out to Marcellino, his friends and his mother.  I wish I could of said good by to him.  I want to send him one more letter and tell him thanks for all the good times.  I wonder if there is a God and if so would it be too much to ask for a clue a sign sent from Marcellino. 


I miss him and wished that I would of told him I love you. 


 Ti amo....  Marcellino from Marcellina.

Michael

At a dinner party once I thought it would be entertaining  to all sit around the dinner table and talk about the strangest job we ever had.  As we went around the table everyone offered up some desperate, comical job they once had.  As I  suspected coming from a relatively eclectic crowd there was a wide variety of jobs.  Used car sales men,  a door to door  peep hole representative and even the not so expected female porn actress.  I have had many jobs but the strangest job I have ever had was one of my first jobs when I was seventeen years old working for B. L.  Concessions.  

It was a concession stand job serving up  soft drinks, popcorn, chili dogs and other snacks.  We had several alternative locations  that were all contracted out by this B. L. Concessions.  First was the race tracks in Kansas City KS.  a loud and foul,  fuel injected sort of place that echoed the repetitive monotonous drone of race car engines.  People in ball caps would swelter under the hot sun baking in a dust bowl of fumes, eyes glued to the cars that made their rounds.  Secondly was Memorial Hall also in Kansas City Kansas,  a memorable venue that hosted the likes of up and coming emerging bands and ALL STAR WRESTLING,  where I would meet the notorious Bull Dog Bob Brown, a burly fellow with a blonde crew cut that liked to say smart ass one liners.   Part of the job detail was to get to work early before the show started to set up stuff like the chili pot. One early evening before the concert, while decked out in my red, white and blue thick polyester clad uniform I was driven by curiosity.  I poked my head into the auditorium and to my surprise  there was the band DEVO practicing. They were  just kicking into the song Whip It.  Moving with mechanical motions while wearing rediculous flower pot looking head gear, I thought wow how great is this I am the only person standing here in this whole auditorium with DEVO the year was 1980.  I was asked to leave shortly after that by some roady dude.  Incidentally, I recently watched on youtube a video of Devo doing Whip It, a very strange and twisted 80's scene indeed.  The third place I worked concessions was at the Starlight Theatre way east of town in Kansas City Missouri.  A beautiful theatre  that  sets in the middle of the undulating grounds of Kansas City Swope Park  the largest park in Kansas City and the 29th largest municipal park in the United States. This outdoor theatre is accented by two imposing brick towers that flank the stage under the stars.  Here I would see too many concerts to mention some good some bad.  However, during the late 70's and early 80's was not such a good time economically for Starlight Theatre.


 One particular summer night I  worked at the Starlight Theatre where the feature  band that evening was the R and B vocal group the O'Jays.  As usual I got to work early before the show started.  Found a parking spot  way up front close to the entrance to the theatre. Another young girl and I set up our stand and were ready when the crowds came  for the show.  The crowd was predominately African American, the only white people I saw there were  myself and a few others that were working that night.  I stayed busy serving up drinks and snacks, the hot summer night was full of partying people and reeked of Marijuana.  The Ojay's played their hit songs  like Use Ta Be My girl, Love Train and Back Stabbers while the crowd grew more and more intoxicated.  There were many characters that night, as is typical for a concert during that time and era.  There was a man that stood out in particular that I waited on, he looked at me with evil eyes and made me feel nervous, exposed and vulnerable. It was the kind of look that you knew he was up to no good.  For the Love of Money was another one of the O'Jays hits songs that played that night. It recently has been rejuvenated and is now the theme song for Donald Trumps Apprentice show .  The night was a blurr of frenzied drinks, popcorn and the occasional chili dog until I noticed this same man was back again   This time he was trying to get into the stall where I was working, he attempted to open what was a half door with an edge like counter on it. I slammed it shut against his ribs he grimaced and was double over in pain. I felt bad for a second until he was back again, plundering in and pawing at the cash box, a flimsy metal box that set out in the open on the back counter next to the chili pot.  The chili pot has fallen over during the intrusion, chili is splattered everywhere and the other girl working with me is screaming.  This man the robber has taken off with the cash box now on foot and has run into the deep thick of the night where 1769 acres of  rolling park,  trees and brush  offer places for him to hide.  Shaken up, a police officer on a big rusty colored horse tries to comfort me.  I have been asked to stay and fill out police reports instead of cutting out early like we usually did just right after the intermission of the show.  I go back to a dimly lit small office where a couple of police  officers and the manager of the starlight ask me questions. " What did he look like" ' well he was medium height kind of muscular he wore a white T shirt' "did he have any distinctive tattoos or anything?"  I say ' yes he had a gold cap on his front tooth with a playboy bunny cut out on it' The concert was playing it final song for the night when they were done asking me  questions, it was time to release me so I could finally go home. 


  I, along with several thousand other people made our way into the  dark ubiquitous  parking lot.  I found my mother's blue metallic Honda Accord and started up the engine.  This was one of the very first years in the U.S for the Honda to come out.   Who would of thought that this small non assuming blue hatch back would pave the way to some of the world's greatest engineered and economic cars.  The temperature gage has swung over deep into the red  and has just reached the over heating point, I can't believe my eyes. I haven't barely even begun to get out of the parking lot and still have a long long way to go before I even get out of the park.  The traffic is bumper to bumper, moving at a snails pace there are hundreds of people everywhere outside partying, drinking and smoking, socializing and looking at me while billows of smoke  pour out of my mothers car.  I grip the steering wheel hard now determined that if I could just make it home some how every thing would be ok.  A man  puts his head in front of my wind shield and tells me " pull over baby I got some antifreeze"  I can't I am too afraid I have just been robbed and there's a man out there somewhere in the woods with sore ribs. Another man puts his hands up to the drivers windows there's rings all over his fingers  he says "do you want to buy this pinky ring?"  I sputter down the road some how getting ahead, slowly while the radiators puffs out it last final breaths.  There are still people everywhere looking at me I am the only white person around for miles. Another man opens his hands out in front of me and there  are 5 or 6 tiny airplane alcohol bottles in his hands he wants me to pull over.  I am going crazy with fear and helplessness.  I just want to go and move forward, get out of there.  My car has managed to get me from where the Starlight Theatre parking lot was and  down a long and winding road of what seemed liked at least several miles to what is the main entrance to Kansas City Swope Park.  I can see the sign and the stone walls on either side of the entrance.   I have no idea what I will do once I get past there but at least  I wont be in the park anymore. My car stalls.... it wont start.... it's dead and I am  seventeen year old girl, stuck and don't know what to do.  Another  young black man put's his head up to my window and says " put your car in neutral "  I reply NO he says 
" Put your car in neutral  I am going to push you over here to the side to get you off the road." In a instance my mind flips through  a rolodex of variables I weigh out my options. No I will stay here and try to restart my car, no I will stay here by myself and get nowhere, or you could help me and I could really use some help right about now.  I put my car in neutral and he pushes my car just over to the side of the road right by the stone wall to the left of  the entrance to Swope Park.  I get out of the car feeling pretty freaked out, shaky and exhausted. The  young mans offers his hand and says "Hello my name is Michael."


While beading the other day I reach into my drawer of old vintage Saints and pull out St. Michael a thin banged up pot metal medallion that bears the image of the Virgin Mary on one side and St. Michael on the other.  He stands there on top  of what appears be a dragon or is Satan? He's  triumphant and warrior like in his stature.  He carries a sword and a set of scales.  He has weighed out his options and chooses what is fair and for the good of mankind. He is the patron saint of chivalry, Police officers and Firefighters. If you ask me chivalry has always been underrated in my book and is wonderful quality to have.


My mind wanders, remembering that summer night under the stars some 30 years ago.  The sound of his voice, the fear in my chest, the red, white and blue stripes of my polyester uniform and the small oval patch over my heart embroidered B.L. Concessions.  I explained to Michael that he didn't know what all I had already been through that night if I seemed jaded - I was.  I had been working I got robbed, the chili pot and all these people, my mom's car.  He told me he would walk me back to the theatre.  I excepted his offer.  We took off into the grass veering away from the all the people, walking determinedly we made our way as the crows fly back to the two towers talking the whole time.   As we walked, he spoked calmly and matter of fact about the ways of world. I was comforted by him and very thankful to have had his company during our "walk in the park"  together.  We arrived back to the theatre and I showed him where my managers office was.  My manager agreed to give me a ride home.  I said good bye to Michael and thanked him for walking me back.  He disappeared quickly, leaving me with a memory that I have now stewed around with for almost 30 years.  


My manager was a descent looking older man with greying hair a pretty even keel, cool sort of guy.  We got into his car and made our way west through Missouri and over the state line and into Kansas.  My parents lived just two blocks  west of State line Road in Kansas.  I remember a Fleetwood Mac song coming on the radio the album Rumours had come out in 1977 the song was The Chain. I told my manager that I liked this song, he pulled all the way up our long driveway and drove around to the back of my parent's house where the back door was.  I thanked him for the ride he watched me closely as I opened the back door with my keys and went safely inside.  There in the pitch dark I breathed, naively expecting warm hugs or to be embraced by something but there was only darkness.  Things never seem like the way they should be.  I remember once my father told me that when he was a teenage boy he went out one night.  He came home very late and his family was there waiting for him they had all stayed up and were in the living room waiting for him.  His mother, brother and sister were sitting in their chairs with stone, cold sober looks on their faces. He had thought they were angry because he had stayed out too late past his curfew. He couldn't understand what the big deal was.  They had staid up to tell him his 54 year old father had died that night of a sudden heart attack. My father went to his room and started to read his Bible. 


There was nothing but still darkness in the house, my parents were sound asleep upstairs.  It was very late now but I was wide awake. I made my way up the winding, creaking stairs and went into my parents room where they lie asleep.  I nudged my mother awake.  She was very groggy, I explained to her and my now awakening father that I had gotten robbed that night at the Starlight and this was the reason why I was late getting home if they were wondering.  I explained also that my mom's car had broken down, over heated or something and I had left it at the entrance of Swope Park.  A nice boy named Michael walked me all the way back to the theatre and my manager had to give me ride home.  They asked me if I was ok.  I was, they were glad and relieved.  I went to bed that night, the next day I called my boyfriend at the time and told him everything.  He said " a lot of weird things sure do happen to you."  I didn't know what to think about that. My parent sent for a tow truck to pick the car up from the park, it had been stripped of it's battery and some other parts.  My mother felt violated. 


So in the end this was my job and there would be plenty of other jobs that I would take on begrudgingly or with pride. All in the name of money, growth and most of all character. I still remember Michael and like to think that he was a saint sent down to save me. In all actuality he was probably just a descent person that saw another person that  could use some help.  Chivalrous in manor and most of all descent I appreciate this and also feel there are many people in this world that would probably do the same, given the chance.  At the same token I have always believed that if you have a job to do you might as well do it well.  There isn't enough honor in the work that needs to be done these days.  




" It is the experience and the poor work of every day which alone will ripen in the long run, and allow one to do something completer and truer. We must work as much and with as few pretensions as a peasant, if we want to last."

Vincent Van Gogh

 I don't make chili dogs anymore I am an artist and at best I make things or weave a tale with history and honor what seems to be my enchanted  past. 

Enrico

Long ago as if it were a dream,  I was fortunate enough to live in the wonderfully crazy country of Italy.  Where so many of my ancestors went before me, I thought it would be a welcoming home. The world was my oyster I just hadn't figured out yet that I was the pearl.

 I stayed with a married couple that I had met while traveling there with my family.  Sandra and Renzo had generously offered up their lovely home for a free place to stay if I ever wanted to return. I jumped on the opportunity.  The day after I graduated from art school I flew to Italy with an open mind, and no real plan. The town where Sandra and Renzo live is a small town a few minutes off the Versilian coast of Tuscany.  Located in the upper chin area of the boot.  I found myself in the small town of Nocchi in the provence of Lucca, off the beaten path, tucked away in the foothills.  When I say small town I mean like one bar, and the women gather to wash their clothes in the icy cold waters of the running stream.  The streets are cobbled, curvy and tight.  An occasional Vespa flies by, men and women in there 70's and 80's still ride their bicycles into town to pick up a loaf of bread. Here at Sandra and Renzo's I managed to learn a few words of Italian, ho fame - sono pieno - I am hungry, I am full, molto grazie! thank you  very much! I learned how to plant basil and then make pesto and slowly recovered over a broken heart that  left  me wounded from the previous school year past.  There's always that one love that penetrates your soul and crushes you to the point you can't eat and your heart aches in such a heavy, pathetic way you just want to curl up and die - well this was the one. After staying in the town of Nocchi for several weeks it appeared to Sandra that I wasn't immersing myself enough into the culture or my surroundings and what all it had to offer.  I guess you could say I was spending a lot of time writing letters and doodling up in the bedroom.  I am embarrassed now to say I was somewhat intimidated by the language barrier. The Italians are friendly gregarious out going people, I will give them that but they aren't really known for speaking english, and why should they this was their country after all. I needed to start learning Italian if I was going to get anywhere.  Sandra is a New Zealander so she spoke fluent English.  She is  also a go getter that knows a lot of people,  she suggested  I meet Enrico.

Enrico, is a sculptor and I would learn later that he was very accomplished artist and adept to many kinds of mediums, fearless and most of all a great teacher. Before meeting him  Sandra mentioned that he had lost his arm during and accident when he was a boy but that hadn't stopped him from being a productive creative artistic person.  Well Sandra was wise beyond her years, always seeing into things and anticipating the future. Savvy and eternally generous, I will be forever indebted to her.  She drove me to Enrico's one day and this is where our friendship began.  It's hard to say what all was going on in my mind at the time.  I was slightly overwhelmed and liked the idea of a mentor.  I also wanted to learn how to carve marble... I was staying in a region that was known for centuries for carving and having the best marble quarries in the world.  This was Italy for crying out loud! Still, I was unfamiliar with the protocol of how you go about learning, where you get the tools and the general cost of things.  I still was within the student mind set. So I was thankful to have a teacher, even if he did only have one arm and didn't speak the same language as me. He was going to  show me the ropes.

When I met Enrico I wasn't prepared to see a good looking man. I had expected an older pot belly gruff and bristled  sort of Italian man.  Enrico had long wavy dark hair, was fit, broad shouldered and had a beautiful smile. The kind of smile that makes you forget about everything. You are just there in the moment, most likely smiling too.  He did not where a prosthesis arm when I met him, his right arm was missing from the elbow down.    He was 10 or so years my senior, married and had two little kids. His son was named JR after the famous JR Ewing TV show Dallas.  His daughter was named Claudia.  A long time went by before I ever meet his wife.

I would meet at his house a couple times a week.  He lived in a pseudo-industrial area where there were commercial buildings that ran along side  the main road that went into town.  Along the back side of the buildings were  hills overgrown with pine and chestnut trees. Enrico rented part of a building where him and his family lived in the back.  There was enough space to have a small garden and a couple of Turkeys.  The Turkeys were kept in a fenced area, and gobbled occasionally when Enrico made turkey calls out to them.  His studio was set up outside, weather permitting in various stations. Even though it was somewhat industrial, there was a homey feel to the place. Largely due to the fact that there was art everywhere. There were sculptures of moon faces, boys and girls laughing and crying, potted geraniums and begonias along side bubbling fountains.   I remember thinking how is this man going to show me how to carve marble with only one arm?  In the beginning we made small conversations about where I lived, what I liked and how to pronounce words. His kids fondly looked on in the background giggling with peering eyes.  I am sure I was a curiosity to them.  I remember once while learning how to burnish clay with a spoon, I called out rather loud and most incorrectly COOK- Kie -I- OH cucchiaio,  which means spoon but I botched it badly and Enrico, JR and Claudia had a good laugh.  So be it, I thought if I am going to be the brunt of their jokes why should I care I was having great fun too learning, laughing,  forgetting about my broken heart and most of all being creative.

The days went on while Enrico and I played under the sun with  terra cotta clay. The wonderful orange clay of Italy which means cooked earth.  I configured an obelisk  OH - Bell- LISKO! This Obelisco of sorts has a bass relief of a man and a women on it.  I dug this object up the other day. It was down in the basement on a shelf where I have my other objects of art and what nots.  Other wise stuff I don't know what to do with,  too sentimental I have kept it all these years.  After dusting it off I have to chuckle at my attempts at art and the results being just that honest art.  I gazed upon the images that I had created.  A young girl stands humble, slightly slouched.  A man stands amongst the shapes, square, circle and a triangle shooting into space.  Another women holds a globe in her hands.  All of these little naive vignettes are so telling and most of all revealing of a time and place.  Where there were young, humble and naive beginnings and I had the world in the palm of my hands.  Unfettered and basically free.

When the day finally came that I learned how to carve marble I was amazed once again by the clever, tenacious ways of a determined artist.  Enrico, explained to me that  a pneumatic hammer was called a martello.  A martello is a phallic looking metal hollow shaft that you insert your chisels into.  It is powered by an air compressor  when engaged it vibrates, buzzes and thumps giving you more power to chip away at the stone in front of you.  Yes, typically it is two handed endeavor.  You grasped the martello in the palm of your hand holding on tightly while you hold the chisel with your other hand and place it inside of the martello.  Enrico had fashioned a handle that stuck out of the side of the martello and this is where he shoved his elbow or what was left of his arm.  Some how he was able to push and keep the tools all engaged.  The dust was flying, chips were coming off and the stone was taking on it's form.  With the tools that lay beside me Enrico showed me the details.  How grooves were  made, smooth edges, sharp lines and textures came together the world was opening up right in front of me.

As the summer sun went into the horizon earlier and earlier the days grew cooler and shorter.  It was becoming apparent that my days were numbered with Enrico. He had already showed me how to make a grecian pot look old and patch it up with auto body putty  if need be.  I now knew how to properly use a martello and was ready to move on to the big town, the artists colony where all the artist lived and stayed Pietrasanta.



 I did finally meet his wife I have forgotten her name now. I think she was very curious of me I came for dinner one night and it was awkward.  Before dinner, off in the distance there was a lot of screaming between  Enrico and her.  I was starting to feel un-welcomed.   Dinner was a rigid affair but we all remained civil.  I muttered on in my broken Italian about where I was from Kansas City that the food was very good multo bono and tried to be appreciative.  I was most likely a threat to Enrico's wife. To her relief we would never meet again.

The last time I saw Enrico he had offered me a ride to my new apartment in Pietrasanta.  I was pretty proud of it and needed the ride as well.  For the first time he wore his prosthesis arm, he brought his daughter Claudia with him.  We drove into town it was only about 10 minutes away. He parked the car about half way down the street from where I lived on Via Stagio.  The sun was setting and there was a definite chill in the air the kind of chill that only fall can bring when you know everything is going to change, as it did.  We stood out side the huge 20 foot green double doors to my ancient apartment building.  I told him   nervously this is where I lived now and thanked him for everything.   We shivered and smiled awkwardly, Enrico wore a pale yellow short sleeved polo, we both needed to be wearing jackets but had none.  He said goodbye and walked off down the road with his daughter as I slipped into the dark, cavernous entry way to my apartment building.  I never saw him or his family again.

During the final days  of my studies at Enrico's he  once showed me his antique coin collection.  I was impressed with the enormity of it and all the hands of time that have touched, fallen and since faded to dust but the coins still remain.  The little Roman faces and laurel wreaths, winged and stamped each with their own patina. To hold the coins, however ephemeral it was I went back... to a fleeting street, a dirt road a colorful robe a leather satchel. They really were magical.  He gave me a set of brass medallions that he had made with astrological signs on them.  I picked Aquarius and Gemini because I liked the images.  I now hang them off of a set of lamps as a decorative notion- a reminder.   He gave me a brass hand etched and signed  Enrico bracelet. I also have one of his  terra cotta mask that looked very Etruscan and mysterious.  I accidently broke it, it fell off the shelf in my porch and landed on the hard concrete floor.  I kept the tiny fragments all these years. Finally I played archeologist and methodically glued it back together and placed it in the garden to age like a cherished relic. He showed me an album of photos filled with all the women he knew or dated, they were beautiful women with long flowing dark hair, sitting on rocks out in nature, by the sea squinting in the sun,  there were a lot of them.  All these things I have kept for their memories and their aesthetics.  Something to piece back together - I imagine. To create the story all over again, but this time the perspective is different.  Sometimes there are  people that come into your life and give you so much but it takes you another quarter of a lifetime to truly appreciate them. They always say hind sight is 20/ 20.  Well 23 years have gone by and this is what I have gathered.  A lovely memory of naivety, strength and artistic vision.  Maybe someday I will be able to re-pay back to society  or to a non suspecting individual  and give them a similar gift this is what I will hope for and aspire to.

The Workout

For some weird twisted reason I am a glutton for punishment.  I tend to get myself into little twits of sorts. Relatively harmless but funny endeavors like a scenario that Elaine from Seinfeld would do. As I sit here in all kinds of muscular pain I ask myself. Why I subjected myself to a two hour workout class on Saturday- in between taking ibuprofen and walking like an old women,  I am still trying to figure this all out.

I'll admit my body isn't what it use to be.  Time has taken it's toll in the name of rolls.  The workout regime isn't what it use to be either.  For multiple reasons staying in shape has gotten away from me.  Maybe as a form of punishment to myself is the reason why I decided to take the  2 hour workout special event. Yes, a masochistic motivator to slap my ass right into the karma it deserves.

Darby,  my buddy was one of the master minds behind this event.  A motivated entrepreneur, and a  recent Mother of two.  She's as cute as a well formed button with all kinds of great energy, everything I want. It sounded like a good idea to me.  I signed up a good two weeks in advance and proceeded to let the dreading begin. What have I gotten myself into "Ladies who Lunge" is the name of the course, I can feel the pain already?  Who  am I fooling, this could be dangerous.  I haven't even been working out at all! I better start lunging at home to prep myself.  As the days went on and an occasional lunge and squat here and there, the impending date grew closer. I was clearly anxious and in general highly dubious of the outcome.  Not a good place to be for a self loathing, perimenopausal  female such as myself.

Friday night came like a bad bill.  As a good student I put myself to bed early. I had a big day a head of me.  Not only did I have the ladies who lunge workout class but that evening I had a memorial gathering/party for and old flame/friend of mine who had recently passed away.  Mixed emotions were running deep, brewing themselves in the name of inner term oil.  It was time to rise up and face the proverbial music.  After not sleeping well at all I got up early and drank a capuchino.  Set out a bottle of water, I set it out on the counter next to a brand new bottle of white vinegar.  The vinegar was for the salad I needed to prepare for the memorial service.  Well in my rush of distractedness I almost grabbed the vinegar as my drinking water. How bitter the sweat would be if that were to happen but it didn't  so all is well - so far...

I arrived at the club early, with the correct bottle of water and workout mat in hand.  I signed up and gave my niceties to Darby. She was giving me some kind of grief for the book I had picked for our next upcoming book club. I wasn't really present at the moment I was all consumed with the future and the humility of what lay ahead of me.  The ladies who lunge proceeded to file in. They wore tight fitting black as coal leggings with tight fitting colorful strappy tops.  I, on the other hand had on a faded blackish pair of draw string pants from the 90's loose fitting, hitting me, just so- creating even further the sawed off tree stump look I abhor.  On top of that I wore yet another loose fitting big white T shirt with a tree frog from Puerto Rico on it. I thought the tree frog could give me some good lunging vibes.  As I lay there mustering up various odd stretches I was struck by all the toned bodies, firm muscles and well proportioned butt cheeks strutting their stuff in front of me.  One by one they came in and found their places, muscles rippling and pony tails bouncing. I felt like I was at a horse show admiring the power of sleek well crafted bodies, individual in their own ways.  Some powerful and robust with massive muscular thighs and others tall, lean and tight.  Progressive hip hop music thumped on, the bass with it's heavy undertones reverberated inside of me  - imposing an impending doom like sensation all over my miserable body.  I try to comfort myself, I chuckle inwardly 'perhaps it's good fadder  for a blog on humility?'  Well here I sit attempting to do just that.

As it turned out there really wasn't all that much lunging.  There was plenty of up dog, down dog yoga poses.  Which would explain why my arms are killing me.  We also did a fair share of body planks that left me  a quivering mess.  Where there were chances to modify I did, I had decided to be somewhat smart about it.  When you are already over weight and you're asked to lift your entire body weight in a unnatural way, like laying down side ways up on one arm, hips in the air leaning against  the side of one foot and then do push ups.  No thanks, on my knees for this one and the next one if need be.  Miraculously I was doing considerably well, exhausted but functioning. The rubber band exercises, I even kind of enjoyed because they felt good, like they were stretching out my aching muscles. Come to think of it,  turns out later this is where I am probably  the sorest. My shoulders, neck and underarm region from all that pulling and stretching are killing me.  Just when I thought the toughest parts were behind me and I had made it pass the 1 and  1/2 hour marker we were asked to put on our tennis shoes  and go outside.  One of the women with the muscular thighs was heading up this part of the session.  I slipped on my very incorrect black leather tennis shoe like mules and  begrudgingly went out side.  There in the hot sun we proceeded to gallop, leap, skip and jump like idiots around the parking lot.  The whole time while being screamed and rooted on by this women. Once I heard her say "come on you don't want to be the last one do you?" I was so tired, literally dragging my ass, attacked by the slug-mo- lead foot syndrome it was all I could do to keep moving in an upright position.  My mouth was completely dry as I gazed to my left, I saw her the one with the thighs leap so high into the air a small child could of ran  underneath her.  It was shear madness, but I kept on going. I probably looked like I was ahead of the rest  because in-fact the rest were  laps ahead of me.  In the end I made it and was a better person because of it.  I  was soaked in humiliation and now ached with accomplishment.

As I was leaving Darby hugged me and said she was proud of me and mentioned that I should be too.  There were a slew of girls that opted not to go outside at all and waited in the cool air-conditioning while me and the other brave souls completed our laps of victory.  My chin went up a notch, I wasn't so bad after all.

That night I went to mourn and celebrate with  family and  close friends the life of a friend who died too young .  There was good food, plenty of laughs and  tears shared.  I drank Sailor Gerry rum and cokes, ate too much and slow danced with a women named La Donna.  I listened to a young man named Dallas  play his acoustic guitar and sing a hilarious song  he  wrote about Brownie Balls, while his good friends sang backup. I gazed upon the paintings of Dallas's twin brother Crosby's and thought what a brilliant mind. I am feeling glad to have the friends I have.  I am glad to  have a body that is somewhat willing and able.  I have seen a lot of tragedy  and know it can strike at any time. My life is blessed with an open mind and aching appreciative muscles.  I should start using them both a lot more often.

Hair

Studio Days and the Milky Way

Dear readers,

You may not know this judging by all the photos of my cats and garden but I am an artist. Educated sculptor, marble carver, crafter, angst ridden digger, delver, up-cycled, repurposed mosaic welder, secret lover of elves and the little wee forest people, hoarder of bobbles bangles and beads and most everything else - this is my fairy tale folks I hope you like it.  No seriously, I have been spending a lot of time in my studio as of lately tweeking  and getting it just right.  First there was the new desk that I painted to match the color of turquoise bead, then I distressed and sanded it, after all that   I antiqued it and clear coated it. What a job that was, and if I had to do it all over again I would of painted it in an oil base paint not acrylic.  The sales person at Home Depot told me it would be fine in acrylic, and by the way they don't sell oil base paints at my Home Depot.  Live and learn...

                                                                                                                          

Next is my lovely chest that stores all my beads,  beads have long been a passion for me ever since I  was a small girl.  I still have some beads from way back when I use to go to Ben Franklins Drug Store also known as Pinkys and buy them in a little clear test tube sealed with a cork.  I can still remember loving to pick out the colors and then stringing the seed beads one by one into little patterns on a necklaces.  Now my bead collection has grown as big as the Milky Way. I have always liked the idea of beads as a metaphor to planets. Like they are the microcosm to the great big macrocosm.  It helps my little brain wrap around the concept of the  infinite. Trade beads have always intrigued me there's so much history some good and I am sure some bad.
I try to imagine what they were traded for,  skins, rugs, food, Booze!  Who wore the beads where did they live,what were they like?  The significance and power of beads - what did they symbolize?  Even today we still put meaning into a stone a color a shape, powerful stuff!  I now store my beads in the perfect caddy which is easily  excess-able  and saves  oh so much time from all that digging and delving. 

This summer my husband and I took a trip to Colorado. It was an exploratory trip and we covered a lot of ground. While on our adventures we discovered Marble Colorado. Marble CO. is known for it's white marble quarries, thus the name. In fact the tomb of the unknown soldier was made from a massive piece of white marble from Marble CO. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is located high on a hill overlooking Washington, DC. The tomb was dedicated in 1921 and contains the remains of soldiers from WWI,WWII, Korea and Vietnam.  You may ask why am I writing about this now. Well I use to live in Italy, Pietrasanta Italy. The Saint of stone is where I spent years covered in marble dust.

This is  where I learned  to carve marble and was forturnate to live and work with some of the world best sculptors and artisans. Italy has many kinds of marble but one that stands out to me is the white statuary marble. This is the marble that Michael Angelo used to carve David. 






When you break it open it looks like sugar. Well while I was in Marble Colorado I purchased a chunk of marble, we put the chunk in the trunk and we drove it home. Now I have this piece of marble staring me in the face daring me to get my tools out and start carving again, make more dust again. This marble looks like sugar too. I am excited about the prospect of this chunk. I see a women's winged head, sleek, feminine and calculative. It's funny how you return  to the things you once loved, maybe it's a natural cyclical thing. I made a winged head probably 17 years ago. I modeled it after the 50 lira coin. For years I kept a blank key on my key chain of the winged Pontiac. I found it in an old abandoned building.

I use to tell people it was the key to my heart. Now I carry my grandfathers St. Cristoforo. It's interesting,  when you are more mature you  can start to connect the dots of past events, desires and passions. They start to make sense, but when you're younger their just dots in the great vast Milky Way of infinite directions.

Wini & Diego

Here is a photo of our new babies. Aren't they just wonderful. We named them after our grandparents except Wini ended up being a boy, even though I was told by the adoption agency he was a girl. I should of checked for sure myself. Now I am attached to him and they do really seem to get along great together. It's fun to have some new life around the house. As you can imagine they are always into things, but purring all the time too. The sound of a cat purring has to be one of the most comforting sounds in the world...

Pooky Lally 1988- 2009

I know it's been a long time since I have been here and I have been in a bit of a Kitty quandary but it's something I needed to do and get out of my system and pay homage to my friend.

POOKY

I think it only fair that I take the time to honor what was and will always be precious and dear to me my cat Pooky. She left this earth on July 12th 2009. I had been out of town for 10 days exploring Colorado, while away she stayed at my mothers. I knew her days were limited just by the shear craziness of her age 21 and the tiny frame of her little kitty body 4lbs. Although she was ancient and weighed hardly anything she was the most determined and loyal furry friend I have ever known. In her determinedness she waited for me to return and then declined rapidly when I got home. She ultimately died of kidney failure. What I really want express here is what a wonderful cat she was while she was alive and well.

Early Years

She was referred to by one of my good friends and previous room mate "the self assigned Queen of her domain." Not a particularly friendly cat, she chose her friends wisely. Twenty one years ago, my sisters X husband went to the downtown Kansas City library one night on his bicycle. When he left the library that night he heard a meowing coming from the bushes and out came this little scruffy, homeless kitten Pooky. All through her life she always had a somewhat homeless shaggy, semi unkempt look. It's one of the many things that endeared me to her. Bill, my brother in law at the time put the cat into a bag and rode home with her. She never did like the sound of plastic bags. He brought her to me and I can still remember the look on that poor frightened kittens face when I opened the door. We were both young and had so much more of our lives ahead of us. Pooky got pregnant within a short time after I got her. I still feel guilty that I didn't get her fixed but I really had no idea that it could be that easy, sigh... She went into heat shortly after I got her and basically drove me up the wall with her screaming and carrying on. I lived in a tiny apartment at the time with metal blinds on all the windows. She would bang on the blinds, claw and cry 24/7. She could be very persuasive and highly vocal and always had a way with getting what ever she wanted. I caved and let her out, she gave birth to two beautiful kittens a couple of months later and was an excellent Mother. She out lived the orange tabby kitten, Pumpkin this I know. Pumpkin ended up being my sisters cat, he was a cute fat long hair orange tabby who knew how to pee into the toilet. All of her other kittens I have lost touch with but would give anything to find now. Pooky had one other litter of kittens before I got my act together and got her fixed. I am happy that she had those kittens they really did bring me a lot of joy and hopefully their owners too.

Cat Dreams

Pooky, out lived too many pets to mention I was incredibly lucky to have such a dedicated cat. For those of you reading maybe you can relate to the bond that can happen between pet and owner. One of the strangest things that happen between us and I still would like to know how or if it has happened to any one else was when we would sleep together and dream. Yes I would sleep with my cat, big shocker right? The big deal was when I would sleep and dream I swear we were dreaming the same dreams together due to the content or animal like dreams that I had. Mostly dreaming of other cats, sometimes hunting. I would wake up and think now what in the world would possess me to dream of kittens and mice. This went on for years. Now you probably think I am really strange but it's the truth, I will have to do some research on it.

The Middle of the Night

On the sweeter side of things years ago when I lived with a room mate, she got a part time job decorating large chocolate bars over the holidays. They consisted of big plaque

like bars written with Happy Holidays from such and such company and big chocolate Tennis racquets with Holly branches decorated around the handle. My room mate took the chocolate home one night and worked for hours squeezing icing out on all the chocolate orders which were due the next day. The next morning we got up and looked and to our surprise all her hard work was virtually gone the chocolate remained but no personalized decorations. Pooky had come along and licked every little bit of icing clean off every single order. There she laid in the sun looking pleased and stuffed. There really wasn't much time to do anything but dash out some more decorations over the licked on evidence, no one ever found out that year their gourmet chocolate had been licked on by a cat! We still laugh about that incident.

While Away

Pooky was a clever cat, highly intelligent. She never had the wanderlust feelings that an old Tom Cat might have, she much preferred the comfort of her own home and the simplicity of familiar surroundings. When I did go away she would stay with my mother. My mother lives in a huge house and during Pooky's younger years she was kept down in the basement to wander amongst my mothers vast collection of doll houses. Once while away, my mother went down in the basement to search for my cat, to no avail she couldn't find her. She kept hearing her little meow but couldn't see where it was coming from. Finally she realized the cat had booked herself a room and made herself comfortable in one of the doll houses and was looking out the bay window watching the world (well my mom) go by.

The Right of Spring

One Easter Sunday instead of finding easter eggs in the lawn I was greeted by a perfectly dead baby bunny thanks to the Pookster. Pooky had all her claws and liked to use them she was an out door cat and exercised her cat rights. She liked the thrill of the hunt and loved early spring. Early spring met baby bunnies. This became an on going tradition with her every april several baby bunnies were sacrificed to the jaws of the great calico lawn cat. I would hear the baby bunnies high pitched, surprisingly loud screams in the middle of the night. Outside my bedroom window, under the peonies is where they had their nest. Safe from the blades of lawn mowers but not the feline predator. I still find it strange that such noises can come out of what is typically known to be a silent creature.

Cat Cries

Pooky had a several nick names one of them was Mouth. She was very vocal probably because I talked to her so much. We really did have conversations. One cold blustery fall night I had let her out to go poke around, she never went very far. I decided to paint my toe nails, I had just finished painting all ten toes cherry red when I heard the most terrible cry. Pooky was crying and yelling like she was really pissed. I could not exactly put my shoes on and run outside. So I carefully/gingerly walked on my heals with my toes up in the air to the outside of my house where I could hear her crying loudly. It was dark and cold and the leaves were blowing around outside. I called out to her and she answered back- of course. I looked to see where she was, behind a big board leaning up against the house. I leaned down to pick her fluffiness up and when I got about 2" from her I saw a big long pink fleshy hairless tail. I almost picked up an Opossum! Pooky was just across the way in the bushes watching the whole thing go down, such a clever cat.

Bird Watching

Lately I have taken to bird watching. I placed a new bird feeder right outside the window where I have the table set to eat. While grabbing a bite to eat I liked to watch the birds, close hand, come and visit the feeder. Pooky was fond of sitting in the chair where my husband usually sits across from me. Well he was gone that day so it was just Pooky and I. That day little sparrows flew to the feeders chattering and carrying on like they do. Pooky would duck and then slowly peer her head above the table to get a better look. This went on for a while, occasionally she would glance at me for a reassuring look. As if she was saying did you just see that one. after several minutes, out of nowhere a very large flicker woodpecker got curious and decided to see what all the ruckus was about. When it flew onto the bird feeder it was so heavy that it actually made the feeder crash into the window a bit. By this time Pooky was very wide eyed and just peering evenly with the table, slowly her head rose as the wood pecker lazily bit into a black sunflower seed. Astonished Pooky once again looked at me with amazement. The bird flew away, at this point Pooky began to meow in such an affirming way, as to say look what just happen right under my nose and whiskers I could almost taste him. She hopped down off her chair and walked straight to her basket of toys across the room meowing loudly the whole time. Not a big fan of toys or playing I was surprised to see she went right for the small bright red teddy bear my husband had won for me at a carnival and started attacking the living day lights out of it. In the pure expression of "I want to kill something" she satisfied her urge and I laughed my butt off.

Cat Mittens

Although she had a homeless some what shaggy look about her, she always kept her coat clean and pristine, thats pretty good considering I never once gave her a bath. I knew what was best and would rather not get ripped to shreds over silly little bath water. She had the most wonderfully soft luxurious fur and smelled like a clean sweater. In her later years as I got more eccentric about her I began to collect her fur and have saved enough to maybe make a pair of mittens out of. These mittens will rival any cashmere I know. I don't spin or knit this will be yet another project to obsess on and then blog about. Got any suggestion ???

A Friend

She came to me during unsure times and won me over with her tenacity an affection. She gave me so much and stuck with me through the toughest times. I have in my heart a depth of love that is deep I am forever indebted to her for the lessons she showed me about life. It's hard to explain but I am a better person because of her. She might be in the ground in a box out in the back yard now but to me she is forever etched in my memories and I hold them dear. I am the lucky one.