Author: Laura Grimes

By Laura Grimes

I said hello and called her name. She sat on the side of her twin bed, reading an aged book. She didn’t respond. I called her name again. I stood in front of her for several moments. I raised my voice. Nothing. I finally stooped down and looked into her face.

Josephine raised her head just a little, looked at me and smiled. She put a mark in her book and closed it. Gold serif type spelled out two words on the blue cloth cover: Silent Spring.

I put my bag on the floor and moved a portable potty out of the way to give her a sideways hug.

I looked at her square in the front again. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know. I never meant to stay away so long.” It had been more than four months.

I looked around for the low wooden stool I usually sit on and found it under a wastebasket. She was wearing a purple dress with white polka dots, the material a thin synthetic. Two strands of Mardi Gras beads matched the color of her dress, one of little hearts and one of little dice. She wore a short-sleeve jacket with a cut out lacy design on the collar, all white like her hair.

She rummaged around. “I was going to tell you what books I’ve been reading.” She picked up a piece of paper and checked a list.

“I read Huckleberry Finn again. I like to read books again. Meditations by Marcus Arelius. I wasn’t very happy about that. I don’t think Marcus Arelius realized there was another sex. Around the World in Eighty Days, Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”

“You’re on a Jules Verne kick.”

“What?”

“You’re on a Jules Verne kick,” I said louder.

“I ought to,” she nodded, as if I had suggested she do something.

She checked her list again. “Little Dorrit. I started to read Anna Karenina, but I had great difficulty reading it and I had to give up. My right eye is getting clouded over, which is affecting my reading.”

She showed me a story she had written. It was nearly two pages, typed. She wanted to have it published in The Columbian. It was about when she and her husband, Pat, lived in Boston. He came home from work and she was eager for him to drive her to see the surf. It was stormy and the waves were big. Their car was small. It took them a long time to get home because trees blocked the streets and water covered the low areas. Near the end, she wrote of an account of how a man had bought a new barometer. It was stuck on “hurricane” so he took it back to the store to complain. When he got home again his house was gone.

The storm they trudged through came to be known as The Great Hurricane of 1938.

I handed the papers back to her. “How have you been?” I asked.

“I’m getting old. I’m feeling all of my 93 years, and I don’t want to live to be a hundred.”

“How come?”

“It’s just not comfortable. I have pains here and there. Nothing I can do about it.”

She recently memorized the nine muses, and she happily recited them:

1. Calliope – epic poetry
2. Clio – history
3. Erato – lyric poetry
4. Euterpe – music
5. Melpomene – tragedy
6. Polyhymnia – sacred poetry
7. Terpsichore – dance
8. Thalia – comedy
9. Urania – astronomy

The muses are handwritten in a small, thick book with blank, lined pages. Another page has a list of songs such as Amazing Grace, My Wild Irish Rose and Winter Wonderland. Another page has a list of fairy tale themes such as “Old women are usually wicked witches.” Another page has all the U.S. Supreme Court justices.

One page says simply in all uppercase printing:

THE SOUL
UNIVERSAL NATURE
NATURE

As I scribbled the words, she said, “When I think of you, I think of you sitting there writing. Have you been writing?”

I smiled. “A little bit.”

I noted the time and said I have to go. I gathered my things. I moved the portable potty to give her a sideways hug. I put the low wooden stool back under the wastebasket. I stooped down so she could see my face. I smiled, blew her a kiss and waved goodbye.

She grinned and blinked her eyes.

*****

RHYTHMS
by Josephine Paterek

Bubbling crest–
Slick smooth trough
The wave topples and then reforms
Into bubbling crest–
Slick smooth trough–
And again–and again–and again,
In the long sea swell or the choppy bay
Or the crashing surf on the desolate beach.

The surge and excitement of new enterprise;
The tranquil reflection in the aftermath.
Days when assurance beats the proud drum.
Nights when foreboding sinks into despair.

A vagrant sea breeze riffles the surface
As the plans of others cross our paths,
But the undersea swell remains the same,
The shape of the beat …
Repeat …
Repeat …

*

ILLUSTRATION: Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, 1962 Houghton Mifflin Company Boston.

*

Meet Josephine in Chapter 1 here.

By Laura Grimes

The pressure’s on. Mr. Scatter, otherwise known as my current first husband, has hightailed it outta town, and his responsibilities mean he probably won’t have a chance to write or find a wi-fi to post for about a week.

But you’re in luck. Before he left town, he got up early to write this review of Small Steps at Oregon Children’s Theatre.

I am more than a little envious that he got this assignment. I’m the one who’s had my eye on this show for months. I’m the one who bought the book. I’m the one who was trying to see how this could wedge into the schedule and — stink — he landed the gig, skedaddled with the Small Large Smelly Boy (also known as Felix/Martha in some circles), and I was stuck with chauffeur duty for the Large Large Smelly Boy who had a class at the same time.

At dinner after the show, the Small LSB niftily and oh-so-casually wove it into the conversation that he got to meet Louis Sachar.

“Excuse me?” I said. “You got to meet him?”

I could tell he was stifling a grin and playing cool. “I got to shake his hand. It wasn’t big.”

“What? His hand wasn’t big?”

“No!” he laughed. (Got him!)

“I knew what you meant. And, yes, it was a big deal.” And, no, I wasn’t there.

But I got a report. You can read it for yourself. Mr. Scatter says it’s a good ‘un.

In looking at my schedule, I’ll be in town exactly one weekend day during the run that’s open to the public. Must sign off to buy a ticket … and then finish the book.

*

ILLUSTRATIONS:

Top: Johnny Crawford as Armpit in “Small Steps.” Photo by Morphis Studios.

Bottom: Louis Sachar/Wikipedia

I’ve been keeping someone to myself much too long. I’ve collected reams of notes and have a stack of material. Now I feel somewhat prodded, thanks to Rose City Reader, who posted this review of Anne Fadiman’s “Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader.”

I left this comment on her post:

My copy of this book first belonged to my friend, Josephine, who was exactly twice my age when I first met her. She writes in pen in all of her books. She underlines words she doesn’t know, she makes little comments, she traces routes on maps, and on the very last page of every book she reads she signs and dates it and sometimes writes a short comment. It doesn’t matter if it’s a paperback or a gorgeous leatherbound edition from Easton Press. When I pointed this out, she shrugged and said simply she was a carnal book lover. When I was confused, she said I had to read this book and gave me her copy. In the middle of Fadiman’s essay about courtly vs. carnal book lovers, Josephine wrote in very scratchy script at the bottom of Page 40: “Mom used to use a bill to mark her place in a book. She told me to look through her books when she died. Yes, I found a few bills. I was astounded a couple of months ago to find $60 in a book I had read some time before. My mother’s daughter.” The last page is signed: “J.D.P. Jan. 16, 2009. Truly loved this book!” She was 92 years old at the time.

I first virtually met RCR after I had written a wacky story for a large  publishing institution about the author Henry James and my struggles with my love/hate relationship with him. She was one of the very first people to send me an e-mail and she included her name and address. It turned out she lived around the corner from me and just a few short blocks away. We started an agreeable and sometimes hilarious e-mail exchange. We realized we had once worked together and she used to be married to someone I knew. And then she moved from the house around the corner. Into a house that had belonged to someone else I had known (and worked with).

It’s fitting that RCR would kick me in the rear to write about Josephine, because in addition to RCR’s note responding to the Henry James story, I received several e-mails and phone calls, but I got just one piece of mail. From Josephine.

I wrote way back when for the large publishing institution what her card said.

She had written a book. I tracked it down. And found a surprise inside. Then I tracked down Josephine.

After that I had always promised I would share what happened after I met her, but I kept it to myself. I got e-mails on occasion from people who had followed the story and kept in touch. They prodded me and wanted to know.

I visited Josephine every few weeks for many months, but I didn’t write a thing. Perhaps it was my own little indulgence. Or I worried I wouldn’t be able to do it justice. Or I couldn’t figure out the scope of it. Or I didn’t know where to start. Or it was apathy. Or perhaps it was my own uncertain battle with public vs. private.

I did know, however, that keeping silent perpetually disappointed Josephine, who proudly has a ham streak a mile wide.

Here’s a beginning. We’ll see if I eventually write more.

Meet Josephine.

*****

“I’m going to be stuck up for a while!” Josephine tossed back her head and laughed after I read aloud articles I had written about her and comments people sent to pass on.

It was the first time I ever visited her in the tiny, tidy, one-bedroom apartment she shares with her granddaughter Amy not far from downtown Vancouver, Wash. She sat on a small bed with a few stacks of books around her, including “Plato’s Republic,” a nice leatherbound edition from Easton Press. Her twin bed takes up most of the room. A long, low bureau lines most of a wall under a window, and a few shelves beside it include books by Jane Austen, George Eliot, Charles Dickens and Dave Barry, and a bottle of Grand Marnier.

Amy’s bed is a twin mattress on the floor of the living room. It’s also the couch.

The first time I visited there wasn’t a chair anywhere in the apartment, so I threw my coat on the floor and sat next to it. Now I’m in the habit of looking around for a low wooden footstool and squatting on it. My coat still goes on the floor.

They now have a couple of different fold-up chairs that they bought for less than $10 at Goodwill and Target. There’s a counter that separates the small kitchen from the living room, but there’s no table.

Josephine saves a few dollars every month to buy books. When I visited her on her birthday in December she had recently finished reading Leo Tolstoy’s “War and Peace.” She had started it in October. Now she was on Page 53 of a paperback copy of “The Pickwick Papers” by Charles Dickens. She can’t lift her arms very well and had trouble holding open the fat book, so as she finished reading each page she ripped it out and let it float to the floor.

The first time I visited I took a small jar of pickles, bread and butters. Amy made chocolate chip cookies from store-bought dough. They were warm. I had never planned to go back again. But a funny thing happened.

Josephine handed me a stack of papers that were bound with a plastic spiral fastener. It was a collection of her poems and drawings. She had it ready for me, eager to share everything with someone she had never met before, and I marveled at her openness and zeal for publicity. I was holding in my hands a volume of her personal writings, and she completely trusted me without question. I was surprised. And something else, too. Honored.

I thumbed through the pages, glancing at the words, and carelessly, without thinking, I said, “I write poetry.” It was a throwaway line, something to elicit trust, as if to say, I understand and this book is in safe hands.

“I knew that,” she said just as automatically. Startled, my attention snapped into focus. I looked at her.

“How do you know that? I didn’t tell you.”

She got a distant, wistful look in her eyes. “I knew you were a poet. I could tell from your work.” Her eyes didn’t see me, and she said it again, sounding out each word carefully and quietly while she nodded her head. “I knew you were a poet.”

Then, much to my surprise, without any segue or introduction, she broke into reciting from memory one of her poems. A stunning gift.

April is National Poetry Month. Here’s one of my favorite poems:

REQUIEM
by Josephine Paterek

Not for me the narrow confines of wood, satin and brass,
Constricted silence … forever.

Rather, expose me to the leaping roaring flames,
My spirit curling upward from the ashy residue.

Then, fling me into the cold clean salty air,
And I sink down, down,
Past the darting glittering fish,
Past the undulating kelp.
Down, down through the darkness
To roll endlessly on the ocean floor.

Part of me rides the crest of the wave, tumbling in foam,
Sliding down the green slickness of a comber.

Part of me will reach the shore,
Caressing the shingle with the tidal surge.

Restless in life
Let me be restless in death,
Joined forever to the restless sea.

Mrs. Scatter posted in Parenting 101 how she constantly looks for opportunities to impart valuable life lessons on the Large Smelly Boys.

As Mr. Scatter noted in a recent post, The Scatter Family has been on the road. Longtime Scatter friends know that when the family travels in the Large Smelly Boymobile they often listen to audio books or play word games. Sometimes the LSBs commandeer the blog keyboard and type their list of clever ideas that come from these games.

Last summer The Scatter Family passed many miles and restaurant waits by coming up with questions that always answered with “Alvin and the Chipmunks.” This time they filled several notebook pages with phrases that always had a new consistent reply.

Mrs. Scatter, also known as the Very Attentive Mother, is very excited to glean several of these to share as valuable life lessons, thinking other parents who also strive to model supreme mature behavior will eagerly want to pass them on.

The new game? Phrases that always have the reply … “Oh, so NOW you tell me!”

• This product is not recommended for people who are or ever have been pregnant. (”People” is a nice touch.)
• Warning: Smoking can be hazardous to your health.
• You should never drink and drive.
• Double cheeseburgers are fattening.
• There were no weapons of mass destruction.
• You really ought to give Iowa a try.
• True love begins with steak. (Mrs. Scatter did not come up with this one.)
• Picking your nose is gross. (Mrs. Scatter did not come up with this one.)
• Toasters and bathtubs do not mix. (Mrs. Scatter wishes she had come up with this one.)
• Yesterday was our anniversary. (Mrs. Scatter did not come up with this one, but probably should have in the name of humility.)
• Bears don’t like it when you break their chairs, eat their food and sleep in their beds.
• Smee: “I don’t think that crocodiles like it when you say, ‘Bite me!’”
• Chicks hate it when you haven’t showered for a while. (Mrs. Scatter doesn’t know who came up with this one, but she’s certain it was her.)
• That had been in my mouth. (Mrs. Scatter did not come up with this one, but it was recently spoken by one of the LSBs when she unwittingly ate a prechewed calamari. Mrs. Scatter is generously willing to mine her wealth of experience and impart her deep parenting knowledge by sharing this vital tip: Crabby teen-agers who haven’t slept, hate being on the road and hate being with their parents can be turned around with one simple trick. All you have to do is eat a prechewed calamari. Works every time.)

*

Illustration: You really ought to give Iowa a try. C.S. Hammond & Company Atlas – 1910/United States Digital Map Library

Mrs. Scatter takes her ever-loving Mom Job seriously, constantly looking for opportunities to impart valuable life lessons on the Large Smelly Boys. They  are still at a tender age when they’re vulnerable and impressionable, so she takes great care in modeling supreme mature behavior. She takes this job so seriously, in fact, that she doesn’t even allow commas between adjectives.

This is why during a recent family game of Scrabble she felt it was important to say, “Who messed up my udders? I had perfectly good udders on the board and someone had to put an R in front of them!”

This is also why she put the game on pause for a teachable moment when her sweet innocent pre-teen said, “The last turn, if I had a P, I could have had ’specimen.’”

Actually at first she took several teachable moments to laugh into her beer while both LSBs looked at her in wonder. Apparently neither of them has ever carried a communicable disease or been pregnant for any length of time, and their idea of a specimen is a pin through a dead bug. As their Very Attentive Mother, Mrs. Scatter was surprised to learn this. The dead bug part, that is, and she set out immediately to correct their deficient understanding. She’s sorry. To expand their worldly knowledge. She started by holding up her glass of beer.

*

Illustration: You can buy 25 of these for $3.45 at Amazon. It holds 4 ounces.

I have a dirty little secret. It’s so dirty I don’t even add commas between adjectives.

It starts out innocently enough. I poke around the fridge and come across a jar with a few floaty thingies and a bunch of brine. And I realize the fridge is full of jars with a few floaty thingies and a bunch of brine. And then I determine to do something about it.

“Honey, are you thirsty?”

“Why?”

“We have too many floaty thingies.”

Mr. Scatter gives me that look through his eyebrows. He mildly shakes his head.

“We have a problem here!” I get a little defensive. I’m a bit sensitive about My Issue and I’m looking for some sympathy. Mr. Scatter knows I have a dreadful disability. Making fun of such an acute condition is not humane.

I’ve been harboring this dirty little secret for a long time. It’s really weighing on me, and I know honesty is the first step to getting help. It’s time to finally come clean. To tell the world. To bare my soul. So, the truth of it is … well … I simply cannot throw out good brine.

*****

Why should I when there are perfectly good dirty little secret martinis to make?

“We have only TWO olives left. That’s just pathetic. They can’t just sit here. We have to do something about it!”

“We have only TWO?” Mr. Scatter wrinkles his brow.

“Don’t worry, we have other floaty thingies.” I fetch the familiar geometric glasses from the built-in cabinet in the dining room. “But then, you know I’m going to have to do something about all that brine.”

Mr. Scatter grins. I’m already reaching for the extra long toothpicks.

*****

A not so dirty little secret: Portland Opera is having a martini contest! They’re my marketing heroes.

The Portland Opera Studio Artists are performing Leonard Bernstein’s “Trouble in Tahiti,” which is set in the martini-loving 1950s, and two Monteverdi one-acts. The opera is giving away a pair of tickets for opening night, March 26. What do you have to do to enter the drawing? Have a drink and snap a pic. It’s almost that easy. Follow these instructions on the opera’s Facebook site:

Change your profile picture to one of you drinking a cocktail, then make a comment to this note. If your martini has an umbrella in it, your name will be entered twice to the drawing!

You can also send a pic to [email protected]. Contest ends 3 p.m. Friday, March 19.

You, too, could be added to the Tahiti Tiki Party Album.

Full disclosure: Third Angle New Music Ensemble is the backup band for this gig, gut strings and all. I have a day job with Third Angle. You could say I’m shamelessly promoting my peeps. You could also say I’m shamelessly promoting alcohol, but that would be a lie. I’m all about the salt and vinegar.

*****

Through the help of a supportive husband and a 12-step program, I’m recovering slowly. I know I will always be a brine hoarder, but I’m getting better. Sometimes when I’m feeling really brave and a little sneaky, I leave a present on the kitchen counter and wait patiently for Mr. Scatter to discover it. I wipe down the stove, taking a long slow time. I refill the salt shaker. And I wait. Eventually, Mr. Scatter meanders in.

He gasps. His jaw falls to his knees. His eyes get really big. He looks at me in wonder.

And then, without saying anything, he swings open the fridge and peers in. It has big wide spaces.

He looks back at me. He looks back at the counter. Nearly a dozen empty canning jars are lined up in a row.

Mr. Scatter finally recovers from his gobsmackedness. “Whadja do with the brine?”

I smile, more than a little proud. “I combined some and tossed the rest.”

“What are we going to add to our drinks now?”

“We still have several quarts in the fridge.”

Hand me a hanky. I’m considered a … a … a … retinue. Bless me.

So says Mr. Mead of Blogorrhea fame. It’s not to be confused with something in your eye.

Instead, I’m a retinue … to Mr. Scatter’s gadabout.

Lest you think I’m talking nasty, this comes from a communicable blog award that’s considered, um, a good thing. You have to be prolific to get it. It’s really called the Prolific Blogger Award.

This is like an accolade. It’s a nice gesture from Mr. Mead.

Mr. Scatter is the prolific one. I’m just the retinue. Which means I drop in now and then. Or act like a groupie. Or drive the car. Or something. Combine all this and what I really do is drive-by blog posts now and then.

The Large Smelly Boys get to be retinue, too. But we don’t let them drive yet.

Mr. Scatter is so prolific that he sits in his cute little kitchen nook and types away. We call him for dinner. We leave the hall light on for him. He just continues to tap-tap away. We leave crusts of bread on the table for him now and then. The Large Smelly Boys have grown mustaches since you last saw them, Mr. Scatter.

Mr. Scatter says he’ll have to acknowledge the honor more formally soon in the blog scroll. Actually, he said, “I’ll have to pass it along.” I’m not sure Mr. Scatter realizes that a condition of receiving the award is that on the site he has to add his name to Mr. Linky. I fully realize the irony of suggesting my husband will be both communicably prolific and the more responsible one in crafting a response.

Speaking of prolific …

*****

“I just sold a vasectomy.”

Don’t you just love school auctions. This is what happens when people drink and bid. They give up body parts. Willingly.

This was actually quoted to me Friday night after two – TWO – vasectomies were sold. Coincidence?

These people support their kids’ education by making it impossible to have more kids.

This item is Standard Operating Procedure every year at the auction that benefits the school where at least one Large Smelly Boy has attended for nearly a dozen years. Some fund-raisers back, the auctioneer and his sidekick lived across the street from each other. When the Standard Operating Procedure came up for bid they reminisced about when they clipped their future stock holdings at about the same time and hung out on the front porch together with two ice bags and a bottle of whiskey.

Aren’t these matters that should be discussed … um … privately?

*****

Saturday night, we popped in for a looksee at the Spring Performances of NW Dance Project. We had to pick one of FOUR dance events going on! Fortunately, we can still catch POV: The Ford Building Project next weekend. I’m sorry to miss shows by Katherine Longstreth at Conduit and Richard Decker at Performance Works NW. I met both of them only a few days apart. They both moved to Portland in only the past few years. I’m amazed to think how much the Portland dance community has grown in the past decade.

The NW Dance Project performance was highly polished. These dancers have some impressive chops, nuanced and athletic, poignant and powerful. Art Scatter’s highest paid correspondent reviewed the show HERE.

Mr. Scatter has been gadabouting by moderating discussions with the choreographers. See his past posts HERE.

*****

After the show, we popped in for a glass of wine at Higgins. We sat next to a pillar. Right on the other side was a gladiator.

He wore a matching crushed velvet skirt and cape, laced-up sandals and a giant Trojan helmet. He had beefy forearms and wrist cuffs. He even had a big fake bloody gash drawn on his bicep. He swayed a bit. I did what any polite bar-goer would do. I gawked unabashedly. When he wasn’t looking. I tried to take a sneaky picture, but it was too dark and I didn’t want to flash a stranger in a bar.

He downed his drink, staggered past us and walked out the door. Our waiter surreptitiously watched him and then brought us two place-settings.

“How long has he been here?” I asked.

“Half a second. Just long enough to drink an ouzo. Everything’s back to normal now.”

*

ILLUSTRATIONS, from top:

Pollice Verso, 1872, by Jean-Léon Gérôme/Wikimedia Commons

Ukelele Loki’s Gadabout Orchestra. Give it a listen.

Mr. and Mrs. Scatter know all about the sacred naming process.

In a recent post, Mr. Scatter waxed beautifully about William Faulkner and H.L. Mencken, Sir Toby Belch and some guy named Flem. As Mr. Scatter put it:

“Naming was a serious and sometimes flowery business. … Naming is an almost mystical occasion, an assigning of an intensely personal yet communally meaningful identification for life.”

Mr. Scatter is not kidding. This is a seriously important matter to him. And he’s serious when he says that his grandfather’s name was Virgil Homer Hicks (who married Lizzie Lou Willingham).

Before Mr. and Mrs. Scatter’s firstborn came kicking and bleating into the world they had to wrangle with the Little Matter of Naming.

They began to notice the name tags on waiters and to sit through the entire credits at movie theaters, straining to catch every name that scrolled up. They yelled out road signs. Vader Ryderwood! They suddenly remembered long-lost relatives.

One day while Mrs. Scatter reached over her big belly and rummaged in a cupboard for Maalox, Mr. Scatter got a far-off gleam in his eye and said, much too sprightly, “How about Virgil Homer Hicks?”

Mrs. Scatter, cursing the child-proof cap on the container, was surprised and a bit proud of her husband’s wry humor and was about to cut loose a big loud snort of approval when Mr. Scatter sighed and said, all too wistfully, “It’s too bad my grandfather already has that name.”

Mrs. Scatter was still smiling, thinking the follow-up was a nice touch and her clever husband was playing this one beautifully with just the right tone of mock seriousness. She finally flipped the lid off the container, poured a few chalky tablets into her hand and put one on her tongue. She was about to reward Mr. Scatter and let out one of those long carefree chortles when Mr. Scatter said, with a genuine note of lament, “It just wouldn’t be right to take the same name.”

Mrs. Scatter stopped and stared at her husband. She popped another Maalox. “You’re serious!”

“Of course. The great Greek writer and the great Latin writer.”

All at once Mrs. Scatter:

1. Desperately wanted a do-over.
2. Was immensely relieved her husband insisted on being original.
3. Didn’t want to think about what would happen if the name hadn’t already been taken.
4. Prayed there was still a joke in there somewhere.
5. Worried for her husband’s safety.
6. Wondered why she didn’t vet her partner’s naming process before the house and furniture and marriage and, oh yeah, FAT SWOLLEN BELLY.

*****

Friends recommended trying out names, as in imagine yelling them at the top of your lungs in a crowded grocery store. Everyone now. Try it with me:

“VIRGIL HOMER! GET BACK HERE!”

Hmm. I’m not sure that does it for me. Let’s try this one:

“VIRGIL HOMER! PULL UP YOUR PANTS!”

Still no luck? You get my point.

*****

Dear Aunt Janet,

Thanks loads for the baby name book. It will join the fray to come up with The Perfect Name. I can’t wait to find out how Bob will use this latest weapon to good – and devastating – advantage. He still thinks Homer Horatio Hicks will look great on that first book. I think he’s equally excited that the initials would make a great cow brand. Maybe God will deliver me before I deliver this baby.

Love,
Laura

*****

Mr. Scatter couldn’t help but read out loud not only every name but also every meaning of every name. He read name after name, meaning after meaning, page after page.

“ ‘Charlotte. Little and womanly.’ What do you think about ‘Charmaine. A Latin clan name?’ ”

“It’s not bad, but it sounds like a brand of toilet paper.”

He wasn’t daunted. “ ‘Chloe. Greek. Young, green shoot. Cynthia. Greek. Goddess from Mount Cynthos. Cleva. Middle English. Hilldweller.’ ”

“What do you think about Jessica?” I dared burst in.

“I’m not there yet.” He didn’t even turn his nose.

“What do you mean you’re not there yet? Can’t you turn a few pages?”

“I’m only on the C’s right now. Did you know that Claudia, a Latin word, was a clan name that probably meant ‘lame?’ ”

*****

“ ‘Hadden. Old English. Hill of Heather. Hadwin Old English. Friend in War.’ What do you think about Hadwin?”

“No, Honey.”

“ ‘Haig. Old English. Enclosed with hedges. Harden. Old English. Valley of the hares.’ Harden Hicks. Or maybe Harden Hadwin Hicks. Hadwin Harden Hicks? I know. Harden Haig Hicks: Valley of the hares enclosed with hedges.”

“Honey, I’m trying to watch the pregame show.”

“ ‘Heathcliff! Middle English. A cliff near a heath.’ Heathcliff! What do you think about that?”

“It sounds too much like ‘Wuthering Heights.’ ”

“People this day and age probably think it’s a cartoon cat. You don’t like Heathcliff?”

“Honey, the game’s on.”

“What game?”

“You know. The game we paid for? The game we rushed to finish dinner so we’d be able to watch?”

“You don’t like Heathcliff?”

*****

The alarm clock blasted its nasty beep, and Mrs. Scatter groggily staggered to the shower. The comforting water began to lift her haze. She felt secure, assured in her little space, her senses cocooned by the pelting water, the warm steam and the whir of the ceiling fan. She turned off the shower and wrapped a big, fuzzy towel around herself.

“PRUNELLA!” A voice boomed through the door. “A small plum! That ought to be a good one for when the kid’s old and wrinkled!”

Mrs. Scatter shook her head and breathed deeply. “What’s the difference between a plum and a prune?”

“I’m not sure. I always thought a prune was a dried plum, just like raisins are made from grapes. But then those long skinny plums are called Italian prunes.”

“Look it up!”

“I’m not there yet.”

*****

Of course we finally came up with The Perfect Name. In fact we liked it so much the first time, we used it again. You don’t have to imagine yelling it in a crowded grocery store. We did one better than that. We just quietly hit publish and told it to the world.

Large Smelly Boys.

Heaven help them if they ever find out what their dad really wanted to name them.

HELLO? MR. SCATTER? ANYBODY HOME?

to evewybody else: shhh! be vewy vewy qwiet. let’s see how long it takes mr. scatter to notice i’ve posted something.

(hey, what’s up with the dreadful new digs?)

*****

Behold. My own blog sign-in. Not that I have bloglegs to go with it. I’ve had the superblogpower for a while and have been mulling over the perfect first post. Big? Little? Not that the passing days mattered a wit because I didn’t have time. As I kicked around ideas and poked in the cobwebs of my inner files, I kept coming back to a quiet little place I think of as a beginning. It’s my cat, really. My timid, sneaky she-cat.

It’s not my he-cat. He often lies in a basket next to me as I work. That is, when he’s not rubbing his white hair against my black pants and clawing my thigh. By most accounts, he’s a demanding brat. He’s big. And loud. Though I find his penchant for carrying around little stuffed animals adorable, I’m not so keen about his nosings-around on the kitchen counter.

She, on the other hand, takes off for days. She goes back to the old stomping grounds a few blocks away. Sometimes she walks home with me at night. But only if it’s really black outside. Even in the dark, she skirts the edges and the byways. She comes to me sideways and looks up past me. If she lets out a soft little trill my heart skips. Because it’s so hard to come by.

I pick her up and hug her to my cheek and smell poetry. Elusive. Mysterious. A silence like no other. A wellspring.

She disappears. But she always comes back to me. She bumps her forehead against mine. I smell the rich loam buried deep in her fur. This is how we say hello. She lets out a soft little trill.

She is where I started to write a few years ago.

A sweet little poem came out. And then a funny thing happened. It became a prelude. This is how it went.

Two cats: A prelude
One is strong and cocky.
He jumps on the counter
when he knows it’s wrong
and dines fine
in a beam even,
meowing loudly.
He rubs my thigh
broadside
and laps my love
no matter what.

The other is quiet and shy.
She slinks in under shadow
and finds food
in the dark.
Curled in a hollow,
she sleeps in the small space
pressed next to me,
speaking nothing.
In the night
when all is silent
I touch her softness
slowly
stroking
and she carefully
turns her belly bare
to meet my hand.