There Are Places Where the Cat Hair Congregates

You know it's true. I have wood floors, which I love, by the way; and there are places where the cat hair likes to go, to die. It has something to do with the forced-air furnace, and the large wind patterns established when it cuts on. Every corner in the hallway, which is also the warmest spot in the house, stays filled with blond cat hair, in small balls. They drift with the wind, mimicking tumbleweeds. Then, there is a collection of drifting cat hair balls along the wall in the living room.

I notice these things, when it comes time to vacuum them up.

There is nothing louder than a vacuum trundling along a wood floor. Unless it's a 40 lb. dog barking its head off at a vacuum trundling along a wood floor. Max loves to bark, like a bundle of fury, at the vacuum, but only when it's running. Now, Max is part hound, part corgi. He def got the hound voice, and a good set of lungs to go with it. Usually, I just pull out the broom. He doesn't bark at it.

I have been thinking, a lot, about my inspiration and motivation to write. I write because I am a writer; I have been as long as I can remember. I remember learning to read, and the overwhelming urge to read everything. I remember thinking, "This is heaven." I can recall the struggle, and thinking that I would never succeed in learning how to read. I know I asked my Dad, "So, I just have to memorize every word that is?" And Dad telling me that it was something like that.

The Christmas tree still shines all day, and all night. I thought I would get tired of it, but I haven't yet. But this year, I decorated it with all my favorite ornaments, the cat figures carved from wood, the jingle bells designed to attract a cat's attention, one or two of the oyster shell ornaments that Mom made, long ago. So, it's a tree full of lovely memories.

It is Spring, in this small corner of the world. My tattoo, a large dog paw print on my arm, has hives. I imagine it was the ink used. It happens every year, when I start sneezing. The other arm breaks out too, but not like the tattoo does.

I am waking early every day again. It's not really my chemicals doing it, but a desire to hear the voice of the man who loves me, before he goes to work. Anyway, I adore this time of day.

I had a lovely friend from high school come to lunch with me. Her name is Penny, and she brought me a hostess gift of Girl Scout cookies. I love them. Penny was sweet in school, and she remains so, to this day. She has a personality that reminds me that, after all, not everything in the world is dreariness and despair. I think she would strike you that way, as well. And she's a cat person. Who can beat that?

Back to writing. I have insisted in post after post, that the forest and the field are in your heart and mind, the same as they exist in some corner of this world, and perhaps others. I suppose I have been pining for a physical forest, but I know, good and well, where my forest is, both here and in that other world.

For a while, after I moved, I couldn't go back to that forest. I felt dislocated, and separate. But now, I can stand in the field, and follow the path to the forest. Soon, buds will form and open, and Tinker Creek will turn green. The ducks and the cranes will come back, and it will be time to walk on Hollins University campus again. The grass will take on a lovely, loamy scent, and cold wind will blow above the creek. The sumac will turn from violent, bloody red, to the innocuous green. The ground will spring underfoot, and the brown, dead leaves will blow away. Silver green mists will soon hover over the fields of corn that are planted in this corner of the world.

The lilacs will bloom on the Hollins campus, and I will go by Tina Rolen's last office, on my stroll. She was the head of the career development center at Hollins for a long time, and died of cancer several years ago. I remember that Eddie was alive. That poor woman suffered at my hands long enough. I have lovely memories of her.

The dogwoods will bloom in the Chapel garden, and the sand path will be neatly swept between its rock borders. The weeping willows will trail pale green buds from their crowns to the ground, in a sweeping bow.