Skeeter's Summer Vacation

Every day is the same. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not a bad life. In fact of all the places I’ve lived, this one is the best. Each morning I wake up to a thoughtfully prepared breakfast. That's important to me since I’m hungriest in the mornings. After breakfast I go to my favorite place, the porch swing in the sun room, to curl up for my first nap of the day. What could be better?

Between naps, I wander around the house, look out the windows and eat a little. In the evenings I sit on the sofa with Him while he watches moving pictures on the flat, square screen. She’s not home often now, but when she is, I sit with Her. She and I used to play but I'm tired a lot now, so I like it best when she just holds me and scratches my chin. It is peaceful.

Over the years, the house has become very quiet. There’s barely any noise at all. I will be peacefully napping, dreaming of chasing mice, when one of them will touch me. It makes me jump with a start!

The nights, too, are quiet, but in a different way. I get lonely by myself when he and she are upstairs. So, I slowly climb the stairs to find one of them. I call and they pick me up to snuggle under the covers. We do this two or three times during the night. But for some reason, I now have to sleep in the sun room.

Last year I lived with another family, the Nice People. They were very good to me but - they had a cat. I didn’t catch his name as it was quiet there, too. He and I didn’t get along. We found a way to work out our boundaries, but it was never peaceful. Plus, we were both sick. There was a time when I thought I was a goner but the Nice People took good care of me. I don’t know what happened to the cat, though. He was sick like me, then one day he was gone. I know we had our differences, but I hope he didn’t leave because of me. I wouldn't admit it to him, but, I missed him.


Then I moved back home, and we were all together every day – Her, Him and me. I liked that. Whenever I wanted, someone was there to pet me. If not, I would say something and one of them would respond. Then something happened. Now, she’s gone for days at a time. I miss Her and wonder if she thinks about me. When she comes home, I want to be happy to see Her but instead I feel angry that she left in the first place. I make sure she knows I’m angry, too. But no matter how much I yell and make a fuss, she always smiles and picks me up. She holds me and scratches behind my ear until I give in and purr. I wish she wouldn’t leave, but in a couple of days she is gone again. It’s been like this for weeks, but last week was different!


During the weekend while she was home, there was more activity than usual. He went up and down the stairs to the basement with bundles of fabric. Then he’d bring the same bundles back up in white, plastic bins. I remember when I would go to the basement. It was fun with all the dark corners to hide in. Dusty, sticky, stringy stuff clung to my tail and whiskers. But it’s not worth the climb down the stairs anymore. So, I was napping and dreaming about the fun times in the basement when she woke me up. There on the counter was the brown, plastic cage that I travel in. I hate that cage! Bad things happen every time I’m in it.

It taunted me while she packed her big box on wheels. I hate that thing too because it means that she is going away again. This time, she packed it with more stuff than usual. Just when I thought she was leaving me again, she picked me up and stuffed me in that infernal cage. She seemed to be talking to me, but all is quiet.


She took me and my cage to the car where he was waiting. That’s not a good sign either. I was in the backseat for a long time. We finally stopped and she carried my cage into a different building. As we walked to the building, I could sense new smells and a fresh breeze. Then we were inside and the strangest thing happened. As I sat in my cage, I felt a sensation of moving upwards. Odd. When we finally stopped she put my cage on the floor - a different floor than the one I left - and opened the door. Hmmmm.


I’m not good with new places. I have to explore slowly to find the best spots. It didn’t take long, though. This place is not nearly as big as my other house. It's more like one, big room - and most of the floors are slick and hard. She showed me where my food was – and it was the same kind as always! And my blue box was here, too. Me, Her and Him stayed in the new place together that night.


I couldn’t rest though. It was too much for me. I called for Her to pick me up several times during the night and she came every time, although she seemed a little grumpy by morning. Maybe she doesn’t like the morning.


Then, they both left. It was okay since I slept most of the time – on the sofa, the bed or the soft part of the floor. And they left plenty of food (my favorite, tuna) and some reading material. But who is Harry Potter? That night – like each of the next several – she came home by herself. In my other house, he was there and she wasn’t. Now, she’s here and he’s not.

It was fun. She let me sleep on the bed with Her. I slept better and didn’t have to call Her at night - well, not too often. I may not be as agile as I once was, but I could jump onto the bed. There were times that - I guess - I wanted attention. Instead of jumping on the bed, I sat on the floor next to the bed and called. If I called long enough she put me on the bed. I don't think she like that as much as I did.

Living together, you learn things about each other like the nights when she was so frustrating! It would be time for bed and she would still sit looking into that lighted, square thing and moving her fingers. She finally got up and I thought, "Yippee! Time for bed!" But no, she walked back and forth to the bathroom or the kitchen. I followed her until I got tired. I tried to tell her I was frustrated and ready for bed. Sometimes it helped but other times, not so much. Then there was breakfast. There were many mornings that she overslept breakfast time. I love Her but she can be hard to live with. I had to call until she got up to make my breakfast. Most mornings she got it right, but sometimes I didn't want tuna. I wanted chicken. She was slow to understand. While I ate breakfast she would go back to the bed. The same thing used to happen with Him, but now - like I said before - I sleep in the sun room.

Oh - and there was a white, fluffy cat! He was only in the bedroom. Each time I walked in, so did he. When I sat by the bed, so did he. I would stare at him and he just stared back. He was really annoying!

Just when we were settling into a routine, here came my cage again! Where to now? She carries me to the car and he’s there. Again, it was a long drive, but when we arrive, I’m back at my real home – the big house. It’s just as it was before. I have never been one who likes change in my routine, but it was fun going to that other place and spending time with Her. Seems like I recall a word for it. What was it? Oh yeah – vacation. I wonder if the Nice People’s cat went on a nice, long vacation. I hope he likes it there. Maybe I'll see him again one day.

Skeeter writes regularly for http://www.beautifulcats.com/. When Skeeter is not traveling you can find him sleeping on his porch swing in Annapolis. Skeeter lives with his family, Mike and Shelley. Skeeter wishes to thank the Nice People, Wil and Siena Scott, with whom he lived while Mike and Shelley were in France.

Out of the Past

The two inches of rain was a hot topic even before I landed. My seat-mate told me. Central Texas is in a deep drought. A drought is a big thing in a town of cattle ranchers and farmers. Mother and George collect me at the airport and talk with relief about the rain marveling at the resiliency of the grass. Sure ‘nough, the broad fields between the Austin airport and Smithville are the pale green of hope.

The talk of rain like everything else is familiar. My head rattles with distant dialogue. “We sure need rain.” “Will have to start feedin’ early this year unless we get rain soon.” My grandmother knew rain was coming by the smell of the air. My granddad would put a newly killed rattlesnake on the fence to bring the rain. Now, rolling thunder makes me nostalgic.

Like the grass, my roots are in Smithville. For years I couldn’t wait to leave; now I look forward to coming back. There’s a comfortable familiarity with it. I return to see Mother and George (my honorary step-dad). This is my excuse. It’s only later that I realize I come here for the grounding, to know the familiarity of three generations on my mother’s side who made Smithville their home. I feel connected here, more so than ever before. Maybe it’s because my life feels so disconnected otherwise – weekdays in DC and a quick visit to Annapolis on the weekends. It's like floating in a sea of uncertainty.

In Smithville, I’m recognized as being “from around here” which means I get special treatment. At the Post Office, Edward patiently helps me mail a box then smiles and waves as I leave. I hear, “It’s great to see you again!” This is because he remembers me from high school.

Memories return at each corner and with each spreading oak tree. Oh, it has changed for sure. Smithville has a feeling now of making-do. That started with the highway by-pass. It took away the Austin to Houston traffic that used to go through the middle of town. From the highway interchange all that’s visible of Smithville is the one-runway airport (which my dad helped start), and Smith’s Supply. Smith’s Supply sprawls next to the overpass with piles of culvert pipes of various sizes, rolled cyclone fencing, posts and PVC pipe.

Smithville is mostly left to the locals and the residents of neighboring towns, like Rosanky, Kovar and Cistern. For me, that’s just fine. The streets are in an orderly grid with familiar names– Burleson, Gresham, Olive, Hudgins. Tall sycamores, pecans and magnolias shade the streets, and crepe myrtles sprout tassels of pink blooms. But, the grand matrons are the live oak trees with trunks too big to reach around and limbs that canopy an entire yard. I love these trees. I remember them as a kid. They are still there. Still growing. Still making me stop and stare in awe.

Every morning, before the heavy heat sets in, I walk through town. The air is fresh. Dark clouds tease with a ghostly mist that doesn’t even leave a whisper of moisture on the ground. In its heyday, Smithville was a major railroad town. Walking, I hear the sounds of Smithville’s past. A train whistles as it comes through the yard, “Whoooon.” The wheels click on the rails and cars clank together like a giant slinky.

There are two main roads in Smithville – Main Street and the old highway. Our traffic signal hangs where they intersect. Memories line both streets. On Main Street, antique stores like “Out of the Past” alternate with “For Rent” signs. It’s quiet except for the bustle of recollections. Ken’s Pharmacy where my grandmother worked used to be here. My sister and I would walk in, get a hug, and wave to Ken – or Mr. Blaschke, as we knew him. In the back we sat on chrome bar stools at the soda fountain and Elizabeth made chocolate milk shakes for us.

Farther down Main Street was Mikeska’s barbeque. My granddad took me there. We entered through swinging, screen doors to smells of mesquite and the warmth of barbeque pits that had been cooking since the early morning hours. Our barbeque brisket was served on brown paper, and, yes, my granddad ate his with his pocket knife. I still have that knife. Oh – and there was sawdust on the floor.


Mikeska's has been gone for years. Now we go to Zimmerhanzel’s. It has a real door and I’m okay with the plastic fork and knife. Everyone in town lines up for their barbeque. I watch for people I know. They spot me first and I struggle to put this new face with the high school face in my mind. Lunch comes early here. The old ladies are the first. They finishing as we arrived at 11:30AM. Next are the working men – road crews, farm and ranch hands – whose day starts early. When lunch is in full swing, you share tables. Our table’s conversation centered on the rain. “How’re you?” “Awrite.” “How much rain you git?” “Inch and eight tenths.” “My grass greened up.” “My grass had to come up from the roots.”

Billy Davis’ Texaco is on the highway near Zimmerhanzel's. As a girl, Mother and I went to Billy Davis’ to fill up our big Pontiac. We’d sing, “You can trust your car to the man who wears the star. The big, bright, Texaco star!” Mother and Billy played a game where Mother would look at the gas gauge and guess how many gallons it would take to fill it up. She was right EVERY TIME.
I thought she was the smartest mom ever. In hindsight, I think I was being duped. (It's not nice to fool a little girl, Mother!) Billy is still there so we stop by to say hello. The Texaco is mostly a hang out for George and his buddies who pass time gossiping on a bench. They probably wouldn’t agree about the gossiping part, but they are.

On the other end of the highway is the Donut Shop in a red tin building and the washateria in a silver tin building.
Both have pick up trucks parked out front. Tacos and tamales are sold from a pink school bus next to a chartreuse shaved ice stand. There is, of course, a Dairy Queen that, when I was young was where we went after church on Sunday nights.

I love the wooden houses in artfully chosen colors. The wide-blade carpet grass is lush and thick –due to attentive watering. Sometimes it feels like nothing has changed, except the paint. The most noticeable difference is the large corner property with a delicate, old farm house that was once a stage coach stop. The new owner repainted it pink and green. Not pale, soft, subtle colors. Bright, vibrant, can’t-believe-your-eyes pink and green.

I come out of the past when Mother and George tell me about the people. Some have died, others are sick, and all are older. Mother’s friends who have been in my life for my whole life are here. We interrupt Jeannette baking zucchini-pineapple bread. Tuffy jumps best he can with his four-inch long dachshund legs, but he soon lies quietly in the floor with a chew bone. He chews until one end is left, then he wants a new bone. Chew bone ends fill his basket. Joyce tells us about her twin great-grand daughters while we admire her garden. Silky with her sleek grey hair, even at 90+, meets us at the door. We visit sitting in a rocking chair that belonged to her grandmother.

George takes me on a ride through his pastures. It’s a pastime in Smithville – riding around, looking at the cows, and assessing the water level of ponds (Tanks as they are known here). Bouncing along the rutted, dirt road in the truck takes me back and I'm riding in my granddad's 1946 green, Chevy pickup with the wood-slat sides. George gets out of the truck to open his wide, aluminum gate. It swings open smoothly with one easy push. Not like the gates at my granddad’s pastures. They were made of barbed wire and a post. When I was old enough, he let me open the gate. I had to be strong enough to lean against the post and loosen it enough to pull it out of the wire loops at the top and bottom. I walked it to the ditch, tromping through the grasses to avoid prickly bull nettle and cow pies.


The film industry discovered Smithville. There was a hubbub in town when Hope Floats (Sandra Bullock, Harry Connick, Jr.) was filmed here. My dad was a parishioner in the church scene. Most recently, Smithville was the set for the Tree of Life (Brad Pitt, Sean Penn). I think this is just dandy. The streets are preserved on film and not just in my memory. There may be a drought in Central Texas and the tanks in Smithville may be low, but I’m floating in a lifetime of memories.