Maggie’s End Days

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

Maggie

Maggie is in her end days.  I’m quite sure of it.  She doesn’t seem distressed, just confused.  She’s been an interesting cat – until lately, she’s never been very demonstrative.  These past few weeks she has demanded attention and has been given it.  These past two days, she has kept to herself….away from the food and water.

Yes, she’s in her end days.  I will let her go and, if she develops pain, I will assist.  She hates being in the car so I hope it doesn’t come to that.

She’s been an interesting cat. I’m going to miss her.

Sucker Punched

/ wvfurandroot / 2 Comments

tuckered emmylouA few weeks ago, I fell for no good reason and landed on my knees.  The impact was such that I’m quite sure I left an impression in the concrete sidewalk.  One knee was torn up and developed a horrendous scab; the other swelled to the size of a softball.  Both of them astonished me with their cries of pain.

The pain took my breath.  For a good four days, I couldn’t stand or sit or walk or lie down without pain so intense I was reminded of labor.  The pain wasn’t baby-producing intense, but it did provoke the same sort of awe.

This week, I got news that sucker-punched me.  No.  Nobody died.  My relationships are all intact except maybe for the relationship I have with myself.  For several days, my self-esteem has been crying out with the same level of pain as did my knees.

I have decided to get over it.

Today, I spent my time in the much neglected garden doing triage.  I didn’t get as far as I had hoped due to the electric lawnmower dying, but I accomplished much in getting my equilibrium (and self-esteem) back.  The puppies frolicked in the warm spring air and I tended to tender plants while guiltlessly executing weeds and banishing leaves.

Gardening season is upon me.  I much prefer the awe of an Appalachian spring over the awe of surprise pain.

Mary Janes

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments
first grade

We were still living in California, so I couldn’t have been older than 7.  It was Easter and my mother had sewn me the most beautiful dress.  It was peach and satin and roses.  It begged for twirling and preening.  I had brand new, unscuffed patent leather mary janes to wear with it.

Oh my.  I was beautiful that Easter Sunday in my new dress and new shoes and curled hair.

Then Monday morning arrived.  I’d been given permission to wear that glorious dress to school.  I dressed.  Petticoat, dress, shoes.  I left the gloves off.  Mom said, “No.”  No mary janes.  I had to wear the ugly, the soooooooooooo ugly corrective shoes with that beauteous dress.

I was shocked.  Incredulous.  Abashed.  Pale and wan.

And, yet.  The dress was better than nothing.

I spent the whole day at school staring at the juxtaposition of the ugly shoes with the beautiful dress.  I couldn’t make the two mesh.  Complete discord.

To this day, I have to have the right shoe for the outfit.  I blame my mother.

If the only thing you can blame your mother for is your shoe fetish, you’ve had a good life.

It’s good to be me.