In which Donna actually leaves the house without her husband

Not unusual for most folks, but I don't drive, remember.  So when you see me away from home, you usually find Cliff not far away; this is probably the first time I've been away from home without Cliff for five hours since my granddaughter and I went to see "A Night With Janis Joplin".  

There's a church in Odessa that has an annual ladies' day:  They usually have some kind of themed program, and it's something I've always enjoyed.  I called a neighbor who usually invites me, begged a ride, and away I went.  

When we arrived there was coffee and many kinds of home-made breads available.  During a break in the program later we had sandwiches, chips, and cookies and visited while we ate.  I only knew the people I rode in with, but I did have a nice visit with them.  One sweet lady, widow of the man who owned our town hardware store for many years, said something to me that totally confused me:  "I think about what you wrote about Buddy all the time," she said.  "That just nailed him; that was exactly how he was."

I never wrote any song or poem specifically for Buddy, so for about half a minute I was at a loss.  Then it hit me; she was referring to four lines in the song "Wellington" I wrote that did, as a matter of fact, talk about him.  "Buddy's good old hardware store Had what you need, but even more, He could tell you how to use that hardware once you got it home."

What a small thing to mean so much to her!  I was humbled.  

Cliff and I hardly ever had two nickels to rub together when we moved to Wellington, but we did have good credit and were proud of the way we paid our bills on time.  Sometimes we'd need something to help in the course of home upkeep but would lack the money.  That was never a problem, because at that time you could charge stuff at two places in town:  Buddy's Wellington Hardware and Dale's station at the edge of town.  No credit card needed at either place, just tell them "charge it" and you were done.  

The thing with Buddy, though, was that he didn't send out bills.  So maybe six months or a year would go by and I'd say, "Hey Cliff, did we ever pay Buddy for those widgets/thingamajig/tools we charged?"  

If we were in doubt, we'd go down and ask.  He'd look it up and sure enough, we hadn't payed.  I don't know if he would ever have asked for the money we owed him, so eventually we were careful to try and pay for things at the time we bought them.  

I sang that song once at some gathering in town.  Afterward our insurance man approached me and said, "You forgot to mention your insurance man."

So the next time I sang the song I had added this:  "If you need a good insurance plan, Karl Potter is your man."  

That song grew like Topsy for the next couple of years.  Now it's in mothballs, and that's just as well, since most of the people in the song are dead and the businesses are closed.

I'm just meandering here, so let me digress from my meandering and explain that when I typed the phrase "grew like Topsy", I knew it was a quote from somewhere, but I had no idea what it was referring to, so I looked it up and am now sharing it with you.  Because I know you are as curious as I am (just nod your head in agreement).  

Grow'd like Topsy

Occasionally one hears the expression that something 'grow'd like Topsy'. I thought readers might be interested to know its origins.

In "Uncle Tom's cabin, or Life among the lowly", published in 1852, Harriet Beecher Stowe describes the character Topsy - a wild and uncivilized slave girl who Miss Ophelia tries to reform. In Chapter 20 the novel recounts a conversation between Ophelia and Topsy:

"Tell me where were you born, and who your father and mother were." 
"Never was born," re-iterated the creature more emphatically. "Never had no father, nor mother nor nothin'"
"...Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy?" The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual.
"Do you know who made you?" 
"Nobody, as I knows on," said the child, with a short laugh. The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her eyes twinkled, and she added, "I spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me." 

Peace  

Are you tired of cat stories yet?

I intended for the new kittens to make their home in the barn.  That's always been home base for our cats, and it's where I keep food and water handy for them.  I even locked Grady and Buttons in a cage in there the first two nights, so they wouldn't run off.

These cats love people, so if they hear voices, they go running toward them.  Grady has strayed twice to different neighbors' yards lured by the sound of their conversation, but was soon found.  But ever since they first arrived, the place that draws them most frequently is Cliff's shop; there's always a human stirring around out there, and a bowl of water sitting out for Titan where they can quench their thirst.  Cliff has never had a lot of use for cats:  He likes them if they're in the barn catching mice, but he doesn't want to touch them, and the less he sees of them, the happier he is.  

Within the kittens' first week here, when Cliff unlocked the shop in the morning they were beating him to the door, running in before he could set foot inside.  I apologized profusely; he didn't have much to say about the situation except, "I just hope they don't poop in here."  (He didn't say "poop" exactly, but you get the idea.)  

I glanced toward his big Oliver 1855 tractor and saw the tins of oil-dry beneath it, put there to catch the drips that are inevitable with any older machine... even one that's been restored.  "If they start pooping in the shop, I have a feeling those Oil-Dri pans is where they'll do it."

Did you know that Oil-Dri is the same material as cat litter?    

Since they were spending the better part of each day out there, I took a small dish of cat food out for them, which furthered their opinion that Cliff's shop is their castle.  Grady is the more playful of the two, and you'll often see him batting dry leaves around the floor.  Visitors are fascinated by his antics, and hunt around for things he will play with.  He's become quite a star, almost a main attraction.  

There are several cast-off office chairs like this one sitting around the shop, but guess which one the kittens chose as their own?  Cliff's favorite... the one at his desk.  

They spend leisurely hours in Cliff's chair, taking naps and grooming themselves.  "I'm so sorry, Cliff," I said.  "Ah well," he answered, "I guess it doesn't matter."

And yes, the oil-dry was soon full of kitty-tracks and dark lumps.  I couldn't believe it!  Cliff's shop, his "man-cave", had been taken over by his least-favorite domesticated animal.  He said as long as they were using the oil dry, he had no problem with it.  I didn't believe him, because he's always hated the smell of a litter-box... not that we ever had one in use.  Neither of us want a cat in our house.  I assured my husband that I would try to empty those big trays regularly, but when I attempted it, I found they're so big and flexible and hard to handle, it isn't a job I can do alone.  The grandson helped me that time.  

What if we got some cat litter and a regular litter box and put it next to those trays?  I really doubted that would work, since they were already used to using the trays, but they must have tried it and liked the deeper litter in box, because somebody is using it.  I hope they both learn to prefer it, because that's a container I can handle.  Besides, real cat litter has deodorizer in it; believe me, these boys need deodorizer in their box! 

I'd like to tell you that Cliff has been won over by the cuteness of the kittens, but he's silent on the subject.  He doesn't grumble, and remarks sometimes that he enjoys watching them play.  Of course, the oldest grandson is the true owner of the shop these days, and he has little to say about the cats either.  His wife thinks they're cute, but she's allergic.  Boy, did these cats come to the wrong place!

Nevertheless, Cora loves them and plays with them all the time.  Yesterday Cliff saw her run over Grady with her Barbie jeep, not deliberately, but because he's always underfoot and in the way.  There went one of his nine lives, but he was playing with his buddy ten minutes later as though nothing had happened.  I notice he doesn't get underfoot so much now.  

Last night I tried to explain to Cliff why the kittens prefer his chair:  "It's what cats do," I told him.  "They think they own everything.  I'm sorry they've taken over your man-cave."

Meanwhile, I've set the DVR to record "The Story of Cats" on PBS.