Poetry and Softness

I used to write poetry when I was a little girl. I used to write in a flower covered journal all my quirky poems: some I made up and some I copied down - just to remember. I remember I loved Helen Steiner Rice poems, but I honestly don’t know who she is now.

Last week our cat of eleven years died. After the tears, and the massive guilt, I thought about these old poems. When I was young I saw a poster about a man’s best friend being his dog. As a ten year old little girl, it made me query about a “woman’s” best friend. I was an early “Equal Rights” advocate, before the term “feminism” was even around. I sat on my bed with my childhood cat Puddin scrawled on my paper, grabbing my pen as I jotted these words:

“A Cat is a woman’s best friend!”

I must have felt some sort of satisfaction at this statement. I must have believed by writing these words I was righting some sort of umbrage the original poster implied. Who knows, what goes through a little girls mind. I do remember feeling a sense of loyalty toward Puddin with words contradicting men and dogs and this somehow elevated Puddin’s existence.

So what does this really have to do with my daughters’ childhood cat dying this last week? I’m not entirely sure, other than the incident brought to mind the love and homage we have for our dear four legged siblings. My daughters were broken, as we ruminated over “Ollie Cats” life. The image of my oldest daughter holding her love will be difficult to blot out. Rushing to the vet, interrupting the receptionist, pleading with her to hurry because Ollie was in trouble; it’s hard to get it out of my mind. It all seems like a fast forwarded movie- watching the flash of blurred colors on the screen, only to stop at the part that you were hoping to miss- Ollie was gone.

It’s been a week now, and we are coping. I know that time will move on and we will heal, but my daughters get quiet when they see the other animals in the house walk by. I made the mistake of calling our other cat “Ollie” tonight at dinner, and the whole table was silent. Until the dog ran after her and we all laughed…waiting for the moment to breathe.

To some, this may seem melodramatic. There are so many “Cat Haters” in the world- I almost feel that we have to grieve in silence.
So, I guess as I think about Ollie, and Puddin and all the other softness that has touched my life, it makes sense that poetry would trigger my mind. Poetry like pets is a door to our childhood selves. Rudyard Kipling wrote, Power of the Dog, he tells of the love one has of their dog:

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

If I had discovered this little gem of a poem when I was little, I may have felt compelled to leave a kitten on Mr. Kipling’s doorstep.

Vegetables and Tofu

My daughter was in fifth grade when she was asked to be in the school Spelling Bee. Her teacher thought she was a pretty good speller and had a great chance of moving up to the next level of competition. When she told me of her good fortune, I automatically had visions of my four-eyed daughter, clad in a white button down, front and center spelling words like: soporific or abranchiate.

Of course, this never happened. My vision was shut down the day I came home with a book of words (just to practice) and at my exuberance she informed me that she had no intentions of winning the Spelling Bee. I couldn’t believe her lack of fervor. Incredulous, I inquired. She told me that she was not willing to be known as the “girl who won the Spelling Bee” for the rest of her life.

If anyone knows my daughter, then they understand that this was a definitive answer. I set the book on the counter and watched all the letters, from a-z, scurry down the road into someone else’s home. We recovered, however and on the afternoon of the Spelling Bee, I wished her luck and sent her off to school. I wanted to go, but she again assured me that it was going to be short and not to bother.

She finished in record time and was out on the third or fourth round. The word she misspelled was none other than vegetarian. Her teacher made fun of her, as did her family. She said that she didn’t throw the competition, but she also wasn’t disappointed when it was time to sit down.

As irony would have it, four years later, she declares homage to animals and becomes a vegetarian. It’s funny how life brings stories to our doorsteps to either be welcomed or rejected, and if rejected, they keep knocking in other ways. Vegetarianism is her persistent knocker- I guess it is mine, as well.

She vowed her diet to vegetables just about when other teens vow their lives to partying, drinking, and/ or drugs. I was frustrated, at first, being a meat loving, steak and roast cooking guru. I fought with her over the dangers of “lack of protein” yada, yada, yada…but just like the Spelling Bee, there is no movement when pushing a brick wall. What I concluded was that this was her doorway into a world that I wasn’t a part of. I became comfortable with my daughters new identity and even relished in teasing her about it. When people would ask I’d say, “While other teens find their solace in a beer, my daughter identifies with broccoli.” She’d roll her eyes and spout off some statistic of slaughter houses or the woes of little lambs. It’s become our banter. I’ve even gave her the moniker of “Vegetesbian.” I don’t know why, other than it makes her respond passionately, with rote knowledge from PETA.

One day while we were heading to the market, I cried “Uncle!” She looked at me and I said it again. Perplexed she smiled and asked why I was saying that. I told her that she’s been trying to win since she was two and I am finally surrendering. “This tofu and vegetable thing is kicking my butt!" I smiled and said again, "Uncle! I wave the white cotton flag!" She laughed, sat tall and proud, as we continued down the road in my hybrid Prius, to get an alfalfa, tomato sandwich.

Year of Tears

Okay, so it is September and my oldest daughter and I went to get her senior pictures taken a few weeks ago. She insisted that I needn't escort her.....ahummm....and I insisted that I needed to. She rolled her eyes a couple of hundred times, adamant that she wasn't a baby anymore. Since I had the cash and the keys to the car, I won out. Don't you love "feeble" power?

We arrive and we see a girl that knows my daughter. They both covertly wave, and I ask, "Who is that?" She quickly mumbles,"No one," while picking up pace to try and ditch me before we enter the studio.

Catching up I say, "Well, that 'No One' just said hello to you." Again she rolls her eyes and assures me that I don't know her. I don't tell her this, but I'm pretty aware of "who" I know and don't know, but this information is nebulous, and would only be met with further eye weaponry. The next half hour continues on this path- me embarrassing her by my mere presence and her pretending as if she'd rather me not be there. I tease her and tell her I want her to hold her newspaper articles (she's the editor and chief of her school newspaper, after all) in the "Personal Touch" senior photos. We both laugh, knowing that this is an absurd request as we giggle at the pictures advertised on the wall of swimmers firmly holding medals, or teens clad in Indian headdresses.

We enter the studio and are greeted by a man with a heavy accent whose only access to creativity is a plastic rose on the edge of a white, foam, Greek column. When he places the rose delicately next to my daughters dark nail polished fingers, she and I glance at each other and laugh, and we can't stop- which makes for some rather stunning pictures-despite the rose.

Finally, my daughter puts on the cap and gown for the final photos. As she moves the tassel over, I am awed at her poise and presence. She looks at me and I see that she is beautiful. I am sniffling, and trying to stop the tears, but she notices and is surprisingly tender. She smiles with an, "Oh Mama...it's just a picture." She leans on the Greek column as the photographer snaps a few more pictures. I am caught in this still life, for just a moment. Through tears we both smile knowingly, about who the baby really is.

I explain to her later over a nice lunch of tofu and vegetables (she's a vegetarian!!!), that it's going to be the "Year of Tears" and there is nothing she can do to stop it. I can't help it; I feel I've earned this "Right of Passage." Later we shop and as I try to lose myself in the store, she finds me and asks for my help. She hugs me and holds my hand and I again feel a deep sense of warmth.

What I come away with is the realization that despite all the troubles that come with having a 17 year old-I love my eye rolling, try-to-ditch-me, vegetarian-kick-my-meat eating-chops teen. Even if she talks to "nobody" and waves at "no one!" In the end, at the commemoration of this senior year, she's my medal of honor and I'll hold her proud.... as our camera keeps flashing.