La Gata

My sister has a cat, a very pretty cat, long slender neck and graceful moves.  Cookie is a refugee from Hurricane Maria which devastated Puerto Rico in September 2017.  It is reported that the cat seems grateful for the largess bestowed upon her, but she does not reciprocate with any kind of overt demonstration of affection. The following is a middle-of-the night creation I "dreamed up" and sent to Ilene a few weeks ago.



I dreamed last night about a cat named Cookie.
I was visiting my sister in the Garden State
Resting peacefully in her guest room
The door a bit ajar; I don't want to fumble with knobs
In the middle of the night.

Somewhere in the wee hours I heard a gentle tap on my door
"David,"  Ilene whispered, "I can't find my cat."
"Don't panic," I replied.  "Flip on the night light."
"The cat's been sleeping with me for the past three nights."
"NO!" the glare of the overhead light hit my sleepy eyes.

Ilene stood, amazed, appalled, moved  toward the bed.
Cat like a flash crawled deep down next to my feet.
"Let her be," I said.  But I could see that Sis was crushed.
"She's okay.  We'll talk in the morning.
"Nice Cookie." I crooned. " La Gata, Senora Gata, duerme ahora."




Cookie

Revival of Throw-back Thursday-- Way Back

BBBH and I were working in the yard on this sunny and as  it turns out quite hot afternoon.  She was tidying up the secret garden, I was edging and so forth with the string trimmer, or weed whacker, or whatever nomenclature suits your personal preference.  Power trimmer, and my mind leapt back to the summer of 1947.

Other than the mowing oI the school yard for which I got a quarter per week in the spring and summer, financial resources for this youngster were limited.  Since there are always RC colas and Planters Peanuts to be enjoyed, and Mechanix Illustrated to be purchased, an opportunity for a few extra quarters was a welcome boon.  Or so I thought when the elderly lady who lived just there on the corner of Cooper Street offered me twenty-five cents an hour to cut the weeds in her back yard.

I showed up on the job site promptly at eight in the morning, as agreed.  She took me to the tool shed from which she took a scythe and handed it to me.  I, a lad, and the implement built for a full-grown man.  And the weeds were full-grown, too.  Just to make it clear, it was a scythe, not a sickle, and if you don't know the difference you are either much too young or much too urban to truly understand the import of that.

To the best of my recollection, I worked four hours, the lady was satisfied, I was exhausted, but oh! that dollar!  What a treasure!

Also, that was the summer that my baby sister, Ilene, was born on this date.  Happy birthday, Ilene!

(Two years later I went to work for Western Union, sixty-five cents an hour.)

 Image: Wikipedia.  I went to the shed to get my scythe and could not
find it.  How can one misplace something that large?  Poltergeist!