Ode to a Great Lady

 She was a stern looking woman for being only 30. She had severe black hair parted in the middle, and she looked down at those around her as if to say, “You disappoint me.”

Her picture hung over my grandmother’s fireplace for as long as I could remember. For a long time I assumed—as did most people—that she was a relative. My grandmother’s great-grandmother, perhaps.  It wasn’t until later that I found out she was no relation at all, but merely a painting my grandmother had liked. So when my dear grandmother died and my sisters and I went through her things, I chose Mrs. Maria Ogden.

I don’t know why. I think it was because I also got my grandmother’s piano, and Mrs. Maria Ogden seemed like she needed to preside over something grand. It wasn’t until I took the painting that I was able to read the back:

“Mrs. Maria Ogden,” it read. “Age 30.” I think that was it. I remember being surprised that she was a couple of years younger than I was at the time. There was also a date that was right around the time of the Civil War.

For a few years after Mrs. Maria Ogden moved in, I stood a little straighter when I passed her because she looked like she didn’t approve of slouching. I watched my mouth; I’m sure she didn’t approve of colloquialisms, let alone swear words, even mild ones. I’m certain Mrs. Maria Ogden believed that young ladies needed to conduct themselves with decorum even though I was quickly becoming a much older woman than she had been when her portrait was painted. “Be careful,” we whispered. “Mrs. Maria Ogden is watching.” And she was, of course; her eyes followed us.

Then one year when my life was falling apart, I wrapped up Mrs. Maria Ogden and put her in my car and drove her across town to the estate dealer, and I sold her. I cried behind my sunglasses on the way home. I have no idea who this woman was, but over the years she had nonetheless become a part of my roots. I missed her.

Mrs. Maria Ogden helped put my son through college. Now that I’m much older and wiser, I am certain she would not have been disappointed. In fact, I’m sure it’s what Mrs. Maria Ogden would have wanted all along.

Beauty is a miracle of things going together imperfectly. ~Anne Lamott, Stitches

Succinctly Yours Week 229: A Simple Mistake

Many thanks to Grandma of Grandma’s Goulash for hosting Succinctly Yours. Participants are invited to pick a story of 140 words or 140 characters or fewer based on the photo. This week’s bonus word was “zit.”

The volcano was called Mount Acme, but Mrs. Bly and Mrs. Snow misunderstood. Every day they met to discuss whether Mt. Acne—they’d nicknamed it The Zit—might pop.  136

While writing this, I kept getting distracted thinking of words my son came up with when he was a toddler. Sometimes his interpretation made more sense than the real word. Two that come to mind offhand are animals he renamed “honey-bird” and “poke-you-pine.” Can you think of any mistaken words that make more sense than the real thing? Have a great week!

Aquaintance about finding me a boyfriend at my age: “Don’t worry—we’ll find you someone who’s extinguished.” (What I thought but didn’t say: That’s what I’m afraid of....)

Succinctly Yours Week 223: Skunked

It’s time again for Succinctly Yours, a weekly meme made possible by the lovely Grandma of Grandma’s Goulash. Each week, Grandma posts a photo with the challenge to come up with a story of 140 words or 140 characters or fewer to go with it. The bonus word this week was “gargle.” Ouch, Grandma! My second offering is the true story, written in 140 words, that inspired the first offering, written in 140 characters. Phew. Or is that, pew?                                                                                                                         

Gladys planned to steep a dead skunk in the wading pool so she could gargle before meeting the handsome new dog next door. She wanted to be at her best; that Dane was great.  140

She was Buddy’s best girlfriend ever, a blonde shepherd mix named Amiga who appeared from time to time in our yard sporting a new bandana that signaled a recent bath. She was a big gal who could handle his obnoxiousness and keep him in line. When she needed to rid herself of that spring-fresh smell, she knew he could be counted on to dispatch the insult toute de suite. The two of them made a great pair, leaping and snuffling and gargling in each other’s slobber. Then she’d go prancing back home, bandana torn and covered in dog spit.

Once she got skunked along the way and was thoughtful enough to return the favor. It was a skunking-by-proxy. After two baths, I had to resort to V8 because I didn’t have tomato juice.

It had been love at first sniff.   140

True happiness consists not in the multitude of friends, but in their worth and choice. ~Ben Jonson

When It Really Is Unlucky to Have a Black Cat

It’s been a while since I’ve been on blogs. Part of the reason is that I’ve been even more overwhelmed than usual lately. The other reason is that I’ve had a horrible bout of writer’s block ever since our beloved little Catsby passed after an unexpected diagnosis of congestive heart failure a couple of weeks ago. It’s amazing to me how empty my lap feels now when I write.

I really didn’t want a cat at the time we found him living under a concrete bench in the yard a couple of years ago. Not only was I just not a cat person, I thought I was too busy. My social life is fuller than it’s been since I met my former husband over thirty years ago, and I won’t apologize for that. I’ve earned it. 

And Catsby had some abandonment issues. At first I complained about how needy he was, but it turns out his constant presence is what I miss most. It was endearing that he adored being with loved ones so much.

Once when I went in the closet and saw his tail protruding slightly from under the clothing, I impulsively said (in a peekaboo voice), “I wonder where our dear little kitty could be?!”

When he popped out and exclaimed, “MeOW!” it sounded for all the world like, “Here I am!”

That was our Catsby. That goofy critter converted a family of dog people into dog AND cat people. 

That's what made him The Great Catsby.

I can’t tell you how much your kind words meant to me during that time and still mean to me. Also—a block-shattering bit of good news—my NYMB…On Being a Woman story, “Worse Than Zombie Warts” will be featured on www.laughuntilyoupee.com this coming Friday. I’d appreciate it if you’d consider coming back and leaving a comment over there, and as always, thank you so much!

 Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy you must have somebody to divide it with. ~Mark Twain

Stop and Smile at the Roses

He was probably in his seventies when he moved into the house on the corner. I passed by every day, so I watched the way he dug into his south-facing front yard and planted roses—lots and lots of roses. He joined the garden club for a time and was the resident rose expert, shyly answering our questions.

He was quiet, but if you asked and listened, he’d tell. A WWII vet, he said. Casablanca. What a shock that had been to a boy like him, he once told me.

He was almost always out there, tending his roses. We both did the farmer-wave when I drove past. Those roses were pouty pinup beauties in every lipstick shade imaginable, kissing every season but the most cold. Every fall I’d watch to see how he gently tucked them in for winter. Every spring I watched to see how he coaxed them out again. They brightened so many drives for a good twenty years.

 I never once saw his wife, but he had one. When I heard she died, I sent him a sympathy note and mentioned in it how much I enjoyed his roses. I ran into him at the gas station shortly after that, and his voice broke when he thanked me.

He never slowed down and he never seemed to age. He only seemed to shrink, as if age had to diminish him that way because he simply refused to weaken.

Then one day I saw some slow-moving people in his yard. Younger people. Funny how you can see grief in a person’s movements from half a block away. I knew then that it was too late and I’d already missed the funeral. They dug up the roses and left only lawn where the For Sale sign went. It broke my heart. Now it’s a normal house again. No—not normal. To me it will always be missing something.

I still look for those roses. Of all the things that man accomplished in his long life, some were great gifts for me. He planted the ideas that it’s never too late to create bright spots in peoples’ lives, and we can do it in even the smallest ways.

Thank you, Mr. Donald Gemeinhart. You are most definitely missed.

He who dies with the least toys wins. Because the more you know, the less you need. ~Yvon Chouinard Patagonia