Sonnystone Acres

i received a mysterious post yesterday: a newspaper clipping from the Grayville Mercury. Grayville IL, originator of the “chee-chaw-chaw-haw-haw” cheer and center of my mother’s birth-family is home to about 1500 souls and a “town cat”….. named shopkat (their spelling), she lives in the municipal garage on middle street, has the adoration of the town’s children, regularly shops at the local dollar general and stops in the newspaper office. she also has a reputation for pulling on her hotpants and go-go boots for a trip through the local bars, where the patrons buy all her drinks. last week the news spread like wildfire: shopkat had a huge wound on her left “derriere” which was at first believed to be a gunshot! this was subsequently found to be a bite mark and the townfolk gossiped about a loud catfight that everyone had heard in the wee hours the night before. tucked into the envelope was also a note in the scrawl i recognize as Son L.’s cuzn conrad: Son L. and his girfriend, Bitzi (a declawed witness he met in nyc) visited his cuzns conrad, shoeman, and possum in grayville and the local pussies went wild! there was evidently quite a fight (conrad thinks it was over him–don’t tell him different), but Son & Bitz slipped out and are on their way “out west”, according to the cuzns. grayville is still talking about the debonaire heline and his svelte gal-pal. he promised he’d stay in touch.

I should have known that rascal cat wasn’t on his last life!!! (thank-you, svejc) I received a call around midnight. At first all I could hear was a buzz of voices highlighted by tinkling glasses, a jazz piano chord…and then the whisper voice of Mr. Gato! “Stop with the crying…I’ve been placed in the Witness Under Protection Program…” I couldn’t hear everything he said–I think he was putting his hand over the receiver—something about he knows who killed J.R. and then something else about being mistaken for a wallet-thief. There was a real party going on in the background and our conversation was cut short by a nasal female voice whining, “Hey, Sonny, do that W.C. Fields impression again!” As happy as I felt to hear from him, I’m not sorry I didn’t have to watch that act again. In his haste, I didn’t have the chance to tell him that I think his new name, Son L. Gato, is a bit transparent.

We buried Son E. overlooking the River Wahoo in the woods we call Solla Sollew at the back of Sonnystone. The sun shines into a small clearing near the path and we placed his very small box between two trees. I can’t stop crying..my eyelids have reached record puffiness. One word keeps repeating itself in my mind: familiar–according to the dictionary when this word is used as a noun it means: 1: a member of the household of a high official; 2: one that is familiar, especially an intimate associate or companion; 3: a spirit often embodied in an animal and held to attend and serve or guard a person. He was all of that and more, (though he wasn’t held). I keep hearing him and seeing him. We had started our days together, he shared my pillow at night. I just miss him.

i, son e. gato, being of sound mind and failing body, leave this testament to express my wishes after my imminent demise. I have been blessed with a loving, if not always real smart, family. To thebug and husband i leave my vast fortune, investments, property, real and imaginary, with the stipulation that all monies be spent on red-haired girl and boy-child. Sonnystone is to stay in the hands of family members throughout the generations. in order to prepare myself, i have done a thorough moral and spiritual inventory and find the need to express some final forgiveness: i forgive paul for marrying that unidexter. i forgive judge ito. i forgive luciano for stealing my scarves. i forgive the olympic judges who counted a foot-fault against me during my brilliant figure-skating career (those are arms). i forgive bill clinton for ruining a perfectly good cigar. i forgive both george bushe(s) for poor v.p. choices, despite my best efforts to persuade them otherwise. i forgive al gore for being a wimp. i forgive barbra streisand—no i don’t. It is important for all of you who love me, who have turned to me in your darkest hour and gone away enlighted and cheerful, to remain strong without me. i am leaving my journals with thebug and have given approval to publish any and all of my stories–you may recognize yourself in them. just remember me as a small black cat who changed the world.

I wanted him to be Daniel, but husband knew too many daniels that did not live up to what he pictured his son to be… so then I thought Robert, after my dad, but husband had a brother and a nephew named robert, so that was out. We wanted it to be a boy, but didn’t know for sure, so we tried on many names– Christina if it was a girl– afraid to make too much of the issue since we wanted a healthy baby, not a gender. Early 9/3/81 it’s head plopped out, red hair, blood, goop, much relief to the mom…and when they turned the shoulder and pulled the little parasite out, he was a boy: Michael, after his dad, the best man I know, and Mayne, after my dad and brother, the second best men I knew….7 pounds, 2 ounces….loved. Today he is 23-years-old and a good boy/man. He will graduate from Purdue with his degree in computer-something, marry his childhood sweetheart ( a blessing named Jessica) on 5/28/05, and live happily ever after. He has always been an eeyore–a little unsure of himself despite his exalted status in a family of all-girls; quiet and calm, but sympathetic and caring, with a sense of humor and wry outlook that has often made me stop and think. (when the weatherman predicted sunny weather with the statement, “you’ll be able to do whatever you want in this weather”, he asked, “what if I wanted to sing in the rain?” ) In him I see all the love he received at his birth times 23, all the strength that he needs, all the blessings that he can believe. I see his dad, who has been his constant friend and guide, the person he’s imitated well. He is a joy in our lives and today I am grateful for the little guy I still call my baby. Happy Birthday, boy-child.