Aurora Dreaming

It wasn’t enough that my friend Kathleen and I have been dreaming about our early-March bucket-list trip to Alaska. Lollipop (left), one of her feline housemates, recently got into the act.

I have wanted to experience aurora borealis (i.e., the northern lights) for at least 50 years. I never knew it was on my bucket list—or that I even had such a thing—until Kathleen suggested a trip to Norway to celebrate our birthdays. Although she had experienced the phenomenon in Iceland, she wanted to do it again, this time in a dogsled. But international covid precautions sent us in a different—and domestic—direction. Fairbanks, Alaska.

Located 196 miles south of the Arctic Circle, Fairbanks is frequently cited as the best place to see the northern lights in the U.S., and, according to some, in the world.

That’s because it sits a touch above the 65th parallel of north latitude. To get a sense of what that means, picture Earth. The Equator is at 0 degrees latitude; True North—and South—Poles are at 90 degrees north and south, respectively, of the Equator, making the North Pole, by definition, the northernmost point on the Earth.

The Arctic Circle (66°33′48.9″ north latitude) is the northernmost point at which the noon sun is visible on the winter solstice. To its north is the Arctic; to its south, the Northern Temperate Zone. Ironically, the city of North Pole, Alaska, lies 125 miles south of the Arctic Circle and 1,744.54 miles south of the True North Pole.

By comparison, Utqiaġvik (Barrow), is 504 miles north of Fairbanks, and 320 miles north of the Arctic Circle. At a latitude of 71 degrees north, it is the northernmost municipality in the U.S. (Sidenote: Bob and I experienced the Midnight Sun there in 2001 while staying at the Top of the World Hotel, with a beachfront view of the Arctic Ocean. Mid-summer temperatures hovered in the 30s.)

In Fairbanks, March is not only a transition month, but it is also high season. Temperatures moderate as skies brighten. Daily highs range from –2°F to 23°F, though they can plunge to –17°F and surge to 38°F. Compared to typical readings of –20°F to –40°F in December and January, March sounds downright balmy.

And bright. Sunrise on March 1 is 7:59 a.m., and sunset is 6:08 p.m., Alaska Standard Time (AST). During the month, total hours of sunlight range from 10 hours, 9 minutes, to 13 hours, 38 minutes. On the vernal equinox, Fairbanks receives 12 hours and 11 minutes of sunshine. On the summer solstice, it gets 21 hours, 50 minutes of daylight. Then it begins to darken again.

With clear to partly cloudy skies prevailing in early March and less than a 10% chance of precipitation, Fairbanks bills itself as an ideal canvas for the aurora borealis. That’s because most northern lights occur in a band known as the auroral oval, a swath that sweeps beneath the geomagnetic pole. The northern lights around the North Pole are the borealis; in the southern hemisphere, they are the australis.

Galileo, the 17th-century Italian scientist called the father of observational astronomy, named the phenomenon after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora, who raced her multi-colored chariot across the sky to usher in the dawn.

The earliest record of the northern lights, however, goes back much further. According to NASA scientists, a 30,000-year-old cave painting in France depicts unknown lights in the night sky. Assyrian cuneiform records, dating from 655 BC to 679 BC, and Babylonian texts, made by astronomers of King Nebuchadnezzar II in 567 BC describe unusual red glows in the night sky. The oldest official documentation is dated 2,600 BC in China. Fu-Pao, the mother of Shuan-Yuan, the Yellow Emperor, is said to have observed “strong lightning” that lit up the night sky.

Pre-historic lore is as colorful as the lights themselves. The Vikings believed that they reflected the Valkyries’ armor leading Odin’s warriors to Valhalla. To the Sámis, they were the souls of the dead, and to the Finnish, sparks flying from the tail of a racing firefox. Some Native Americans saw them as giant flames under huge cooking pots. Others as demons chasing lost souls, or as omens of pestilence and war.

In Alaska, some Inuit communities feared the lights as evil while others saw them as playful, or as the animals they had hunted. I like the legend that portrays them as torches borne by spirits to lead the souls of the dead across a narrow pathway to a better land, free of disease, pain, and hunger.

Although solar activity happens all the time, it shows up only against dark skies. It is the result of electrons and protons from the Sun slamming into the Earth’s atmosphere at about 45 million miles per hour. Because the Earth’s magnetic field is weaker at the poles, these particles invade Earth’s atmosphere and collide with gas particles, causing streams, arcs, rippling curtains, or shooting rays. The resulting colors range from red to violet, but most often appear as pale green and purple. The most common auroral color is a pale yellowish-green (like the cover of the book that Lolly is reading), which is produced by oxygen molecules. Nitrogen produces a blue or purplish-red aurora.

Astronomically, we have a good chance of seeing the lights. Skywatchers recommend three to four days in the arctic, synced with the dark skies that straddle a new moon. New moon is March 2. Since geomagnetic activity increases during the equinoxes, when the tilt of the Earth’s axis angles into the solar wind, early- to mid-March is highly recommended. And, according to the University of Alaska Geophysical Institute, the forecasted aurora oval for March 5–10 is high.

On this map of the forecasted aurora oval, degrees of latitude are noted on the left and right.
Fairbanks is about 65° north latitude.
The Arctic Circle is about 66°.
©2020 Geophysical Institute, University of Alaska Fairbanks

While in the interior of Alaska, we plan to go dog-mushing in North Pole—that’s on Kathleen’s bucket list—and swimming in the geothermally heated waters of Chena Hot Springs—that’s on both of ours. There are museums to explore, restaurants to sample, and retail stores to shop. We may take a guided tour to the Arctic Circle, hike to an ice cave in Castner Glacier, or sit around a toasty fire at the hotel. Who knows, maybe we’ll even try our hands at curling or ice fishing.

But the focal point is experiencing the auroras.

Experts say that the best way to see them is by dogsled, guided tour, or asking the front desk to wake you up if they appear. We plan to do all three. With temperatures that range from frigid to frozen, and adventures that range from fire to ice, we’re packing our bags with layers of clothes and arming ourselves with cameras, books, and bucket lists.

Fairbanks, here we come!

ABCs of Feline Life

Hi. I’m Yuki, the cat in the lower right, returning as a guest blogger with the ABCs—the alpha, beta, and chops—of feline life.

I live with Chairman Meow, seen in the upper left with the mouse he caught. He acts like Top Cat with that mouse, but let me explain. I’m the true alpha.

What, you may ask, is an alpha cat?

Some feline ethologists—behavioralists who study animal behavior—contend that the term “alpha” is most appropriately applied to pack animals with a highly defined social structure, like wolves, hyenas, and many primates. It usually depends on physical prowess, which may be determined by fights to the death; social alliances within the group; or parentage.

Since cats don’t live in the close pack structure that wolves, for example, do, they don’t form the same types of relationships. Although most multi-cat households have a pecking order, dominance may change from cat to cat, day to day, even time of day to time of day.

Jessica Char, who blogs on Feline Engineering, points out that the idea of an alpha cat comes from outdated research on wolves.

She explains that alpha is another word for dominant. It describes a cat that:

  • Doesn’t stop when told;
  • Continues unwanted behavior even when punished;
  • Chases or pursues other cats;
  • Behaves aggressively in some situations; or
  • Demands attention, food, or play on their own schedule.

Okay, guilty as charged.

But there is another way to look at the concept. Pammy, who blogs on The Way of Cats, calls a dominant cat the “mad scientist of the cat world.” I like that characterization.

It’s especially apt when you consider my relationship with Chairman Meow. He’s not necessarily a beta, although Franny Syufy, writing on The Spruce Pets, says the second-in-line cat is indeed the beta. While this doesn’t necessarily mean the beta aspires to be alpha, she says that the beta may try to establish secondary dominance, especially when the alpha cat is out of the room. Or, in this case, when he catches prey.

If I am the mad scientist, I see Chairman Meow as the philosopher. He reads life like it’s a mouse—the joy is in the pursuit. Recent construction in our building has created new and joyful opportunities for both of us.

That leads us to the C, chops.

We’re old. But we still have chops. I’m 14 and the vet says I’m fat. I’ve also been diagnosed with IBS, which means no more chicken treats. But I’m better off than Chairman Meow. He doesn’t get chicken treats anymore, either. He’s only 13 and has kidney disease and cardiomyopathy. Because his heart only works at 50 percent, he has bitter pills to swallow. Neither of us likes that. But bitter pills are the price we pay for longevity.

Although we are running down the last of our nine lives, we’re cool cats, pursuing life like a mad scientist and a philosopher. Life is, after all, a cat-and-mouse game.

What Other Cool Cats Are Perusing

When I shared with you last month that Nina had died, I was touched with many expressions of sympathy. Thank you.

One subscriber, Sherry, shared the news with her cat, Louie. She said he “let out a long meow and we communicated about how your cat family was now together in the one-cat soul. Further, he wanted me to let you know about a great movie we had watched together: The Electrical Life of Louis Wain.”

The movie tells the story of the late 19th– early 20th-century British artist Louis Wain (played by Benedict Cumberbatch), whose fanciful feline illustrations helped inspire the widespread adoption of cats as pets.

The film also stars Claire Foy (as Wain’s wife Emily), who says that cats are “ridiculous, silly, cuddly, frightened and brave, just like us,” and Toby Jones as an indulgent newspaper editor and cat lover.

According to Raquel Laneri, writing for The New York Post (November 4, 2021), the Victorian painter “was the cat’s meow.”

She noted that, “His cute kittens and cigar-chomping tabbies…threw snowballs at one another, played poker and drank brandy, and made all sorts of mischief.”

But Wain’s story was deeper and darker than his whimsical illustrations. Although considered an artistic success, Wain never copyrighted his work. In seeking to unlock what he calls the “electrical” mysteries of the world, he lost touch with reality. Broke, paranoid, and erratic, he was certified insane by his family. Even so, his work came to the attention of many influencers, including science-fiction writer H.G. Wells and English King George V.

“He made the cat his own,” Wells once said. “He invented a cat style, a cat society, a whole cat world.” Wells, portrayed by musician Nick Cave in the movie, says, “Cats that do not look like Louis Wain’s are ashamed of themselves.”

Perhaps it’s because Louie the Cat so admires his namesake’s unique portraits, or because of this blog’s emphasis on what cats are reading, that Louie asked Sherry to share with us his favorite painting, entitled A Good Read.

A Good Read, by Louis Wain (Public Domain)

Another reader, Mara, shared with us a picture of Smooch, who recommended The Writer’s Cats. Penned by French author Muriel Barbery, illustrated by Maria Guitart, and translated by Alison Anderson, the book pays tribute to everyday poetry, Japanese philosophy, and felines’ ingenuity and sardonic humor

By taking readers into her atelier and offering them a behind-the-scenes peek into her process, problems, joys, and disappointments, the best-selling author of The Elegance of the Hedgehog conveys the mysterious, confounding thing called being a writer.

She tells the tale from the perspective of her four Chartreux (i.e, silver-gray, amber-eyed) cats: the pretty, graceful, and charming Kirin, who may or may not be a reliable narrator; Ocha, the leader of the pride, a tough guy with a soft heart; his brother, the phlegmatic, refined, and flower-loving Petrus; and the bandy-legged, affectionate Mizu.

Released in November 2021, The Writer’s Cats is beautifully written, delightfully illustrated, and cat-egorically funny— at least according to Smooch.

Feline Rescues and Readers

Blogger Nina Cat died of acute respiratory failure on November 5, 2021, after 18-plus years with us.

Like Ron and her brother Nino, Nina was family. She was also the inspiration behind this blog. When I saw her snuggled up with So You Want to Live in Hawaii, by Toni Polancy, I knew she was onto something.

Long before that, however, our cats’ humble beginnings had put Bob and me onto something—feral cat rescues. As so often happens, you don’t get involved until a problem lands litter-ally in your own backyard.

Twenty years ago, our Lakeview neighborhood in New Orleans had an out-of-control feral cat problem. It still does. The Metairie Small Animal Hospital, which operates a clinic in Lakeview, defines ferals as unowned community cats that have never had close contact with humans. MSAH estimates their number as “staggering.” The Humane Society’s estimate for the United States is a little more precise—30 to 40 million.

According to the Feral Cat Project, 75% of feral kittens die or disappear by the time they are six months old. Although they keep the numbers of rodents and reptiles under control, they risk being hit by cars, injured by other cats, attacked by predators, or getting sick. While all these factors lead to an average lifespan of about three years, the population continues to grow, given that cats as young as five months old can procreate.

As we watched all that happening in our backyard, we learned that the most humane and effective way to control feral cat populations is through TNR (trap, neuter, and return) programs. In exchange for a promise to provide food and water to the dozens of ferals that we trapped and returned, local vets examined, vaccinated, and sterilized them.

Unlike wild adult cats, kittens who are rescued and socialized are adoptable as pets. Ron slipped indoors on a particularly cold (for New Orleans) January evening in 2003. Nine months later, Nino and Nina adopted us, too. The three of them quickly adapted to—and improved—our lives as well.

Together, we evacuated New Orleans in advance of Hurricane Katrina, landing first in Mandeville, about an hour to the north of New Orleans, then Houston, six hours west. After three weeks, we all settled into an apartment in Baton Rouge. Eight months later, we moved to Fairfax, Virginia. In 2020, in the midst of the onset of COVID, Ron and Nina flew with us when we moved to Southwest Florida. Nino had died 8 years earlier of cancer.

In his pre-Katrina days, Ron would wait for Bob on the doorstep. Post-Katrina, it was in the hallway. Nina, on the other hand,  preferred that we wait on her. And Nino, who waited for no one, sometimes deigned to let us pet him.

Following Nino’s death, we increased our healthy-cat visits. We caught Ron’s and Nina’s medical conditions early and managed them well. When you add these conditions to their feral births and multiple relocations, Ron and Nina far surpassed their legendary nine lives.

Nina had a rough time when Ron died 13 months ago. Perplexed by the absence of her lifelong companion, she would sniff around their favorite chair, hide in corners of rooms, and demand affection—odd behavior for a typically aloof feline. But she gradually assumed a regal role as the sole cat of the household.

Always feisty, she demanded treats and long brushing/combing sessions. In addition to her cardiomyopathy, congestive heart failure, advanced kidney disease, and hyperthyroidism, she had developed lesions on one lung. The vet cautioned us to look for labored breathing. When that happened, he said, she would likely die quickly. She did.

There’s a popular bumper sticker out there with a paw print that reads, “Who rescued who?” Although that sentence grates on the English teacher and editor in me (I always correct the second pronoun), the answer is simple. Ron, Nino, and Nina rescued us. They were anchors in our lives as winds blew us from Louisiana, to Virginia, to Florida. Nino entertained us with his antics. Nina and Ron inspired us with selections for What the Cats are Reading.

They still do. In their honor, this blog will continue, dedicated to feline readers everywhere.

Ron (2002-2020)
Nino (2003-2012)

Rising Weekly to a Writing Challenge

When the Florida Weekly comes out on Wednesdays, this household looks forward to reading it.

In addition to a cover story on a local trend that ranges from demographics and wildlife to ecosystems and the economy, the newspaper lists arts, music, and food events in South Florida.

Nina likes the crossword puzzle; Bob, the restaurant reviews; and I the Weekly Writing Challenge, an annual contest that runs from August through November. Each round invites writers to write a 750-word story based on one of two photographic prompts.

Since I like a good story, here’s what I wrote for Round 2, based on the photograph below.

The One

Born without a double in a family of twins, I am Oona. The One, Mother would coo. Little Lambkin, Daddy would drawl. Princess, two sets of sisters would scoff. Imbued with a special dispensation, I wore nothing twinish, like a matching dress or a distinguishing ribbon. Yet I always sensed a missing indulgence.

Until today.

Cleaning out my parents’ house fell on my shoulders. Daddy and three of my sisters—Agnes, Grace, and Annie—had already died. Elsie, the eldest and only remaining sibling, allegedly was helping me. Though physically strong, dementia was dissolving her brain. I resented only that Mother hadn’t moved years ago.

“Please,” I had begged. “Let’s find you a smaller place, where you can socialize, play cards, eat dinner with your old friends.”

“This is where I belong, where I raised my babies.” Obstinate if nothing else, she would kiss my forehead. “Every last Oona of them.”

Thomas and Mary had moved into this twentieth-century Victorian the day they married. Here they raised their two sets of twin girls and me. If anyone asked if he had wanted a son, Daddy would slowly grin.

“I want what I have.” He had me. And everyone knew I was his favorite.

“Mary had a little lamb,” he would sing as I trailed my mother far and wide. “And everywhere that Mary went, her lamb was sure to go.”

Last month, though, at 95, Mother stopped going anywhere.

Brushing away cobwebs, I redirected my attention to the attic, the last stop in my journey through my family’s belongings. Mother had neatly labeled everything as if to facilitate her life’s disassembly. That was so like her, placing everyone’s needs before her own.

But she hadn’t labeled the one thing I needed. And I didn’t even know what that was. Something unknown and untouchable stuck to the boundaries of my soul like soapsuds clinging to a basin.

“Lookie here!” Elsie squealed. Pointing to a small stack of colored boxes, she disrupted my reverie. “Christmas!”

Looking over the boxes, I noticed that each was labeled with names and dates of birth. Brushing away dust, I sat on a narrow window seat and patted the space next to me.

“Not Christmas, Elsie. It’s a birthday. Let’s look together.”

Inside each box were souvenirs related to children’s births. I smiled at Mother’s sentimentality. I wished I had found these before she died; I would have given them back to her.

“Here, Elsie.” I handed her a yellowed card. To Elsie and Agnes, it read. “Gramma sent this card when you were born.” It disintegrated when she ripped it open, prompting tears. I quickly pulled a sturdier one from the stack. “Be careful. These are very old. Like you!”

As Elsie pored over the collection, I skipped the box labeled Grace and Annie. I dug further to find the last one. Oona. I gasped. And Thomas. Thomas?

“You had a twin,” Elsie leaned in. She couldn’t remember my name, yet she knew what I didn’t. “A boy. You killed him. I heard Mother and Daddy talk.”

I killed him? I tore through the documents for answers. According to a certificate of stillbirth, Thomas died of umbilical cord asphyxia minutes after my birth. Beneath that was a letter written to Mother in Daddy’s unmistakably bold hand. Feeling every bit an interloper, I gingerly opened it.

“This bittersweet secret is a pledge,” he wrote. “Oona must never know that it was her cord that strangled Thomas. She is innocent.”

In a dankly empty attic, two sisters wept—Elsie for having destroyed a birth card, me for having discovered a death one. Wrapping an arm around my big sister, I pretended that she was my baby brother. If he had lived, would Thomas have been Daddy’s favorite? If I had died and he had lived, would he be disassembling his parents’ lives? Would he be consoling Elsie?

Although Mother often called Daddy Doubting Thomas, I realized that Daddy was, in fact, a believer.

“Hope and faith,” he always said, were opposing forces. “Hope is a dream. But with faith, there is only one outcome.” I had hoped to find what was missing in my life. But Daddy believed in what I found. He unburdened me of a truth I didn’t need to know. I was the innocent lamb; Thomas, the sacrificial one.

Inhaling Daddy’s faith, I assumed my birthright as The One. Then I dried our tears.

She’s Resting on My Laurels

When I received notice on August 1 that my middle-grade novel Ghost Girl is a semifinalist in the 2021 Royal Palm Literary Awards competition, I immediately added the honor to my resume and the badge to my digital accounts. Sponsored by the Florida Writers Association, the annual awards recognize “extraordinary writing” in about 30 genres.

Acting on FWA’s motto of “Writers Helping Writers,” multiple anonymous judges use rubrics to score and provide feedback on each entry. Having volunteered this year as a judge and knowing how rigorous the assessment process is, I am delighted with the news.

Before submitting Ghost Girl to the RPLA competition, I had queried about a hundred literary agents and publishers. Although I had a few nibbles of interest, there were no offers of representation. So when I entered the competition, I hit pause, pending the outcome. If my entry flopped—which I didn’t think it would—then I would start all over again, using the judges’ critiques as guidance.

I will still use the critiques when I receive them, but the news reaffirmed my commitment to publish this contemporary novel infused with magical realism and Celtic mythology.

In it, a spunky biracial 12-year-old girl is haunted by questions about her identity and her mother’s death. With the help of a dog, bats, ghosts, and a magic shillelagh, she overcomes obstacles and assumes her rightful role in the family.

Far from resting on my laurels, I shared the news with friends and colleagues, then dusted off the manuscript to begin another round of submissions.

Nina, on the other hand, decided that my badge of recognition was worth resting upon.

Here’s the first chapter of Ghost Girl, which I’m proud and humbled to share with you.

Ghost Girl
Chapter 1
Mirror, Mirror

Puffs of forced air exploded in my face with each exhaled breath. I wanted everyone to think I was cold, not anxious, so I spewed a few more. Fingering the wristband that identified me as an unaccompanied minor, I waited and waited and waited in the bleak misery of a blustery train station. After nearly an hour of signing papers and answering questions, it was finally time to leave on my first solo trip anywhere. I blew again and shook off my hoodie. Dad replaced it.

“We don’t need to send you off with a cold, Bonnie.” He pecked me on the forehead, knocking my glasses askew.

Scrunching my face to match my insides, I huffed a deliberately huge vapor cloud, as if it could erase my stepmother and half-brother behind my father. The effort shook free my hoodie yet again. And yet again, he replaced it with a Hollywood smile that could seal deals and steal hearts. That’s my Dad, marketing magnet and social superstar. Tickling the tip of my nose, he squeezed my shoulders. Despite myself, I yielded to a lopsided grin.

“Atta girl,” he declared, his resonant voice muffled by a stiff northerly wind. Closing my eyes, I imagined it was just the two of us. And Mom, of course. She belonged at Dad’s side. And I belonged with them. On the beach, I fancied, squinting into the sun, not squinching vapor clouds into a bleak January morning, or tracking the steel rails that prowled their way upstate.

Mom. Stuffing tears deep inside, where no one or nothing could reach them, I tried to conjure up her image. I didn’t remember much, except her laugh, her eyes, and her hair. Thick auburn hair. It was the last thing I saw when a truck hit our car, killing her instantly. I was five. That was seven long years ago.

“You’ll have to live with your father,” everyone said. That wasn’t a problem—I had seesawed between my parents since their divorce two years before the accident. Besides, Dad’s condo was only a few blocks away from our little house, so I still had my school and friends. But the new arrangement wasn’t for a weekend or holiday. It was forever, and I first became a speed bump and then a roadblock in Dad’s methodical life. So he found a nanny, which turned into a series of nannies. No one was good enough for me, he said. Not until he met and married Deborrah.

She pronounced her name Deb-ORR-ah. I called her Deb-Horror. With her, everything had to be so, so perfect. And I sure wasn’t. Not only did she find fault with me from Day One, but she canceled my life and replaced it with If-ville.  If Mom hadn’t died, I wouldn’t have to live with her. If she hadn’t insisted on a new house, I wouldn’t have had to go to a new school. And if I hadn’t had problems at the new school, I wouldn’t be pacing this platform, banished to live in the mountains with an aunt and uncle I hardly knew.

With cold resolve and even colder hands crammed into pockets, I glared at my stepmother, stabbing icicles into her soul as she snuggled my half-brother into a warmth that eluded me. It was as obvious as the skinny little nose on her copper-skinned face that she wouldn’t miss me any more than I would miss her.

“Train 233 to Albany, Saratoga Springs, New Grange, and Montreal arriving on Track One.” An invisible voice screeched my destiny like fingernails on a blackboard. New Grange. Anam and Nog would meet me there and bring me to their place in Tory Island. The boonies. For nine months. More jitters, more clouds.

As the train rounded the curve from the south and whistled its approach, Dad yanked Deb-Horror forward. Wigwagging her hand, she stretched the word byeee into three syllables as thin as her personality. “You be good now. Mind your aunt and uncle,” she chided, as if I had already done something wrong. I slipped a thumbnail to my mouth, a habit that she swatted away.

“You mind your aunt and uncle,” I mumbled, jerking aside. With my back turned, I mimicked her tepid farewell and stuck out my tongue with a defiant head shake. The jiggling teased a corkscrew from the ponytail tucked inside my hoodie. Jeez. I whooshed it away as the train crept to a stop.

 “Call me when you get there,” Dad commanded. He glanced at the train, his watch, and me—his speed bump—in that order. The train was two minutes late, and Dad did not tolerate late. “We’ll be up, hopefully for your birthday.” He pulled me into a quick but firm hug. “Depends on my schedule.” Of course it did. Everything did.

“Yup.” Short answers magnified my practiced apathy. Besides, it was easier to agree with my father than challenge him. We’d been over this a hundred times. I was sure they wouldn’t come.

“All aboard,” a trainman bellowed, hopping onto the platform. He talked to Dad, scanned my wristband, and grabbed my backpack. I slung the matching tote over my shoulder, noting that the rest of the ensemble was being hauled toward the rear of the train as freight. Climbing onto a sleek car, I turned into the spotlight of a weak sunbeam. I felt like I was on stage, so I took a bow and bid my so-called family good riddance.

“Love you, Missy Mope.” Dad winked at me. That’s what he called me when I was stuck doing what I didn’t want to do.. Like now. Make me, my long face would dare. Beyond the reach of one final hug, I broke character and winked back. He blew a kiss.

“She’s in good hands, sir,” the conductor called over his shoulder, nudging me into the car and hefting my backpack onto the overhead rack. “Name’s Porter,” he nodded to me and scanned my ticket. His body looked muscular beneath his uniform, probably from lifting all that luggage. With a thrust of his jaw, he directed me to an open seat on the left by the window. “I like that side. Nice views. And you can see your folks as we pull out.” Yanking off my parka, I threw myself into the plush seat he suggested. “New Grange’s the ninth stop, a little over four hours. I’ll be by to see if you need anything.”

Heaving a long crrreeeeaaakkk, the train pulsed away. My stomach flinched and my throat seized. I had already lost Mom. Now I was leaving Dad. But, I gasped, I was also leaving Deb-Horror and Benjy, the crybaby from hell. I shook off my hoodie, freed my wild hair, and giggled. Four hours. On my own! A broad smile accompanied my final wave as the train curved into a tunnel, instantly erasing both my family and my bravado, for in that moment of immediate darkness, the window morphed into a mirror, reflecting a girl whose smile puckered into a scowl.

“Who are you?” I asked the twelve-year-old girl who looked back at me. We simultaneously removed our glasses. With locked eyes and grimaced face, the girl in the mirror bit her lip, which told me that she was scared. She gnawed on her thumb, which told me she was anxious. She blinked away tears that told me she was alone—and nothing like the people who had just disappeared on the platform. For starters, they all had similar skin colors. Dad liked to joke about that, saying, “I ordered café au lait, with extra cream and brown sugar sprinkles.” That was how he described my lighter and freckled version of his rich caramel skin. “And I got Bonnie.” I wasn’t as dark as Dad, and not as light as Mom. She was pinkish, with freckles that marched across her button nose. I touched my own, which matched hers, freckles and all. Calling them fairy dust and me Bonnie Baby, she would tickle me with kisses. I would give anything for one last fleck of a fairy kiss.

My parents were a striking couple—tall and athletic. Yet the girl in the mirror was short and skinny. Then there was the hair. Mine was a longer, tangled version of Dad’s close-cropped cinnamon nap. Mom’s was silky auburn. Dad’s face was chiseled with a square jaw, tight mouth, and dimpled chin. Mom’s was oval with a full mouth and soft chin. Mine was round and buckled with braces. But I had Mom’s eyes. Green eyes that blinked back tears. I resembled both parents, but looked like neither.

“You don’t belong,” I told my perplexed self, covering my eyes with long elegant fingers—Mom’s fingers—as if they could erase the last seven years as gently as they had wiped away tears before that. Shielding my eyes from myself, I thought about the avalanche of events that got me here.

When Dad married Deb-Horror, he said I needed a mother. I didn’t need a mother—he did. Before long, she needed a house—the condo wasn’t big enough and the neighborhood wasn’t good enough. Then she needed a baby. “I got me a built-in babysitter,” Deb-Horror boasted to her friends, emphasizing each word with a shoulder thrust. Nobody bothered to ask what I needed.

As if I could erase those disasters, I closed my eyes and circled my fingertips from them to my brow and across to my temples. Resting my palms together below my chin and fanning my fingers across my cheeks, I opened my eyes. In that instant, the train cleared the tunnel. Watching my reflection dissolve into a rolling countryside, my hands sprung outward.

“I’m free,” I announced aloud. I liked the way that sounded. Bobbling my curls, I repeated it. I bit my lip. Until I got to New Grange. Then what? Before I could kick that scenario around, the train slackened its pace across an intersection. A pack of teenagers in a pick-up truck waved, and I waved back. To them, I was an adventurer. They didn’t know I was a loser.

I wasn’t always one, I sighed, remembering the world where I had had a real family and real friends, like Jenny, Sara, and Erin. Erin and I grew up next door to each other and stayed close even after Mom died. Even though we didn’t look anything alike—she had straight blonde hair, brown eyes, and a big toothy grin—we called ourselves twins. We’d wear matching t-shirts and hair ribbons. We even dressed our dolls alike. When we met Jenny and Sara on the first day of kindergarten, we instantly became the Fab Four—inseparable superheroes on escapades, or princesses on quests. Over the next five years, we traded Curious George for Harry Potter, Muppets for boy bands, and dolls for nail polish, pretending ourselves into the real-life women we might someday become. We were cool. We were Girls Who Code and budding filmmakers with the videography club. But Deb-Horror shredded that life like cheese. My new school didn’t have those clubs and I didn’t have any friends.

I pulled out my phone to text Erin, my BFF. Humph. Used to be. What happened to the forever part? I stared at my phone as if it were a crystal ball. It told me that I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been in touch. After I moved away, Erin and I talked, texted, had a few sleepovers, played some games online, but that all got old. Or maybe we did. Did she ghost me? Did I ghost her? If she wasn’t my best friend, was she still my friend? Friends were people who understood you, or at least tried. As each day, month, and year went by, no one seemed to understand me. While everything was the same for Erin, Jenny, and Sara, all I had was replacement feelings, a replacement family, and a replacement life.

I hated my new school. The only kids who acknowledged me were the other misfits. For them, breaking rules was chill, like skipping school to hang out at the mall. Of course, the one day I went along, we got caught. Dad gave me a pass, saying that he played hooky as a kid. He told me not to do it again. But not Deb-Horror. Although she kept repeating that she was “disappointed,” she was forced to go along with Dad since she wasn’t my real parent.

But she sure acted like she was, especially when it came to clothes. She didn’t let me dress like the other girls. They wore rad clothes, henna tattoos, even goth makeup. In my attempt to imitate them I came off as a wannabe. Deb-Horror pitched a fit one morning when I tried to sneak out wearing a borrowed lace-up vest and short skirt. I responded by kicking a hole in my bedroom wall with my platform boots. I didn’t understand why that was such a big deal—I didn’t hurt anyone. Besides, she and Dad had knocked a hole in my life. A counselor suggested that I had something called an “antisocial personality disorder.” That was harsh. I didn’t have a disorder, it was my life that was disordered.

Next, there was the Juul incident. I didn’t like vaping, but I liked hanging around with kids who did. When I got home one afternoon, Dad questioned the mango smell, made me empty my backpack, and threw away my pod. After a lame “father-daughter talk,” we coasted for a few weeks. Then it was Game Over, big time, when nosy Deb-Horror checked my Instagram. She discovered the picture I had posted of a slap game we played on a new girl. It was just a prank—I didn’t even take the picture—but Dad called it bullying.

So besides taking away my phone and tablet, he grounded me, which I hate to admit was a good thing because I wasn’t with my homies when they got caught shoplifting a few days later. Looking back, some of those kids may have had that disorder thing. Even though they weren’t real friends, they were somebodies. Looking at my phone again, I realized I missed having somebodies, anybodies.

That’s how I ended up on this train, deported to a place I’d never been, to do who knew what, with people who were little more than strangers. Sure, Anam and Nog were my aunt and uncle, but I hadn’t seen them in over three years. That’s when they moved to Tory Island, where they were opening a bed and breakfast.

Nog called me every few weeks. He was Mom’s big brother, which is funny because he was way shorter. He would go on and on about his old house and his old dog. I never liked old stuff. Or old dogs. I did perk up, though, when he mentioned horses. I laughed at the thought of Anam with horses. The only ones I could imagine her with were statues at the museum where she used to work. With her hair in a bun and her body swathed in too many clothes, she was as prim as Nog was gabby. Round and smiley, his hands and mouth moved constantly as he spewed his Nogisms. That’s what everyone called his silly stories and daft expressions. Except Dad, who didn’t abide silly and didn’t like Nog. The feeling was mutual. I think Nog blamed Dad for my parents’ divorce. But they pretended to get along for my sake.

When I told Nog about my troubles at school, he and Anam hatched a scheme. “Get her away from that crowd,” he suggested to Dad. “Keep her too busy to get in trouble. She can take the train here—she’ll love that. You can all come up this summer and we’ll spend a week together.” Deb-Horror frowned at that. So did I. But Nog persisted, referring to the inn as the family homestead where he and Mom—her name was Maura—spent their summers as kids. Finally, he sealed the deal. “She can even finish the school year with me. I am a teacher, you know.” Dad and Deb-Horror agreed—maybe too quickly. Again, no one bothered to ask me. Sure, I thought, just rent me out like a servant.

I thought again about Erin. I wanted to tell her everything. But where would I start? Admitting that I became a loser? Maybe I could invite her to visit, but I didn’t know if I wanted to visit If-ville. What if I didn’t like my aunt and uncle. What if they didn’t like me. I didn’t like me. Maybe this was all a big mistake. I realized I was still staring at my phone. At least Dad returned my screens as a condition of this arrangement.

I shook my head. With nothing to share, I shoved the phone back into my tote. It was part of a totally awesome ensemble that Deb-Horror bought for this trip. Of course, I faked not liking it. That made me smile. Instantly, my mood changed.

Burrowing into my seat, I dug out the snack that she had made—something else she got right—a peanut butter sandwich and a box of chocolate milk. Placing the sandwich aside for later, I slugged some milk and pulled out my tablet. But I didn’t feel like reading, playing a game, listening to music, or watching a movie. Maybe I could post a picture to my Facebook page, or do a video blog on this trip. No, that only reminded me of how things had changed.

Bored, I put the tablet down and watched the misty scenery. I picked the tablet up again to take a few pictures. But all I saw was blurred factories and trees. Ugly warehouses and trucks. Disjointed people and cars. Again I put it down. I was tired from not having slept much the night before. I had been too nervous.

The train’s rocking lulled me into a half sleep. I tried to picture Mom, but I only recognized her absence. Sometimes whole days went by when I didn’t think of her. I felt guilty about that, like I didn’t love her anymore, which wasn’t true. After seven years, though, I was still wracked by the unfairness of it all. If she were here, none of this would have happened. Why did she have to die? She was smiling and happy one minute, gone the next. I didn’t understand it then, and I certainly did not understand it now. I never told anyone this, but I wanted to kill the truck driver who killed her.

Tears scraped my heart, burning it like a skinned knee. I stared out the window until the train stopped at a dingy station, where a handful of people got on. As we pulled away, Porter appeared at my side and startled me out of my funk.

“How’s it going, young lady?” He looked like somebody’s grandfather with his graying hair and ample smile. “There’s a dining car toward the back. Want me to take you there?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” I put on my glasses and my grownup face. “I have snacks with me,” I held up my uneaten sandwich. “I just, well, you see, I just never went anywhere all by myself before.” Now why did I go and tell him that?

“Ah, I see. I remember my first trip alone. Out West. First day on the job. Left my family behind. I was older than you are now, but it don’t make no difference. Whenever I got homesick, I pulled out a pocket watch my grandfather—my Pops—gave me just before he died.” With that, he fished in his pocket and pulled out a gold timepiece. “Still works. Reminds me that the past is history, the future’s a mystery, and the present is, well, a present. Do you have something like that?”

I glanced at the bag that Porter had placed on the luggage rack. As if I had x-ray vision, I could see Mom’s emerald ring tucked in my treasure box. I deliberately put it in my daypack and not my luggage, so that I could keep it close. Dad gave it to me the night before he married Deb-Horror.

“This was your Mom’s engagement ring,” he had said. “Now it’s yours. Because I love you.” Of course he had to spoil the moment by adding, “Don’t lose it.” So I never wore it, except to try it on from time to time, pretending to be a beautiful woman. In that instant I longed to unpack it, slip it on, and press it to my heart. Maybe it would soothe the ache. I closed my eyes and pictured the green stone set within a gold Celtic knot. It did remind me of the past, the present, and the future. I found Porter’s eyes.

“Yes I do. Thank you.”

“That’s good, young lady. Always good to know who you are and where you’re coming from, especially when you’re going someplace new.”

“It’s my mother’s ring. She died.” I couldn’t believe I told him that, too. But his kind eyes didn’t even blink.

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss.” He bowed his head momentarily before stepping uninvited into my soul. “But my Pops also told me that in order to understand life, you gotta first understand death. See, where there is no death—where past, present, and future are one—you have freedom to live. That’s a big lesson, but you’ll figure it out.” With that, he edged away and paced through the car checking tickets and answering questions.

Instead of pulling out the ring, I pulled up pictures on my tablet. Mom, Dad, and me, back when Dad lived with us, when we were a real family. Pictures of Mom and Nog when they were kids, and another of them laughing in a restaurant shortly before she died. Mom and Anam as young girls wearing funny hats and another as grown women on vacation. There was one of Anam holding me as a newborn. I studied her picture. She always looked like an old painting. We had nothing in common. I scrutinized those images for a sense of my family—past and future. And the present, well, the present was very confusing.

Outside, patches of scenery appeared and disappeared dreamlike in the mist and fog. Small towns and regal estates flickered by. Perhaps the inn would be like one of them. We zipped by railroad crossings. We stopped. We moved. People got off. People got on. Scenery appeared. Towns disappeared. We stopped. We moved. Stations loomed and tracks retreated. People got off. People got on. I lost track of the world as the train pulsed through the mist. Dad and Deb-Horror blended into Nog and Anam. Mom combed her long auburn hair, her ring visible with each stroke. “Young lady,” she called me. “Young lady.” Not Bonnie Baby. I reached out to hold her.

“Young lady.”

But it wasn’t her voice. It was a man’s. Where was Mom? Jolted awake, I blinked. Where was I? I blinked again. Porter was leaning into my seat. I blinked yet again. It took a few seconds to realize where I was.

“Wake up, young lady,” he repeated quietly. “This is your stop.” To the entire car he boomed, “New Grange. Next station.” Next station? How long had I been asleep?

I stuffed my tablet into my tote and wiggled into my coat as the train creaked to a stop.

The Pink Slippers

“The Pink Slippers,” by Patti M. Walsh, will be published in “Footprints,” the Florida Writers Association’s collection book, in October 2021.

“Cathie?”

Surprised that my neighbor had hailed me by name on such a cold evening, I pivoted toward his raspy voice, then hesitated. Mindful of the thin layer of ice beneath my feet, I checked my footing before completing the turn. Much to my amusement, my boots had etched a tight circle of chubby exclamation points when I reacted to his call. I giggled at the footprints despite the chill that seeped through thin soles. I raised my head in a grin.

“Hi, Gus.” Addressing him by name was odd. I knew nothing about my elderly neighbor, except that he wasn’t prone to chatting, especially on dank nights. Although we had introduced ourselves when I moved in last year, we never spoke, settling instead for spartan smiles and wanton waves.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Although I dreaded another frigid minute outside, I nonetheless obliged the old man’s unusual bidding and carefully stepped toward his porch, incising a few more exclamation points along the way. Illuminated by a pale light, Gus appeared cheerful, though significantly older and more frail than I remembered. Picking up a plastic bag, he unfolded his rangy frame and bounced a package to his chest with a Parkinsonian tremor.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I have something for you.” His voice faltered, belying an otherwise perky demeanor.

“For me?” Thinking the offer more than a bit odd, I reacted with raised eyebrows and forced smile.

“Yes. These were Josie’s.”

Josie? I’d lived here for nearly a year and had never heard the name Josie. Was she a wife, or perhaps a daughter?

“She was the love of my life,” he responded with a gentle smile to my unasked question. “Died two years ago. Cancer. I could never bring myself to get rid of her things, but now it’s time. I’m moving to assisted living. Goodwill came earlier today for everything else, but… I couldn’t part with these.” He cast his eyes downward for a few long seconds and then directed a steady gaze at me. “They’re slippers. The last gift I gave her. She told me the morning she died that she’d always wanted pink slippers. Imagine that. After fifty-six years of marriage, I never knew. She wore them only once. I’d like to give them to someone special. You.”

“Me?” I added to that question a chubby exclamation point.

“I’m sorry.” Gus’s voice now matched the tremble in his hands. “Perhaps this is too presumptuous, but you remind me of her. When she was young.” He glanced down at my feet. “She even wore high-heeled boots. I often think how much she would have liked you.”

Realizing how difficult this must have been for Gus, I composed myself quickly.

“I’d be honored,” I managed to utter as I ascended his porch. He handed me a light package. A dead woman’s slippers. How creepy. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you.” His emphasis was warm, unlike the icy swirl of wind that gusted from the nearby beach. He tugged a cap snuggly around his bald head. “It’s a bit nippy, so I must go inside.” We bid each other a good night. How sad, I thought as I retraced my footprints home.

Dropping the package inside the door, I wiggled out of my coat and went about my evening routine. I fired up the wood stove, put on PJs, and ate leftovers while watching the news. Although I liked my little blue bungalow across from a spit of the Gulf, it was drafty when the wind picked up. So before snuggling in with a good book, I made a cup of tea and stoked the fire. In the midst of wrapping myself in an afghan, I spotted the parcel. Curious, I retrieved it and carried it back to the sofa.

Tissue paper cradled two pale pink slippers that still had tags on them. Scrunching the paper into a ball and dropping it mindlessly to the floor, I scrutinized the curious hand-me-down. I’d never had pink slippers. Mules, I corrected myself as I admired their plush and backless profile. I slid one foot and then the other into them.

“Thanks, Gus,” I shrugged and plunged my feet into a softness that filled an emptiness in my soul, one I didn’t know existed until that moment. “Thanks, Josie.” With my feet comfy and cradled, I burrowed into my leather sofa for a quiet evening and a good read. But I never got beyond the first few pages.

A deep sleep of flowered meadows and puffy skies overcame me. The world was new, as if I were a baby. A soft woman—perhaps a mother—enveloped me with laughter and lavender. Braids flying, I gathered flowers and jumped ropes. When I awoke at dawn, the fire had died out and my book was on the floor. Strange, I thought, I had never fallen asleep on my sofa. And awakened so refreshed. With vivid memories of sun-filled dreams, I got ready for work and didn’t give my fanciful night another thought. Until I got home.

When I rounded the corner, I noticed that Gus was gone; his house was dark. I couldn’t thank him for his gift, this time sincerely. A vague sense of regret dissipated as I went about my evening. Skipping the pretense of reading, I donned pajamas and Josie’s mules. Fluffy and springy, they were like marshmallow clouds, I thought, as I wrapped myself in the afghan, and fell asleep.

Against those marshmallow clouds and with aging hands, the same soft woman braided my long hair, then twisted and curled it through schoolgirl angst, college confidence, and budding womanhood. She lovingly ceded the brush to a tall man with a sparkling smile. Caressing my tresses, he brushed and brushed them. All night. Until my scalp tingled. He then massaged it with strong fingers. Like the residue of spilled honey, the stimulation clung to my own short-bobbed head all day.

I rushed home. Cuddled anew in pink slippers and afghan, the man of my dreams materialized. Elegant. Extravagant. Kiss. Snowflakes. Bliss. Sunny mists. Marriage gifts. Soft woman old. Soft woman gone. Child unborn. Anguish borne. Acceptance found. Silky gowns. Plumes of herons and feathers of down. Satin shoes. High-heeled boots. Passion erotic. Travels exotic. Secluded sands and seas of foam. Salty air. Cozy home. Speeding years. Fading years. Graying hair. Then no hair. Never a care.  

“Thanks, Gus,” I said in the morning as I traded slippers for boots.

“Hi, Josie,” I said in the evening, trading boots for slippers and fanciful repose.

But long before dawn, I awoke distraught. My head ached, pain consumed my innards. I wasn’t sick, yet something was wrong. Very wrong. The dreams had turned. The fire had died. I got up and stirred the embers to life. I brewed chamomile tea. But nothing would soothe me.

Sinking back into the sofa, my eyelids shuttered me into the nightmare of a dark room. No, I told the gentle man who no longer smiled. He cried. I cried. Not tonight, Gus. No meds tonight. No meds this morning, no meds tonight, I moaned over and over. Then the room got brighter. Pink. Slippers. Tonight, Gus. I’ll take my meds tonight. All my meds tonight. All tonight. I smiled at my pink-cloud feet. He kissed my hands. Consent. Morphine. Bliss.

I bolted awake and stared at the slippers—intimate footprints of a woman I had never known. Footprints that flashed before her dying eyes. Footprints that were her birthright and now my legacy.

“Josie,” I whispered. Crisscrossing my arms, I wrapped my hands around my shoulders, I hugged the woman as if she were my own self. “Josie, Josie, Josie.” I removed the slippers and cradled them in the tissue paper that lingered still against the sofa. Yearning for my own pink slippers when my life would flash before me, I pressed Gus’s gift to my heart. Closing my eyes, I watched chubby footprints merge with soft pink ones on one path. I opened my eyes and nodded.

Barefooted, I walked across the room and knelt before the fire. I opened the stove door, placed the package inside, and quickly latched it. “Rest in peace, Josie. Rest in peace, Gus.” Rising, I blessed myself, something I had only seen, nothing I had ever done, wondering if I did it right. “Rest in peace, Cathie.”

As I climbed into my own bed for the first time in nearly a week, I wondered if the smoke from the chimney turned white like when a pope is elected.

Gobsmacked by Guernica

I belong to the Pelican Pens Writers’ Club, which offers its members a weekly prompt to spur our imaginations and hone the craft. Last week, it was suggested that we write a story or poem about a famous painting. Pablo Picasso’s Guernica came to mind. While I did a little research, Nina did, too.

My consciousness of the painting was born in my college days, but my grasp of it arrived in 2011 when my husband, Bob, and I coursed through the galleries of the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (VMFA) to absorb Picasso’s glorious complexities.

The VMFA had scrambled to host the only East Coast stop on a seven-city international tour of 176 works that Picasso had curated to shape his legacy. Interest was high, and tickets were limited.

Although I was hobbled at the time by a broken shoulder, I was not going to miss this opportunity to see, in person, what I had studied in college. I not only admired Picasso’s creativity but also his productivity marked by a modus operandi to, “Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”

We had trekked more than a hundred miles to spend an afternoon with the cubist. His explosive and multi-faceted depictions of humanity, cultivated during the 1910s and 1920s, spoke anew to college students in the early- to mid-1970s. They reflected the fractured ethos of a generation. 

While I stood in awe in the first gallery to absorb the overall magnificence of the exhibit, Bob stepped as close as possible to one painting to call attention to the visible fine lines of the master’s paintbrush. It was as if Picasso himself had entered the room to demonstrate his prowess. Each of these masterpieces was inspired by creative genius and executed with the fundamental effort of putting paint on canvas one single brush stroke at a time.

In this fashion—macro- and micro-focused—we wandered through the Blue and Rose Periods; cubism, classicism, and surrealism; prints, drawings, and photographs. At the entrance to Gallery 8, I halted and inhaled sharply.

Gobsmacked by Guernica, I was.

Nearly 12 feet high and 26 across, the mural depicts the April 26, 1937, bombing of Guernica, a Basque town on the inland port of Suso on the Urdaibai estuary. Established in 1366, it is reputed to be the first Basque town to recognize democracy under the Tree of Guernica. By ancient tradition, Basques assembled under an oak to discuss community matters. Around the tree grew a marketplace for Guernica’s people, who were engaged in agriculture, crafts, and trade. Monday was—and still is—Market Day.

On Monday, April 26, 1937, the marketplace swarmed with thousands of women and children from Guernica and the surrounding villages—the men were off fighting against General Francisco Franco’s Nationalists. After all means of egress were destroyed, Franco authorized a three-hour air attack by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy. Although Guernica was behind the battle front, Franco used it as a means of intimidating his foes; Adolf Hitler used it as an opportunity to test his weapons and tactics.

Triggered by the horror he learned about in newspapers, Picasso went from sketches to finished masterpiece in less than two months. I stood agog at the result.

Arguably the most moving and powerful anti-war painting in history, it struck a note with a generation trying to make sense of Vietnam. According to Pierre Daix, in his book Picasso, the work is “the first historical picture painted for men consciously in the act of making their own history. It is the mirror image of a world of atrocity and bestiality from which it is man’s duty to emerge.”

Although I had studied Guernica in college, nothing prepared me for the impact of its heart-stopping mammoth and monochromatic sweep of gray, black, and white. I approached with reverence the chaotic scene I had known only in textbooks—flames falling from an artificially lit sky, an intact bull and a gored horse, dismembered bodies, screaming women, and a dead child.

 Adopting Bob’s fascination with minute details, I nosed as close as the guards would allow, my slinged arm ironically integrating me into the landscape. I needed to smell the oil and varnish, redolent of war; to feel the bombs; to hear the wails. But it was what I saw that stunned me—the fine texture of a single brushstroke, a colorless score by a master who never put off anything he wasn’t willing to leave undone.

Guernica, Pablo Picasso, 1937, oil on canvas

Endnote

Although the 2011 exhibit was unique, Guernica’s appearance in the United States was not. After General Francisco Franco’s victory in Spain, Guernica was sent to the U.S. to raise funds and support for Spanish refugees. It was displayed first in San Francisco and then in New York.

Fearing Franco’s government and the Nazi occupation of France, Picasso was adamant that Guernica remain in the U.S. until Spain re-established a democratic republic. Guernica toured the U.S. and elsewhere until 1981.

After Picasso’s death in 1973 and Franco’s in 1975, Spanish negotiators brought the mural to Spain. It resides today at Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, in Madrid, in defiance of Picasso’s expressed wish to have the painting placed among the great pieces of Madrid’s Prado Museum.

Reading Rummikub—Like a Cat

When Bob and I visited our friends Vince and Nancy for an evening of Rummikub, we got sidetracked from the rules that Nancy was patiently laying out. She told us that there are 106 tiles in the game—104 numbered ones in four different colors, and two jokers. The goal is to meld tiles into groups or runs, using game pieces that are either drawn or that have already been played. It’s a constant play of rearranging and adding tiles to the table. The first player to go out, i.e., use all his or her tiles, is the winner. Simple.

But Beamer had a different take on the game. As a feline, he prefers to to read his surroundings, the facial expressions of others, and things—rather than words. Rummikub is so easy, he told us with a long blink of his magnetic green eyes, that you don’t need to read any rules. It merely requires your full attention.

Like any cat, he enjoys the sly art of strategy. Focus, he purred, is the name of the game. The cat’s pajamas, so to speak.

Strategy also defines the history of Rummikub. Ephraim Hertzano, a Romanian Jew, made his living in the 1940s as a toothbrush and cosmetics salesman. When the Romanian People’s Republic came into existence in 1947, the embryonic Marxist-Leninist state banned card games. This is common in communist-totalitarian states based on the portrayal of royalty; the inherent “threat” of gambling; and to “purify social conduct,” as officials in China’s Jiangxi province justified it when they outlawed mah-jongg parlors in October 2019.

Faced with arrest, imprisonment, or even death, Ephraim, like any good entrepreneur, envisioned a solution to the restrictions on leisure-time activity. He dusted off the game he and his wife Hanna had first conceived in the early 1930s that combined elements of rummy, dominoes, mah-jongg, and chess. Since it could be played with no ties to age, language, or religion, it would bring people together.

Although plastic was expensive and scarce, he discovered a shop that recycled plastic from Perspex (plexiglass) airplane cockpit canopies. Originally used to make toothbrushes, it would make ideal tiles for his game, Ephraim concluded. So he traded plastic toothbrushes for plastic blocks.

He called it Rummikub.

He also moved his family to Israel.

There, in the 1950s, he continued to develop the game in his backyard in Bat Yam. According to Micha Hertzano, Ephraim’s son, his father hand-carved two sets of tiles, and his sister Mariana hand-painted them. Times were tough. People had little money for bread, let alone games. But Ephraim never gave up. Eventually, one store owner agreed to take a single game on consignment.

When no one bought it, however, Ephraim’s ingenuity kicked in. He invited the store owner and his wife to come to his home and play the game with his family. They had so much fun that the store owner began to play it with friends, who immediately purchased the game from him. The game grew in popularity and spread by word of mouth. Ephraim hired a small plastic manufacturer to make the tiles and an assistant to help paint them.

 Ephraim evolved into a professional game developer, as did his children. Eventually, the family licensed Rummikub to other countries, leading to its position as Israel’s bestselling export game.

Rummikub arrived in America in 1964 when his son Micha entered business school in the United States. It became the bestselling game in the U.S. shortly after Don Rickles appeared on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson in 1977 and casually mentioned having played the Israeli game.

In creating Lemada Light Industries in 1978, the Hertzanos turned the game into a phenomenon. Not only is Rummikub sold in 48 countries in 24 languages, but it also has become the third most popular game played by families in the world—behind Monopoly and Scrabble.

Micha holds several patents that legally protect the game. The family continues to manufacture all aspects of Rummikub in a factory in Arad, a small desert town in Israel, as well as two other factories in India and Brazil. Working three shifts a day, factories churn out a game every six seconds.

The World Rummikub Championship occurs every three years in a different major location, such as the Eiffel Tower in Paris; Hamleys toy store in London; a bullfighting arena in Spain; and the DZ Bank, designed by Frank Gehry, in Berlin.

Done with his history lesson, Beamer then flipped his tail and the conversation to mah-jongg, another tile-based game that was developed in 19th century China. It, too, is a game of skill, strategy, and luck, Beamer meowed. Originally, it was called 麻雀, meaning sparrow, based on the clacking sound of tiles during shuffling.

Beamer likes the sound of sparrows. They evoke his hunter spirit, reminding him that if you cunningly focus on what’s in front of you, slyly plan your next move, and stealthily track your target, then there’s a good chance of winning.

Shuffle those tiles, he chattered to us. We took turns shaking randomness into them and then lined them up like sparrows on their racks. Following his laser-like focus, we let our individual strategies begin.

Galloping Across America

The other day I spotted Nina perusing my photo album of the early 1970s. I had  been doing some research before getting together with two friends I’ve known for 50-plus years. The reunion was at Disney World, which we had visited as 21 year olds. A year and a half later, we galloped across America on a whirlwind road trip.

Nina was trying to comprehend how the three women on the left were the same ones on the right. She doesn’t understand things like the passage of time and how people can change so much and still remain the same. Frankly, I told her, neither do I. So I told her the story of our cross-country trip on a horse I now call Corolla.

In 1973, we posed on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, halfway through our cross-country road trip. I’m on the left, Mary is in the Middle, and Sue is on the right. In 2021, we headed to Disney World for a reunion. Mary is again in the middle with Sue this time on the left. We took more baggage for a three-day trip than a three-week one. Seriously.

A Horse Named Corolla

Six thousand miles, five visits, a four-speed Toyota Corolla, three weeks, two small bags apiece, and one argument. It was August 1973 when Sue, Mary, and I packed every square inch of Sue’s Corolla with carefully allotted square inches of clothes and provisions for a road trip across America. We were ready with everything from casual wear and cold weather gear to a spare tire and formal attire (for a show in Vegas, of course).

Born in 1950, we were boomers, true mid-century women who were destined to go places. We’d driven to Florida on spring break the year before, and, prior to that, Mary and I had been to Nantucket, Virginia Beach, and Europe. So this certainly wasn’t our first rodeo, but it was different. There was something epic about the clarion call to Go West.

We played off each other like cowgirls in a rodeo. Sue, the most practical, would be the tie-down roper whose horse sense demonstrated itself with a keen knowledge of her strengths, skills, equipment, logistics, and, of course, her ride. Mary, the self-reliant adventurer, would be the bull rider who could nimbly maintain balance astride a bucking brute with one elegant arm held aloft for balance. And I, the hippie, would be the bareback rider, practicing yoga while teetering between horse and sky, realism and idealism, mundane and spiritual.

Thus we saddled up, tied down, and drove off, eschewing hotels in favor of stays we had arranged with my brother in California and everywhere else with Sue’s wide-flung network of kith and kin.

 “I’m just along for the ride,” Mary would quip when asked if we were visiting anyone she knew. Never needing an intermediary to have a good time, she was our ringleader, our touch point. She and I had met in college; she and Sue at work. Sue may have lived around the world growing up, but Mary had the initiative to get us there. She would start an adventure with, “Hey, let’s go to…” She’d fill in the blanks and we’d pack our bags.

So across Interstate 80, the 88-horsepower Corolla sprinted. Paralleling the historic Lincoln Highway, which was built in 1913 as the first coast-to-coast road, I-80 passes by or through Cleveland, South Bend, Chicago, Des Moines, Omaha, Cheyenne, Salt Lake City, Reno, and San Francisco. We did the same (though we skipped Cheyenne), switching drivers every two or three hours, usually while gassing up—we’d each contribute one dollar to fill the tank—or driving through a McDonald’s or Taco Bell—Mary loved meat, I shunned it, and Sue would eat anything Mexican.

We pushed our limits—especially those pertaining to speed—from Connecticut, the first state to enact a speed limit; to the plains, where maximums rose incrementally; and astonishingly into Nevada, where the official welcoming sign cautioned visitors to drive safely. No limits.

No air conditioning, either. Just fresh breezes that floated long hair out fully opened windows. Nor GPS. Just paper maps folded and refolded into hand-fans, if needed. And certainly no CDs, eight-tracks, or even FM options. Just an AM radio that for three weeks incessantly played, “Horse with No Name.”

Hit the road in the morning, “Horse with No Name.” Drive for four hours with no radio reception, and when it crackles into tune, “Horse with No Name.” Stop for gas and lunch at a truck stop and, if we were lucky, “Rocky Mountain High.” Or when we came upon a couple who hade veered off the road with belongings strewn everywhere, there may have been random chords of Neil Young’s, “Heart of Gold.” But when we’d pull in at night to a town with no name, it was “Horse with No Name.” And when we’d hit the road in the morning, you guessed it.

The chart-topper written by Dewey Bunnell and recorded by America clip-clopped its way into the soundtrack of our adventure, so I’ve had to give that danged horse a name. Corolla, Sue’s car. And on that horse thus named, our journey weirdly followed the lyrics of the song.

Like, on the first part of our journey, we really were looking at all the life. It  teemed across the Ohio River Valley and the Midwest’s breadbasket. We were also looking at our lives. I had finished my first year teaching while Mary and Sue were climbing the corporate ladder at an upscale department store. I wanted to be a writer. Mary, a business executive. And Sue, we later learned, was quietly planning to marry CB.

We got along well—still do. Though there was that one argument. Having spent the previous year as housemates sharing a bungalow on the shores of Candlewood Lake, we had learned to budget expenses, share chores, and, of course, entertain guests. When we got back, we would be renting a flat in Danbury.

For two days, we oohed and aahed at boundless raw spaces that confounded our senses at dawn, drenched our eyes at noon, and set our mood at night. Lavender and clover drifted through amber waves of grain in their promises of purple-mountained majesties.

At one point, the trusty AM radio announced that visibility was more than five miles. I looked around. In all directions. On the horizon, I saw a lone tree. Its sole purpose it seemed, was to punctuate the vastness of that 360-degree sphere within which were all the plants and birds and rocks and things that Bunnell wrote about.

Somewhere east of where the West begins, we ditched I-80 and reined Corolla toward Boulder, Colorado. As we drew closer, clouds along the horizon confused themselves with snowcapped mountain peaks.

We stayed with friends of Sue’s, who treated us to real Mexican food and a daytrip to a ghost town in the foothills. There the magic of mountains seized my sensibilities. Or maybe it was the ghosts. Or the lack of oxygen. I don’t know, but for the first time, and certainly not the last, I was mesmerized.

No matter how high you go in the mountains, no matter how many rocks you examine, no matter how many different ways you photograph every last peak, against blazingly clear or torturously steel-clad skies, you can never get close enough to touch a mountain. I tried, I really did, first when Sue’s friends toured us through the foothills and then when we crossed the Continental Divide in Rocky Mountain National Park a few days later. All the way across the Great Basin, northern California, the western and southwestern deserts I tried. But to no avail. Massive and mountable, they remain mysteriously intangible.

From the Rockies, we headed toward Utah on U.S. Highway 40, which historians have dubbed the Main Street of America. Somewhere between the arid sprawl of Dinosaur, Colorado, and Vernal, Utah, lies Dinosaur National Monument. Although fascinated by the fossils discovered in 1909, I’m a Main Street gal, so I looked for the people. Although not as old as the dinosaurs, they are rare and far between. It was hard to believe that indigenous people had lived in these remote reaches of dazzling bluffs for at least 12,000 years.

They also lived in what’s now Salt Lake City. Founded in 1847 by Mormon pioneers led by Brigham Young, the city—in the early seventies anyway— maintained a Mormon ethos. That meant we could neither tour the Mormon Temple nor imbibe alcohol. But somehow, we finagled an invite to a private club for a few drinks during our one night there.

We hopped back on I-80, and rode past the Bonneville Salt Flats of the Great Salt Lake and across the Great Basin into Nevada, the state of no limits. In Reno, I won $12 in a slot machine—enough to pay for a Paul Revere and the Raiders show—or was it Mitch Rider and the Detroit Wheels?—then cantered to a stop in Sacramento to visit my brother Jim.

From his home base, Jim took us on a few day trips to see northern California. His car broke down on the Golden Gate Bridge, forcing us all—including my pregnant sister-in-law Nancy—to admire the view for an hour. Imagine such a travesty. Afterwards, we sampled chocolate at Ghirardelli Square, touched the redwoods of Muir Woods, and peeked at nude sunbathers on Stinson Beach.

Before commencing our loop toward home, I insisted on a detour to visit my boyfriend Krishna at Yogaville West. We were students of Swami Satchidananda, whose western ashram was tucked into the serpentine northern stretches of the Napa Valley. It was, after all, only about a hundred miles from Sacramento, and we were out to see America, right? Getting there, however, taunted our nerves and tested our friendship.

I don’t know how we found the place. For more than two hours, Sue clenched the steering wheel as she guided us up and down the tortuously steep grades, narrow roads, and twisty switchbacks—no changing drivers on this stretch. Mary, riding shotgun, grew queasier and queasier with each plummeting hairpin turn that scratched along chaparral-covered gorges that plunged into woodland, savanna, and grassland. I, on the other hand, careened between my friends’ growing angst; the breathtaking abysses; and longing for a little time with Krishna.

By the time we got to the ashram, Sue and Mary were apoplectic. While I basked in the glory of spirituality and love, they gawked at yogis silently tending to austere chambers and dusty gardens. After about an hour, my travel mates prodded me to leave—we needed to make it to Bakersfield by nightfall; Krishna prodded me to take his hiking boots—he would be hitchhiking home. They were an encumbrance for him and collateral for me. So I agreed, without consulting Sue. Thus ensued the argument.

She didn’t want the damned boots in the boot. A blight they were on an otherwise organized trunk. We traded glares and reached a silent truce in the serene shadows of Yogaville when I found a few crevices between our suitcases, provisions, and the furnishings she had bought in Boulder. Somebody else’s boots were my souvenir. Nothing more was said, but the unspoken detente tiptoed to the surface on every stop that required packing or repacking the trunk. Which was like every day.

Bakersfield was a six-hour haul. There we hydrated Corolla at dawn and filled lots of containers with water. Heading into the desert, we saw cars outfitted with water bags—a novel sight and an appendage we didn’t need. Slung across the hoods of cars, trucks, and farm vehicles, they kept water cool enough to drink while providing backup water for car radiators.

Just like the bad lyrics of our theme song, the heat really was hot (remember, no AC), the ground was dry (this was August), under a sky (in Nevada) with no clouds. By early afternoon, we pulled into Las Vegas in all its tacky glory.

Into our rationed trunk space we had packed formal attire for a night on the town. We gambled on and in our gowns, saw a show, and hit the road at daybreak. What happened in Vegas really did stay there—not one of us can remember anything else.

And then, hot damn, we headed to a dam called Hoover. Then the coolest of all cool stuff emerged from the sleepy town of Flagstaff, Arizona.

The. Grand. Canyon. Each word as supercharged as the other two. The sum of each syllable was amplified by the phrase in its totality. Just as mountains had blown my sensibilities, the erosive sway of water and the sculpting clout of wind stupefied my soul. We teetered on the edge of awesome as long as we could.

Then, tearing ourselves away, we clopped toward the Painted Desert and Petrified Forest, where our skin really did begin to turn red, like the song says. Only it was from eating lots of chili and hanging appendages out the wide-open windows. 

After three days in the desert fun (or are the lyrics dessert sun?), we crossed a river bed—the Rio Grande—then galloped on I-40 through Gallup, Albuquerque, and Amarillo, and clear across Texas. Ignoring Dallas, we dove headlong into the Deep South and landed in Texarkana, Arkansas. Named by some railroad guy for its proximity to the intersection of Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana, the combined municipality is unique in name and idiosyncratic ambiance.

For in that quaint city tucked between the Cowhorn and Swampdoodle Creeks, dwelled Maw Maw and Paw Paw. Proper and genteel, they were lovely people who served us the tangiest taste of America of anywhere on our trip. And I’m not talking about the grits and greens at Bryce’s cafeteria. No, after a four-o’clock dinner there, we settled ourselves in for a nice evening in a lace-dollied parlor with Aunt Alice. From Dallas. She was on the loveseat (or was it a settee?) under the west-facing window framed with lace curtains. Maw Maw and Paw Paw sat to my left on either side of a Queen Anne table topped with a fringed lamp. Mary and I shared the sofa (or was it a divan?) across from Alice. Sue to the far right, closed the circle in a jacquard (or was it matelassé?) easy chair. I think we were drinking lemonade. Maybe iced tea. Certainly not mint juleps.

The family news that dominated the conversation was that cousin Herman was getting married. To a Catholic, or as Maw Maw said, “a Catlick.”

Maw Maw shook her bespectacled head slowly. It would be difficult enough accepting someone of a different religion into the family, but a Catick! Well, she just didn’t know.

“Maw Maw,” Aunt Alice slyly broke into the staid old woman’s lament. “You have two Catlicks sitting right here in your living room.” Despite her effort to maintain perfect composure, Maw Maw’s jaw dropped and her gaze settled on each of us in turn. “One’s I-talian,” Alice continued, “and the other’s Irish.” Mary and I exchanged sidelong glances and later pulled Sue aside to suggest we leave this stagecoach stop in the morning.

We did. Scrapping our original plan to swelter our way to New Orleans, we opted instead to swing north. Our first stop was Murray, Kentucky, where Sue was born. There we stayed a night with friends of Sue’s family, and then headed to KenTuck Lake on the Tennessee border for the vacation of our vacation.

Created by the Tennessee Valley Authority in 1944, it is the largest artificial lake east of the Mississippi River. Surrounded by lush green trees and refreshing blue waters, we cooled off, water skied, and ate lots of good southern food—thanks again to the hospitality of Sue’s kith and kin. And in another eye-popping taste of the South, the maid laundered our dirty clothes before we swung on home.

Each time we packed the car anew, however, that one argument flickered in the trunk. “Damned boots,” Sue would swear under her breath. I should have left my souvenir behind, I smile now in retrospect, for I gave their wearer the boot a few years later.