Maybe here name was Mrs. McCormick or Mrs. Fulton or Mrs. Adams?  Who knows?  I don’t remember her name, but I remember the day she read this poem to the class. This poem about a cat named Don Gato.

On a high red roof Don Gato sat.
He was there to read a letter,
Meow, meow, meow!
Where the reading light was better,
Meow, meow, meow!
‘Twas a love-note for Don Gato!

“I adore you,” wrote the lady cat,
Who was fluffy white, and nice and fat.
There was not a sweeter kitty,
Meow, meow, meow!
In the country or the city
Meow, meow, meow!
And she said she’d wed Don Gato!

I listened to the poem intently.  Gazing out of the window I remember staring at the white puffy clouds in the sky, taking every word of the poem in.    I pictured this old cat on the roof reading a letter from his love.   How his ears must have perked up when he learned that she would be his forever.  I imagined him smiling and purring, there on the roof, intoxicated by love.

O Senor Don Gato jumped with glee!
He fell off the roof and broke his knee,
Broke his ribs and all his whiskers,
Meow, meow, meow!
And his little solar plexus
Meow, meow, meow!
“Ay Caramba! ” cried Don Gato.

All the doctors they came on the run,
Just to see if something could be done.
And they held a consultation,
Meow, meow, meow!
About how to save their patient,
Meow, meow, meow!
How to save Senor Don Gato.

I remember as she read those two stanzas of the poem my focus went from the clouds outside the classroom window to my (now nameless) teacher’s lips. Each word she read was slow and deliberate. My chin rested in my hands and my brow furrowed; I felt tears stream down my young, ten year old, inexperienced-in-love face. Oh Senor Don Gato. Tragedy. Love. Then loss. How could it be?

But in spite of everything they tried,
Poor Senor Don Gato up and died.
No, it wasn’t very merry,
Meow, meow, meow!
Going to the cemetery,
Meow, meow, meow!
For the ending of Don Gato.

But as the funeral passed the market square,
Such a smell of fish was in the air,
Though the burial was slated,
Meow, meow, meow!
He became reanimated,
Meow, meow, meow!
He came back to life, Don Gato!

I don’t know what it was about this poem that got me, but it stuck with me for a long time. The other day I read it to the kids and they were all like, That poem made you CRY? They thought I was silly for crying about it. I don’t think I was.

For as long as I can remember I have been a cry baby. I cry when I’m happy. I cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m angry. I cry when I say good-bye. I. Cry. Maybe it’s silly, then again, maybe it’s not. I think it just goes to show that I wear my heart on my sleeve. I think it goes to show that feelings I experience are deep and raw. I’m glad I have the ability cry. Because I equally have the ability to laugh.

When I saw these scarecrows, while driving home yesterday, I was so thankful that I had my camera in tow. They reminded me of my Grandfather’s garden and the scarecrow(s) that he’d made over the years to protect it. These are different from his, but they still stirred memories of the good laughs we had about the stories we made up and told each other about his scarecrows!

Oddly enough, today is my Grandfather’s 81st birthday!

I talked to him earlier today to wish him a Happy Birthday:

“Ke se vidime vo edna nedela / We’ll see each other in about one week,” I said.

“Ke te cekam / I’ll wait for you,” he replied.

Everything happens for a reason.

Slowly we walked into the grocery store.  I quizzed Davey about the name of the store.  He told me what it was and followed it with, “I so smart!”

Slowly we made our way through the produce department.  Brocolli.  Romaine Lettuce.  Cherry Tomatoes.

Slowly he ate the piece of cake that was out for sample.  “Mmm Cake,” he rejoiced.

Slowly I went through my list.  I made an extra turn or two, enjoying the fact that it was just me and my little happy boy.

Slowly we made our way to the check out.  I chose the lane with our favorite clerk even though it was the one that had an extra wait.

Slowly we conversed about our day’s activities and what would be on our plates for dinner.   “Enjoy your dinner, David,” she enthusiastically commented as she handed me the receipt and mentally pinched his cheeks.

Slowly we walked to the customer service area so that I could get some money back for a coupon that I’d forgotten to redeem.

Slolwy David flirted with the on-duty manager.  He blew her a kiss and I caught that twinkle in her eye that said something like, oh how I miss that stage.

Slowly we asked our other favorite clerk for a blue balloon.  Unfortunately the helium tank was empty.  “No worries,” I soothed.  Before leaving though I found a penny; it must’ve been my lucky day.

Slowly, at the back of the van, I put the bags in.  Davey was in the shopping cart still and when all was said and done I walked over to the cart corale where I turned around upon hearing, “Oh SHIT! Oh SHIT! OH SHIT!”

* * * * * * *

Quickly I realized that the woman cussing was trying to stop her Ford Explorer.

Quickly she realized she had no braking ability.

Quickly I realized that I could have very well been in her direct line, with David in the cart, had we not proceeded through the store so slowly.

Quickly I caught my breath and asked her if she was ok.   Then I sat in my van for a second looking at the wreck and then at my son seated and smiling in his seat.

Quickly the whole experience—from walking in to the store to walking out—replayed in my mind.

Everything happens for a reason.

(That is my van on the left.)

This whole thing reminded me of that scene in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button when Benjamin is telling about when Daisy got hit by the car.

You never know how a few extra minutes waiting so you can talk to your favorite grocery check out clerk  will effect you. You never know when picking up a lucky penny will truly prove lucky.  You just never know…

I have much to write
I have nothing to write
I have much to say
I have nothing to say
I have much to do
I have nothing to do
I have much to see
I have nothing to see

I want to write
I don’t want to write
I want to say
I don’t want to say
I want to do
I don’t want to do
I want to see
I don’t want to see

I look at the blank page
I’m trying to write
I open my mouth
I’m trying to speak
I get out of bed
I’m trying to move
I look in the mirror
I’m trying to see

My gown was white. The dress I wore underneath was off white with a lace trim and a silk lining that made me feel rather sexy for an eighteen year old. My hair was at my shoulders and I curled it that day so that it could fall into loose rings under the cap. I wore red lipstick and my mother let me wear her pearls. Pearls that I now have as my own. They aren’t real, but I don’t care. The only real thing in this lifetime is love. Everything else is negotiable.  Well, maybe not death?

I remember walking across that stage to shake the hand of the principal thinking, Damn, I did it. I did it; I was officially an adult and soon I’d be off to college to experience things I might have never even dreamed of. This time was going to be a time of discovery. A time of change.

Oh, it was a time of change all right.

My cousin Mike and I after Graduation

Throughout high school I was this straight and narrow girl. I didn’t have boyfriends, I didn’t do any experimentation and I didn’t defy my parents’ rules; I was a good girl.

The worst I did was smoke a couple cigarettes. Alcohol was never an issue because it was something that was offered to me, in moderation, by my parents. You know, like a glass of wine with Sunday dinner. Or a little glass of beer. Alcohol wasn’t taboo in our family, and I think that’s why I didn’t crave it. Kinda like the candy dish. My mom always kept a candy dish out. For certain I would eat the candy it held, but I never scavenged. Often times I didn’t even think about the sweet goodness in the crystal bowl. On-the-other-hand, I had a little playmate that would come over to play. Her mother was a big ‘no sugar for my kid because my kid will get a sugar high and that’s just a no, no, no’ proponent. When this little friend would come over the candy dish would be polished off.  In record time, at that.

Now I was a college student. No matter how I got to this point, I was there. It was time to find myself. It was time to define myself. It was time to make mistakes and learn from them. This was the time. Yes, this was the time.

It took a few months, but I found myself changing. The straight laced girl was no more. She was replaced with this Newport 100 smokin’, black leather Nike kickin’, Cross Color wearin’, hat-to-the-back sportin’, gangsta-rap listenin’, hardcore mother fuckin’ bitch.  WORD.  I rolled in the most stylin’ of hoopties (my Ford Ranger, fool) and I even walked with a little switch. I smoked blunts with my homies and didn’t give a shit about nuthin’. This change was dramatic. I still wonder if my parents wondered what the hell was going on.

This phase of my life lasted about four months. Four. Long. Months. Four months of talking like this, “Yo, yo, yo wazz da dizzle fo’ shizzle?”  I didn’t even have the internet to look up these phrases.

I am totally being serious. Without meaning any offense… I was a wigga!

1993 was a very strange year.  I partied in some strange houses that year where the Crazy Horse malt liquor and Philly blunts were in great abundance. I did some not-so-safe things that year, like rollin’ in my hooptie down in the  “fruit belt” with NWA blaring from my (not so) awesome  factory speakers.

1993 was the year I discovered what it was like to be a gangsta and it was also the year that I realized I was not cut out to be one.

I can still remember the moment.  I was at a friend’s house watching MTV.  This came on:

I fell in love with this guy named Kurt.  He was grungy and his music had these lyrics that just reached inside of me and shook my still forming soul.

And I forget
Just what it takes
And yet I guess it makes me smile
I found it hard
Its hard to find
Oh well, whatever, nevermind

I said goodbye to Gangsta Mishi and welcomed Grunge Mishi.  1993 was a year of discovery.

I made friends. I lost friends. I smoked. I burned. I laughed. I cried. I was out-there. I was serious. I was happy. I was sad. I was not myself. I was totally myself.

There was a lot of good that came out of that year. And that year led to 1994, which was probably the best year of my life. That was the year I fell in love with my own grunged out dude. That was the year I gave a big fuck you to what people wanted me to be. That was the year I told myself that I was really in charge. And it may have taken more than that year, but that was the start. It started with a little gangsta-rap rebellion and it’s led me to here. To this place where I know who I am and what I want. I still mess up and find myself in these odd situations. But I know that I can get through them all, *yo.

[S]he’s the one who like all our pretty songs
And [s]he likes to sing along and [s]he likes to shoot [her] gun
But [s]he knows not what it means
Knows not what it means, knows not what it means
Knows not what it means and I say yeah

*yo: I’ve been saying this since early 1993. Granted it was accompanied by two other yo’s, I’ve been saying it for a long time. When Gansta Mishi was transforming into Grunge Mishi I had a friend look at me and say, “Yo, yo, yo? Seriously? You need to stop saying that!” And I replied, “Dude, I will never stop saying that. Got it, yo?”  And I haven’t.