Eulogy for my Cat

Here lie the bones of Captain Clark Kitty.
His head was scarred from fights hard and gritty.
But his owners long thought the battle scars pretty.

Both ears were nicked with the left flat, or near,
What matters the state of one chewed up ear?
At the end of his life he could still plainly hear.

Three legs had been broken. Not much of a cost. . .
They more than made up for the one that was lost.
In all of his battles he’d come out the winner.
And ‘til the end of his life he could dance for his dinner.

He climbed trees and couches, endured unwilling swims,
Scratches, wasps, snake bites, and his claws being trimmed,
Survived surgery that saved his bladder from stones,
From cattle that stomped he had lumpy back bones.
He held ground, bossed dogs, won females from rivals,
And spread his seed to ensure his bloodline’s survival.

Clark died as he lived: a dearly loved cat.
And for most of his life he lived happy and fat.
What pet could ask for much more than that?

He lived in the country; he lived in the city.
He lived, that’s the point. So, please don’t take pity.
Cry long live the spirit of Captain Clark Kitty!

Falling Apart

Recently, we lost a young family member. Our seventeen-year-old cousin drowned near a dam while noodling with friends. He was washed under by a strong current and he didn't have a chance.

Christopher was an all-around outdoors man, and he was doing something he loved when he was taken so suddenly. His nickname for many years has been "Crick" because he always wanted to be down by the creek. This boy was a true Sunshine Boy. He grew big and strong, avoided drugs, was smart as a whip with deep dimples that set girl's hearts racing, and was a pure gentleman to the depth of his soul. I've lived a few hours away since he turned about twelve, but over the years I've never heard a bad word spoken about Crick. He was simply a joy. And now, on the brink of adulthood, he's gone.

Swift and silent as the rushing waters that swept his life away, the world moves on.

Young as he was, his accident barely rated a short article online, just the facts about what happened and his age reported ten years older than he actually was. I don't know why that bothered me so much, but it did. Typos happen, but still I wanted to shout to the 6,944 viewers that he'd not lived as old as 27! As if it makes a difference that they should know that. I thought about complaining, reporting it to the news station, insisting that they make it right. But then I stopped. It won't bring him back.

And maybe, those 6,944 viewers or most of them, looked at his age and said, "Only 27. . .so young. How sad." In their minds, Christopher Dale Chapman lived an extra ten years and the possibilities in those ten years were endless. He may have lived many life experiences in their imaginations and I want Crick to have that. So no complaints.

My imagining of Crick's ten missing years:

Christopher Dale Chapman went fishing with two friends one week before his Senior year of high school. They had a great time and caught loads of catfish which they fried over a campfire, while sitting under the open night sky.

They talked about cars and the best fishing techniques, chatted about girls and who they might ask to the homecoming bonfire that year. Crick talked about how happy he was that he had forged a bond with his dad the last couple of years, yet he was glad to be home to finish out high school at Haworth where he'd gone most of his life. He looked forward to spending time with his granddad and how great it was to be hanging out with the guys again. Then he got very quiet and just listened as his pals, uncomfortable with emotional talk, quickly changed the subject back to girls and who might have developed the biggest breasts over the summer break, teasing each other about who would get "lucky" or who would not-- a friendly competition was wagered and agreed upon, the rules argued over and finally set, all knowing that the likelihood of success was stacked firmly in Crick's favor.

Crick just smiled, looked to the stars and felt the warm breeze off the river gently riffling his dark blond hair. He breathed in the woodsy smells he loved so much, the trees, fertile mud and woodsmoke odor of the campsite. He felt calm and happy, never more whole than at home in nature. The firelight flickered in his deep green eyes as he enjoyed the sensation of just "being." Here was life, here was joy. No pressure, no decisions, no problems, just being and Crick let the feeling wash over him. The future was tomorrow and could be worried about then. Tonight, it was enough to be surrounded by laughing friends, the firelight, the starlight, the sounds of critters chirping, buzzing and hooting their own night songs. He let the peaceful air settle around him and when his friends finally quieted and bedded down, he sat long into the night enjoying being surrounded, yet completely alone with his thoughts.

Senior year was a whirlwind of parties, final papers, and decision-making. Colleges were chosen, plans were made then changed and remade again. The seniors spent more time out of class than in, Crick slipped away from campus to have lunch with his grandad at least once a week, but no one complained--Senioritis was rampant and people were too busy with their schedules to worry about occaisional skipping. Crick decided that what he wanted most was to become a Forest Ranger, so he applied and was accepted to the training course. He was happy with his decision, preserving the land and animals and the rights of hunters as well as those who simply loved the land seemed a natural course for him to take. Everyone agreed.

At the time of the homecoming bonfire, to spite his friend's wager more than anything, Crick refused to bring a date. He thwarted their every attempt to get him hooked up with any particular girl, instead he enjoyed playing the field to keep them guessing, and silently enjoyed his buddies constant bickering over who had won their campfire bet. Things were going well, but then the unexpected happened just after New Years when school resumed, Crick found himself head over heels in love.

She was standing by his locker, waiting for her friend. She was a girl he'd known for years and had once admired back in junior high though he'd never have admitted it back then. The years had changed her from a knock-kneed beanpole into a shiny-haired goddess with curves that would make a blind man see the light. She smiled shyly up at him and Crick fell into her eyes, forgetting for a moment to breathe.

He smiled back and that was it for her, she ditched her friend and from that day forward she walked by Crick's side every step of the way. They spent hours exploring all his favorite forest hideaways and then they spent hours exploring each other in those hideaways. Giggling and planning and looking to the future.

They were married two months after graduation, on the fourth of July so there would be fireworks. They rented a small house near his grandad, their only real luxury was a beautiful piano her parents had given her and she was sure to play music for him every night before bed. She worked toward her teaching degree and he excelled at forestry, both earning their degrees before their first son was born.

Christopher Jr., or C. J. as he became known, had his father's dimples and his mother's shiny hair. He grew quickly into a fine and sturdy boy with his father's love of nature and his mother's gift of music. When the twins, Michael and William, were born, three-year-old C.J. could already play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the piano and he played it over and over and over for the babies' delight and to his parent's eventual irritation.

Soon, Crick and his little family moved into a bigger house with enough land for a swingset, a vegetable garden and a couple of ponies. The children, like their father, were Sunshine Boys with deep green eyes and the hearts of true gentlemen. They loved romping the countryside, "helping" dad around the house and their new baby sister, Reta, with competitive fierceness. Crick's heart, and hands, were full. He loved his life, yet his wife understood when on occaision he needed to slip away to the quiet embrace of his other true love, nature. He would always come back settled, refreshed and ready for another hectic period with the Chapman brood.

While she soaked in the tub, his wife would listen to Crick's deep voice telling the children yet another bedtime story. He acted out all the parts with a different voice for each character, jumping and twisting as the children squealed in fake terror at the menacing growl of a bear or the soft slither of a snake through the rushes. They giggled helplessly at his falsetto impressions of damsels in distress and begged for more, always more! He never refused them, even if only one sleepy-eyed offspring remained awake, he would whisper that one gently to sleep as long as it took. She smiled to herself and admired his patience. She loved him all the more for his indulgence, especially because she knew he did to give her her own alone time. When she emerged from the tub, she would dress in her silken robe and meet him by the piano to play any songs he requested. She'd let him kiss the back of her neck while she played, until he scooped her up and carried her in his arms to their bedroom where their fingers gently played their favorite duet.

For Crick's 27th birthday, his buddies planned a surprise camping trip, just like the one they'd taken years ago before their senior year of high school. They all missed hanging out together and they spent hours reminiscing about old times and catching up on all the news. Crick told them about teaching the boy's to ride four wheelers and how his little girl's first word was, "Gra!" His wife insisted she meant to say "Grampa!" but he argued she meant, "Grab a fishin' pole, Dad, and let's go!" The debate was ongoing.

Each of the men had married and produced their own pride and joys, so their afternoon of "getting away" was actually filled with talk and chatter of home, careers and family. Late in the afternoon, they decided to go noodling for catfish. Crick stood still as a stone in the skirling waters of the swift current waiting with for the exact moment to make his move. His buddies were out of practice and clumsier than he in their approach, but then they always had been.

In one instant, Crick felt the tug of the water around him and in the next he was wrapped in the warm light of his Grandmother's embrace. She'd met him in the flash of light and his heart was filled with the warmth of her love and Heaven's sweet rapture. It was true, what people said, that it had happened so fast and that he hadn't suffered.

Later, when his wife thought about the way Crick fell, it wasn't the accident she thought of, but the words he'd whispered to her many times in the private darkness of their own bedroom. It was the thought that brought her the most comfort as she struggled with grief and raised their children alone over the years.

He'd said, "The first time I looked into your eyes, I saw my whole future--our family, our life together. I felt like I was falling and for just a minute I couldn't breathe. I didn't know every single thing that would happen, but I wasn't worried because I knew I was falling into your love and I am so happy here."

One of my favorite poems

Spelling
by
Margaret Atwood

My daughter plays on the floor
with plastic letters,
red, blue & hard yellow,
learning how to spell,
spelling,
how to make spells.

I wonder how many women
denied themselves daughters,
closed themselves in rooms,
drew the curtains
so they could mainline words.

A child is not a poem,
a poem is not a child.
there is no either/or.
However.

I return to the story
of the woman caught in the war
& in labour, her thighs
tied together by the enemy
so she could not give birth.

Ancestress: the burning witch,
her mouth covered by leather
to strangle words.

A word after a word
after a word is power.

At the point where language falls away
from the hot bones, at the point
where the rock breaks open and darkness
flows out of it like blood, at
the melting point of granite
when the bones know
they are hollow & the word
splits & doubles & speaks
the truth & the body
itself becomes a mouth.

This is a metaphor.

How do you learn to spell?
Blood, sky & the sun,
your own name first,
your first naming, your first name,
your first word.