County Cats

I used to have three questions concerning cats. First, why did some folks keep their cats outdoors instead of in? How could a nice fellow like my father-in-law have left a cat behind when he moved from Maryland to Pennsylvania? (I shook my head, aghast at the apparent heartlessness.) And finally, I wondered how anybody could end up with 57 cats? Well, the cats my family and I came across in the County solved these mysteries.

First came Timothy. Picked up on River Street for loitering, he soon found himself purring in a cage at the pound. We discovered him there and took him home, because a happy orange cat was exactly what I had been looking for.

And he really was a happy cat. Like a rag doll, he could be placed on his back, cradled in your arms, purring, perfectly content. He would let our daughter Courtney push him down the hallway in a stroller; he would chase moths and jingle balls throughout the house. He was a joy to have inside.

But one morning something went wrong by the litter box; I discovered an unpleasant object on the bottom of my slipper. Then too, Timothy had claws that needed sharpening, fur that needed shedding, and hairballs that needed upchucking. So we soon saw the wisdom in introducing him to the great outdoors.

After hiding under our old shed for three days, Timothy finally emerged, ready to forgive us for kicking him out, ready to face his new world. And soon enough he realized that there were certain benefits to being an outside cat. For one thing, those robins he had coveted from his perch on the windowsill were now within reach. He had adjusted nicely to his new life. Unfortunately, another upsetting event happened to our happy cat.

We decided to move, and—of course—we would take our cat with us. My husband managed to lure Timothy into a cardboard box, and I held the box on the 12-minute drive to the new place. I never heard so much clawing and carrying on! And I am convinced that toward the end of the trip, I heard him cry, “Mama!” I longed to open the box and set him free, but my husband advised against it.

Eventually Timothy forgave us for that, and he didn’t need to be boxed up for nearly two years. By that time, though, we also had a horse. So when moving day came, we figured we would haul Timothy those two-and-a-half miles by buggy—pulled by our horse, of course. But I guess Timothy didn’t like horses or buggies or the plastic tote my husband so lovingly shoved him in. By the time the lid was popped open, Timothy was ready to bolt. He ran and ran, looked back once to make sure no one was chasing him, and then he kept on running. We saw him on a couple of occasions after that, but he would never come near us again. I finally understood why my father-in-law had skipped the relocating of cats.

Other cats came along to fill the void. There was our orange and white kitten, Josephine, who should have been named Joseph as it turned out. He wasn’t the sharpest-clawed kitty in the litter; he would steal our dog’s food while he was within biting distance. He didn’t mind, but if Josephine had tried that with some other dog … So it was no surprise when one day that cat disappeared for good.

Later came Martha, then George. Next came four kittens—Albert, Polly, Buddy, and Ginger Ale. We had half a dozen cats and I could see that we were well on our way to 57. And as it turned out, all it took was Martha and a stray cat; George was too interested in food to bother with fatherhood.

More pig than cat, George would ignore you unless it was mealtime, or you happened to be sipping a cup of cocoa or a can of cola he wanted. But again we moved, leaving all six cats with the neighbors, avoiding both greedy George and the upcoming population explosion.

Those cats answered my few questions, but they also reminded me that being greedy and unforgiving are not endearing qualities. And yet, I still want to keep my naughty cats happy. There are several reasons for this. But perhaps the biggest one is what the poet Shelley understood so well: “When my cats aren’t happy, I’m not happy. Not because I care about their mood, but because I know they’re just sitting there thinking up ways to get even.”

From a Reed to a Rock

Through stress and struggle, care and conflict—

According to His clock—

He took a reed, so weak and common,

And changed it to a rock.

When heaven’s fire fell on Peter

He fed God’s ready flock.

Through times of testing, times of trouble,

That reed became a rock.

God’s holy fire keeps on burning

And turning reeds to rock;

That Spirit still empowers people 

To feed His precious flock.

Night-light

Don’t doubt in the dark

What you learned in the light;

God’s promises shine

Through the blackness of night.

A Second Opinion

Doctor Bitter said to me,

“I’ll set those gashes free;

I’ll uncover every hurt

And add a little dirt.

Sister Spiteful thrashed you, dear—

Just wait till others hear!”

Doctor Bitter left me there

To fester in my chair.

“Will this work?” I asked a nurse.

“Those wounds will soon grow worse!

All he did was to reveal

Those cuts that couldn’t heal.”

Heading home, I had a thought:

I knew I should have brought

Hurts I had to Someone who

Would know just what to do;

My prescription from above

Is signed by Doctor Love.

Little House in Linneus

            Dad glanced at the house photo I had shown him. “Where is that place?” he asked with as much interest as a lobster has in a pot of hot water.

            “Aroostook County,” I replied. “A hundred miles north of Bangor.”

            “Oh, you don’t want to live up there.” Dad shooed away an invisible blackfly. “Every winter would be like the Blizzard of ’78.” 

But I was sure I did want to live up there. They say Aroostook County is the way Maine used to be, a place where folks wave to you whether they know you or not. Some call it God’s country; that sounded good to me. What better place to live than that?

            So after a few visits, we found a little house in Linneus. I told Mom and Dad the new address, leaving out the part that it had once been called Poverty Road. They had enough misgivings about our income potential as it was.

That winter even I had some misgivings. We had driven 400 miles north to drop off some of our furniture and to check on things, since we couldn’t move until spring. When we pulled up to where the house was supposed to be, all we saw was a mountain of snow towering over our truck. So, a bit bewildered, we scrambled up the snowplow pile, then trudged to the house.

Next we contemplated how 20 below zero really feels. We got the woodstove going and soon forgot about the cold, because it started raining in the living room. Later we learned about ice damming, but at the time I supposed the house we had just bought needed a new roof we couldn’t afford.  

By moving day, though, I was thinking more optimistically, partly to counteract Mom and Dad’s doubts. But they smilingly waved good-bye, even though what they really wanted to say was, “You are out of your minds! Don’t go there; this is stupid.”

            Moving day had been in May, so Dad conceded that there might not be any blizzards for at least a month, maybe two. And we really did have good weather, until October; one day we got a foot of snow. I recalled Dad’s dire prediction then, but I still doubted the winter would be all that bad.   

And it wasn’t—not that year, anyway. Nor was the job scene as bleak as they had supposed, at least not to our way of thinking. My husband worked at a potato farm, then got a job making fence-post caps at a mill. Later he built sheds. We scraped by, but the County had benefits worth more than money.

For instance, we had fresh vegetables from our garden and fruit from a few apple trees in the yard. We made applesauce—apparently the chunky kind, since we didn’t own a mill. But it was good. So was the well water; it was ice-cold, even in July.  

Even Mom and Dad admitted that they liked the water. They drove up now and then to visit—in the warm months, of course. And although they would rather have seen shopping malls and restaurants instead of potato fields and evergreens, they were at least relieved that the house we had bought wasn’t nearly as dilapidated as they had figured.

We had running water, after all, except when the pipes froze. And the mice usually stayed in the attic, at least during the day. The back bedroom did get drafty, but that was a good thing in the summer months. One time a neighbor who had helped build the place confessed that, “Mistakes were made.”

Yet it was our house, mistakes and all. And it was in a little town where you can still pay a small amount of money for a huge amount of food, that even Dad marveled at. Where you can order deep-fried pickles, red hot dogs with a side of homemade fries, and whoopie pies for dessert, while feeling good about it—at least when Mom’s not in town. That’s the way Maine used to be, the way it still is in the County. What better place to live than that?