I'm going to go ahead and put it all down though, just in case you or someone you know can get this for me.
I want to wake up from a late afternoon nap on a scratchy gold couch with a big gray cat kneading my chest while she purrs. Loudly. I've finally grown enough that my head rests on one arm and my feet almost touch the other. An exciting development.
I've woken because with the fire going behind me, the room is a little too warm. I hear her footsteps in the hall and then they pause at the squeak in the floor. The thermostat is adjusted. She hums as she returns to the kitchen. Always humming. Dinner is cooking. It smells so good. The news is on, Randy Shaw on Q6. Pans clank in the kitchen, the newspaper rustles, the fire pops. The kitchen door slams as she goes in and out, bringing Christmas leftovers in from the garage, where it is so cold things aren't in a refrigerator, just on the counter.
The phone rings. The conversation is brief and ends in, "Good enough." He goes back to the newspaper. The foot rest on the recliner snaps up. Ice cubes clink in the airplane glass.
Over the sounds of dinner being prepared, the news and the fire, I can hear the singing Christmas lights on the shrub just outside the den window. At the hardware store we were given an option - enough lights to decorate the whole front of the house or one string that sings 12 different Christmas songs while blinking to the song. We chose wisely.
We're eating dinner early because there will be popcorn and a rented movie later. A musical. Everything else is trash.
I'm refusing to open my eyes because even at 9, I get this.
She comes to the doorway and in her sing-song way calls me, "Staaay-seeee. Go wash your hands for dinner, lazybones."
I open my eyes. Ruffles is an inch from my face. Her green eyes widen as she embarrassedly realizes she's been drooling. Her purring stops as I set her on the floor. She stretches. At 15 she's got to hold a record for oldest farm cat ever. She heads to her dish for a snack of bacon soaked in half & half. Which probably explains her longevity.
After I wash my hands we'll eat dinner. He'll tease us all and talk about all the girls who were in love with him over the years. We'll eat canned peaches and frosted sugar cookies while she clears the table. And when she picks the last plate up, he'll say something that puts us all in stitches and she'll hit him in the head with that very plate. Right on top of his very bald head. It will echo like a gong through the kitchen.
He'll take his coffee to the living room to read the mail. When he's finished he'll roll his mug across the living room floor and say something like, "Woman, I'm done with my coffee." to which she'll respond, "There were lots of boys chasing me too, you know." And then she'll giggle until she cries.
 |
| Ruffles Henley, worlds toughest cat. |
I've woken because with the fire going behind me, the room is a little too warm. I hear her footsteps in the hall and then they pause at the squeak in the floor. The thermostat is adjusted. She hums as she returns to the kitchen. Always humming. Dinner is cooking. It smells so good. The news is on, Randy Shaw on Q6. Pans clank in the kitchen, the newspaper rustles, the fire pops. The kitchen door slams as she goes in and out, bringing Christmas leftovers in from the garage, where it is so cold things aren't in a refrigerator, just on the counter.
The phone rings. The conversation is brief and ends in, "Good enough." He goes back to the newspaper. The foot rest on the recliner snaps up. Ice cubes clink in the airplane glass.
Over the sounds of dinner being prepared, the news and the fire, I can hear the singing Christmas lights on the shrub just outside the den window. At the hardware store we were given an option - enough lights to decorate the whole front of the house or one string that sings 12 different Christmas songs while blinking to the song. We chose wisely.
 |
| Pretty sure I'm happier than I look. |
We're eating dinner early because there will be popcorn and a rented movie later. A musical. Everything else is trash.
I'm refusing to open my eyes because even at 9, I get this.
She comes to the doorway and in her sing-song way calls me, "Staaay-seeee. Go wash your hands for dinner, lazybones."
I open my eyes. Ruffles is an inch from my face. Her green eyes widen as she embarrassedly realizes she's been drooling. Her purring stops as I set her on the floor. She stretches. At 15 she's got to hold a record for oldest farm cat ever. She heads to her dish for a snack of bacon soaked in half & half. Which probably explains her longevity.
After I wash my hands we'll eat dinner. He'll tease us all and talk about all the girls who were in love with him over the years. We'll eat canned peaches and frosted sugar cookies while she clears the table. And when she picks the last plate up, he'll say something that puts us all in stitches and she'll hit him in the head with that very plate. Right on top of his very bald head. It will echo like a gong through the kitchen.
 |
| Perfect Popcorn. |
We'll watch the movie, probably Singing in the Rain. Because I've burned her out on Annie.
We'll sing along and he'll say that we couldn't 'carry a tune in a bucket'.
The roasting pan will be overflowing with perfectly buttered popcorn. Popcorn that I cannot duplicate.
It will be a perfect night. And I want it back. The sounds, the smells, the stories, giggles, everything. I want it all back.
Ruffles died in her early twenties. I was in high school. A very long life for a farm cat.
Grandpa left us in 2004. I've got one of the airplane glasses. There's nothing in life that a whiskey and seven served in an airplane glass can't cure. Nothing. And, it'll make you feel taller too.
Sadly we lost Grandma's memories soon after he passed - she stayed a few more years. Not quite the same. Those times I can't stop laughing and just dissolve into tears - that's her. Turns out that also cures anything life throws at you.
