Outdoor Cat

In preschool, I was a mud kid. Never far from a patch of dirt or a body of water, I would turn up late to family supper with enough tree sap on my hands and face to start a rubber factory. My mother would ring the large brass bell on our front porch, the loud clang ringing through the neighborhood every day at around 5:30. I lost track of time more easily as a child, but I could always tell when she was going to signal the troops by what would always precede the dinner bell -- the rumble of my father's old Ford truck as it rolled down the gravel road to our house. It's sound was distinct, and I had developed a sort of Pavlovian response to the crunch of the rocky road and the smell of the diesel engine's exhaust. That was always my cue to scramble down from whatever tree had become that day's fortress, and head inside to wash up.

My two siblings and I had the luxury of having a stay-at-home mother, and it wasn't until I was a sophomore in high school that she went back to teaching. She was always encouraging of our outdoor endeavors and mostly extended forgiveness for our tardy arrivals to the dinner table. We ate dinner together every night for as far back as I can remember, in the same seats, at the same table. We had a few strict rules that always irked me, but did far more good than hurt: no hoods, no hats, no books, and later on, no phones. There was no hiding anything at this table, and we had more than a few hard conversations and hard laughs.

I'm going to come back to this soon - 12/13/2024