On Becoming "The Crazy Cat Lady..."

By now many of you know I've been "under the weather."  Somehow I went from "Good to Go" to "good to donate to a medical study" in oh, about twelve hours? Well, aside from providing a nice, steady feed to my Facebook stream, I've had time to do some thinking...

Have you ever seen a cat smile? I mean REALLY smile? The Cheshire Cat has nothing on my Snugs/Bugs/Tripod kitty. It's a little creepy. And Chloe the Ninja Princess turns out to be a compulsive bather...Chami (my Golden) is a little put-out that I did not read the Bed Schedule. Football Sundays turn out to be "hers." huh. I adore my critters, but I'm a little annoyed that they're annoyed I haven't read the latest family memos. (Ditto for the two-legs in the crowd.) Guys: I'm not enjoying this hiatus any more than you are! I realize that my hair resembles my first doll, Suzy's. ( I used to carry her around by the hair, if that gives you an idea.) I realize the ball-cap doesn't really hide anything. And Parker, in response to: "How do you get your hair to do that?"-- Please go back to the basement and leave me to die in peace. Thank you. SuperMom will be back on duty sometime next week. Possibly (but improbably) wearing pearls.

Down the rabbit-hole we go! I'm burrowing. Under the covers; through the layers of my memory. I joke about becoming "That" Crazy Cat Lady at the end of the street in my old age...but who were those women before? Before they were paranoid. Before they sprayed garden hoses at children walking home from school. Before they were lonely widows? Were they mothers? Were they smart? Were they funny? Did they always roll their stockings down around their knees? And did they have cats? Before?

I imagine myself in a house-dress and apron. Shadows of being partly-raised by my great-grandmother, Lottie. She was born in 1900. Never drove a car. NEVER wore pants. Didn't have anything to speak of, but was probably the most content person I knew. Between her and my IBM-dress-code early-career-days (= Women May Not Wear Slacks), it's no wonder I balked when they said "No tights with skirts" as part of the new company dress code. (My little bird legs will freeze! And I just CAN'T wear pants!) But I digress. WARNING: There will be lots of that in this post...

So: I'm in my house-dress and apron. I have cats. Not an insane number (like twenty), but approximately the same number I have now: three and three-quarters (remember the Tripod). I live by myself in a little cottage with two horses in the yard. And a goat (to keep Henry- and myself- entertained). And chickens. (Because now I'm too old to worry about what I had to do to get them. That story is rated-R). I have an antique Kindle and laugh at my own jokes and stories. I laugh a lot, and cry when I want to. My children and grandchildren visit me when they remember. I try not to kiss anyone who doesn't want to be kissed. I love soup. And zucchini bread. No nuts: they mess with my false teeth. I still wear a bra, because it just feels better, but I have resisted the urge to store important documents and electronics in my bosom. (Grandma developed a Third Breast, later in her life.) And because I have purses. Lots of purses. Do I end up clutching them on my lap with white knuckles? Definitely not! In deferance to my Flight Attendant days, I meticulously stow them under any and all seats in my home. That is, under the seat in front of me, not behind the feet. That wouldn't be safe. And if you're lucky: I'll show you my tattoo. The one I do not regret. I will be THAT old lady...

"That" Little Old Lady on our street was Mrs. Mallory. She lived next door to my grandparents (who lived a few blocks down the street from my mom and me). She was scary and mean; definitely dangerous with the garden hose. She looked like a Little Old Lady. She smelled like a Little Old Lady. She had the plastic furniture coverings of a Little Old Lady. I don't remember her being particularly liked by anyone in my family, but we still had to be respectful good neighbors.I remember that her house, like the others on that street were neat as a pin: white with some sort of 1950-60s aqua trim? Maybe not, but it's how I remember her..It's possible that the Old Soul in me even tried to befriend her on an occasion or two? How I came to be in close enough proximity to smell her or attempt to befriend her escapes my memory...This might be a good place to mention that old people have ALWAYS loved me. They still do. (Even look at my Favorite Passengers List!*). Interestingly, the same is true for my husband. And my children are both "old souls;" an idea I'd like to investigate...

To contrast, Mrs. Sullivan lived across the street. She lived on a corner and had weeping willows in her yard. She gave out Halloween Candy. She was elegant and soft and lovely and friendly and makes me think of hot tea and cookies. Although my memory and imagination may comingle, Mrs. Sullivan had a cat. A Siamese. Just one. Very distinguished, Mrs. Sullivan was. I loved her, even though I didn't know much more about her than Mrs. Mallory. I do recall she was on the "friendly list" with the family though. I don't remember the inside of her house. I do remember the inside of Mrs. Mallory's...

I'm not sure how I got there, or how old I was, but there I was inside Mrs. Mallory's home. I can still smell the stale air. Clean, but stale. I felt scared in that Nancy Drew kind-of-way. I can feel how stiff the sofa was and see the direction I was facing (toward the back of the house). I can see the dust motes floating through the light from the front window, which was behind me. (Pretty sure my posture was good and my hands were in my lap.) I remember being fascinated by the collection of knick-knacks on her mantle. Asian-looking-things. Mysterious. Wow! I can't tell you much about the conversation, except that she told me those treasures were from her dead husband. He died in World War II. Something about the Pacific. I probably hadn't gotten that far in History in school yet, I suspect. (Tanforan was a mall, not a camp for the Japanese!) On recalling this, I see the "bicycle spokes" of driving past the National Cemetary outside San Francisco. It turns out that when you are driving by rows and rows and rows of white grave markers, they look like moving spokes on a wheel...so much motion from such a quiet, still place. No joy of free-wheeling down a San Francisco hill on your bike. The Spokes always meant we were getting close to home after a day in The City. Mrs. Mallory: What did they say to you?

I remember Mrs. Mallory going off to the left to retrieve something from another room. I don't think any of our "conversation" took place with both of us seated. I'm sure the time I was in her home was short. Why did it leave such an idelible mark in my memory? No cats. No laughter. But some kind of realization there was more to Mrs. Mallory than her garden-hose-wielding persona? After that, I still crossed the street with the other kids (to Mrs. Sullivan's side) when walking to and from school. She still gave me the willies. But something changed for me. I wish I could hear more of your story now, Mrs. Mallory. And I promise not to walk on your lawn.

Notes:
*--there is no such written document. yet.