Davidson Park and the Dog That Wasn't Mine: Champaign 1994

Since I stayed home with the two girls when they were babies, toddlers, little kids, in spring summer and fall I'd take them around to the parks in their stroller. At that time they watched a movie called Totoro, which they loved. In Totoro two young girls would find acorns (among many other things in the movie) and so, as I walked them in their stroller, both little blond-headed girls riding in the cart, they'd look for acorns. And there were plenty. Because if nothing else, Champaign had some wonderful trees. I'm talking great big oaks, maples, catalpas, tulip trees and many other big hardwoods--but especially oaks.

One park that had tons of these big trees--maybe the prettiest park in the city--was Davidson Park. It was off Church Street, up a ways from Miler Street (towards downtown) and was a very pleasant walk to get to. The park had some grand homes around it--all under leafy shade with big yards--and the place itself was a nice smallish horseshoe of a park, a round drive around it, with swing set and slide and jungle gym. It also had those huge spreading mature oaks and maples and sycamores all among it: lots of shade and birds and acorns to find. The girls loved it--but then, they loved about anything at that age. I probably appreciated it more then them, but it made a fine destination for a stroll. And, on the way back, you could stop at Hubers and buy them candy from the window.

Anyway. One time while we were there, a dog showed up. It wasn't a big dog, also not a small dog. It was rambunctious but not as puppy. It was a bit troublesome but also a rather comical dog. It ran around and tried to engage my little girls in play, but I found the dog (not a stray, you could tell) to be too rough for them, so, we left. But as we left the park--the girls in the stroller--the dog followed us.

The girls were fine, so I made no effort to shoo it away. But as we walked down Church--before Hubers and the candy--a youngish guy came walking towards us and he had a dog and his dog was on a leash. Well, the troublesome dog trotting next to us ran right up to this guy's dog and began yapping and nipping and just plain teasing the leashed pet. When we got up to them the man looked at me, giving me the evil eye.

Ah! He thought it was MY dog!

"That's not my dog," I said and strolled right on by. And the guy, realizing he'd been giving me the evil eye for naught, went about trying to shoo the dog-that-was-not-mine away--without too much success.

Dogs.

I was glad I had babies.

Kitty Cat Stone: Champaign 1995

When we first moved into the little rented house on Miller Street there was an old man who lived in the house directly behind us. As I did yard work and as a couple of years passed, I talked to him a bit but never really got to know him. He lived alone and kept to himself, as best I could tell. I did notice that he had a cat. This was a big Tom cat, orange and long-haired. The cat--like the old man--kept to himself. It wasn't a mean cat or a nice cat, it was your classic independent cat.

Well, while in that house, we had our first child and then added another and we went about our business as a young family. We had two cats--M.R. and Jack--and then Jack got run over by a car on Church Street and then we had one cat who was low on the totem pole of attention because Fru and I had our baby daughters. But later on I did notice that I didn't see much of the old man anymore. I still saw his cat, but not him. Then, from our next door neighbors (who'd been there forever) I found out that the man had fallen ill and had been taken to live with his daughter in Ohio (or maybe Indiana). I believe that he then died--but am not sure. Yet, his cat was still around. No one had come to take him.

Hmm.

So, being who I was and still am, I started leaving food out for him. He appreciated that and got over his fear of me and would let me pet him and would come to see me when I was out in the back yard. And then winter came. The big Tom was still living outside and seemed to have someplace to sleep and keep from being frozen and I continued to feed him. But then the hard part of winter came--a big snow, below zero temps--and I thought, okay, I better get that cat inside somewhere, maybe my garage.

By then he trusted me enough to let me pick him up. So, after feeding him in the evening, I did just that. No problem. But when I went to take him inside our house, he didn't want to. He didn't scratch or bite, he just struggled a bit and showed his fear and displeasure, but I took him in anyway. I put him in the garage. He did not like this at all. I can't recall if I kept him there all night or what, but the cat felt that he had been captured and so I let him go, go out into the snow and frozen world and he appreciated that. And so for that winter and all the rest of our winters in Champaign, that was the arrangement: he was an outdoor cat no matter what.

Because we had little kids and because we had glass French Doors that opened up to our back yard and the big Tom would come up to those doors and sit there and look in and wait to be fed, we had to name him. So, I named him Kitty Cat Stone. The girls called him Kitty Cat Stone and we even had a song about him which I'm going to sing for you right now . . . (Joking--we had songs for everything back then, dumb little ditties that the girls loved). Anyway, I did end up building this gawd-ugly cat house for him so he at least had some shelter to sit in in the winter as he waited for me to feed him, but he was living somewhere--under a house or in a shed--that kept him alive in the winter. It was not unusual to wake up on a cold-bitter-cold snowy morning and turn on the light and see Kitty Cat Stone standing there at the window with ice sickles all around him. (Sort of like that.)

The thing was, we also had a squirrel that came to the back door to be fed. Her name was Lula and she would eat from your hand. The squirrel was not afraid of the cat and sometimes both of them would sit right next to each other and look into the house. Both were hungry. I don't know why Kitty Cat Stone left Lula alone--he was much bigger than her--but such is the nature of free food. I also recall that, being a cat, sometimes he would vomit up his food and it would freeze there on the porch and then, then, the starlings would find it and have a feeding frenzy over his frozen vomit. Yum!

When we left Champaign I informed both next door neighbors about Kitty Cat Stone. I gave the woman next to us what cat food I had and the gawd-ugly cat house. She said she'd feed him, as did our other next door neighbors, the Christians (or something like that). And then we moved away, down to South Florida where there was no snow.

It was a few years later when Fru's sister--who lived in the same neighborhood in Champaign by then--sent us a clipping from the local paper, the News-Gazette. It was a photo and the photo was of a big orange cat on a porch in the snow, taken just down the block from our old house.

Of course it was Kitty Cat Stone. He was still alive. He was still living his independent life in the snow.

Leaving Vancouver: 1967

I could be wrong about the year. It could have been in 1966, but I think it was the winter of 67 that we packed up and left Washington and moved to Tennessee. My father had bought a brand new 1966 Ford Falcon Wagon--a dark metallic green--and after the moving vans had come, we all piled into that car (seven of us) with a multitude of belongings and we took off. Must have been 67.

It was still winter, so we took the southern route through California with stops at Yosemite and San Fran, Los Angeles and across through Arizona (must have stopped at the Grand Canyon, but maybe not that trip) and into New Mexico. It was one of the classic long car trips of my childhood. I do recall wanting to see Albuquerque because my best friend back in Vancouver (Joey Hanes) was from there.

The whole trip was full of long rides and adventure. I usually rode in the very back, among blankets and boxes, sacks of snacks and suitcases. I had a little spot burrowed out there along the back window and side window, a comfortable nest where I could watch new worlds go by as Father drove. Of course it would be illegal now, but back then you just rode whatever way you wanted and no one used seat belts. We stayed in motels mostly--small places, sometimes a Holiday Inn which we considered to be extravagant, a luxury resort. My father liked to drive all day and into the nigh, he liked to get going before the sun rose sometimes. I do get that trip mixed up a bit with all the other long trips we took, but I do recall specifically a time in Texas.

In Texas--the panhandle, I think, around Amarillo--we were up before dawn. I was in my cubbyhole in back and I remember, distinctly, the sunrise. It was a big fat orange sunrise with the empty lonesome highway and that endless nothing nothing land all around and the sun came up and lit it all, showering it with pinks and grays and requisite purples. Orange and yellow and the beginnings of blue. And it struck me. I was nine or ten or whatever and it hit me that this was a beautiful moment. Not just the sunrise, the the sunrise in Texas and the way I felt, the texture of the moment, the context of the trip and the unconnectedness to any home or place or community. We had no idea what Tennessee was or expectations. We as a family--at least how I see it--had only ourselves and our slim belongings and the car, had motels and new horizons. We had only the moment.

Man, that was a long time ago. I don't think I can even conjure up any of that feeling--that feeling of childhood and being in my family, that world of brothers and sisters, of toys and newness. That long passages of time. Maybe I can get that feeling--I mean, I can remember it, I just can't feel it.

Anyway. We moved from Vancouver and most of us regretted that. We didn't know at the time, but we did regret it soon enough. For a very long time I considered Washington State--the Pacific Northwest--considered Vancouver to be my home. Though I'd been born in South Dakota and was there till the age of five (or almost the age of 5), Vancouver was home. I don't recall being sad about us leaving. I remember walking home from school and thinking: "I'm moving to Tennessee!" I was excited. But I--we kids--didn't say Johnson City, we just said Tennessee. We had no idea. But we left. We'd done it before--a big move--and we just went along with this one as well. We were kids. But that long drive was something. That move. I grew into a new consciousness on that trip--I became more aware of the world, the innate beauty of the physical world but also the inner beauty of my own nomadic existence--on that morning in the Texas panhandle.

To Whom It May Concern #8

I was in Neptune Beach a weekend ago. Stayed with Bill. Francis was visiting so we went up there and each had a room in his upstairs old place on 1st Street. (I need to write about the people I know named Bill. This was Bill from Montana--over a decade older than me--who is originally from Springfield MA and then from Columbus, OH (did a stint in Oregon) and from Medelia/Mankato, MN, then Missoula (then Lafayette IN, then Jax/Neptune Beach FL.) We had a great time . . . But what I wonder is, will I remember to write about it?

This is to all the 1/2 (one half) people who read this blog: It will be quite a while until I write about the tens (2010 and on). So I think, what will I remember from these current days? Will the trip up to Bill's be something I can recall/will recall?

Does it matter?

Crying And Trying in Quebec: Quebec City 1992

After visiting Francis in Montreal, we drove over to Quebec City on our own. Sure, we were impressed. We hadn't been to Europe (well, Fru had been to Sweden in the seventies), so for us this was like being in a European City. The French was nice to hear, but we were glad we could speak all the English we wanted.

We had not picked a place to stay, so that was one of the first things we started looking into. Sure, we were impressed with the big castle-like Hotel Fontenac, but in those days we'd never think of staying there (Fru would, actually, but we were young parents of one baby, maybe fourteen months old, maybe less.) So eventually we found a little French hotel in the old city. Can't recall the name, other than it was a woman's. She showed us a room on the first floor--a nice big room with a big bed and lace curtains and a big old bathtub. It was fine.

At this time, Fru and I were trying for another baby. She was trying to get pregnant. So, we thought it would pretty cool to conceive the second child in Quebec City.

And there was that big old bathtub.

But that night--after walking the city and a bottle of wine in the room--First Daughter cried. I don't mean just cried a normal cry, no, this was a wail. Unstoppable.

We did not know what was wrong, until we changed her diaper and saw a horrendous case of rash. Oww. We did our best to calm her, to treat her, to get her to sleep. Nothing doing. Now we were worried about the other guests, about the woman owner. People had to hear it, this baby wailing. We felt bad.

Finally, we did get her to sleep. We did get that bath. But Second Daughter was not conceived in Quebec City.

Must have been all the noise.

. . . Like It's 1999: Fort Lauderdale 1999

I'm trying to recall that year, nineteen ninety-nine. I think it must have been a good year, what with the end of the century and all that. I recall people were worked up about Y2K, where supposedly all the world's computers would crash--which of course did not happen (though considering 2000 to about 2009, maybe it would have been better if they had).

Let's see. In 1999 we were living in Fort Lauderdale. We had our house and M.R. the cat was still alive. The girls would have been 8 and 6, respectively and Fru and I were just starting our forties. We felt settled by then in South Florida, but it was still new to us just the same. I would have been finishing up my MFA and teaching, Fru still at SunTrust Bank. The girls would be at Virginia Shuman Young Elementary.

Exciting stuff.

Really, things were good, pleasant, calm. Come the next decade, a lot of bad would happen. Bad for the large sense of the world and for the USA, but also quite a bit of personal bad as well, for First Daughter and Fru and my family. Not horrible bad, but bad just the same. But all through 1999, none of that was even a hint in our minds.

I do recall the end of that year. Fru's family came down to visit for Xmas and her brother, his wife and their son stayed into New Years. We had a good time. Fru was very happy because her family had come--her father and his wife and I think maybe even her sister and niece, maybe even her aunt and uncle from Highland, IL had come down that year--and we'd had a big Xmas, the girls were happy to have family about, the weather had been good and so on. AND IT WAS 1999!

We celebrated the end of the year at our house. Fru had bought all this Year 2000 stuff: cups and plates, paper glasses, all this little plastic confetti shaped into flamingoes and 2000 and New Years and palm trees. All tacky and kitschy (which is not Fru). She wanted us to have fun. And we did. When the end of 1999 came we yelled and donned the funny cheap glasses and hats and used the noisemakers, we tossed the thin/hard plastic confetti into the air--all in our house in front of the television set--and then that was that. The 90's were over with.

I really remember that confetti. It went all over, stuck to anything remotely like fabric, fell down into any crevice or crack.

I think it was maybe 2006 when I found the last remaining flamingo/palm tree/2000 piece of confetti in our living room. That last vestige of 1999.

Scooting Across the Floor: Montreal 1992

This was when First Daughter was not even a year old. It was when Fru and I (and First Daughter) drove from Champaign to Montreal to go visit Francis. I'd met Francis in Mexico and had stayed in touch and when we moved from Montana to Champaign, right after our first child was born, he came and visited us there (we met him in Chicago). So, now it was our turn to visit him.

We'd spent the night in Huron, Michigan and I think I called Francis to let him know we were coming. But my message wasn't exact enough, because when we got to Montreal he wasn't expecting us. He lived in a three story apartment--which he owned, where his brother lived in the bottom apartment, Francis on in the second floor and they rented out the third--and it was his brother, Jude, who met us and let us in. Francis had just gotten back from a fishing trip and was not there. So, his place had not been cleaned or readied for our visit (we were staying with him). Not that it was dirty--it's a very nice place in a desirable place in the city--it's mainly that his nice wood floor had not been dusted.

I found some beer in a cooler. The cooler smelled like fish. Jude had called Francis to let him know we'd showed up. Francis--a good host and conscientious human being--was a tad distressed that we had got our trip dates wrong. (I remember now, I'd thought about calling him the night before, but just assumed we'd set the date and time of our arrival, so didn't worry about giving him a heads up on the eve of our arrival.) Anyway--not to worry. All was good and Montreal was--is--of course a fantastic city. For Fru and I it was like going to Europe, the city had that cosmopolitan and foreign feel to it, that vibe, and then there was all the French, the language and voices, the signs, etc.

But--back to the dusty floors--First daughter was not even one year old. She could not walk yet. What she did was scoot. She wore diapers and she would sit cross-legged and to get around, her brand of locomotion, was to scoot on her diapered rear using her legs to pull herself around. . . . So, there we were in Montreal, at Francis' nice place, drinking fishy beer--Fru, Francis and I--and we stood in the kitchen as we watched First Daughter scoot along in her diaper, like a dust mop, cleaning the floors and leaving a trail in the wood as she went.

Of course we laughed.