THE CAT’S MEOW

An old friend recently remarked, “My wife always reads your columns. But she wonders why you never write anything about cats.”

I think I have mentioned cats a time or two. Most people who know me don’t consider me a “cat lover.” Or overly fond of any kind of pets, which may not be completely true. I recall a number of cats and dogs I have enjoyed and considered friends. But, for the most part, I much prefer the company of humans.

During my days on the farm, cats were always welcome. In exchange for shelter, a small amount of food, and a certain amount of protection, a farm cat paid its way by helping control the rodents around the farmstead. Most farmers who milked cows were happy to give the cats a pan of fresh milk twice a day.

Many young people today, having never known a time when kitchens didn’t have garbage disposals, may find it hard to believe that “table scraps” once made up an important part of the diet of many cats and dogs, I’ve seen pets engage in some exciting fights over table scraps. Once, even a family’s pet crow was right in there, taking and getting in his share of licks in exchange for a share of the goodies.

Mother cats regularly supplied new kittens with which children could play. The survivors grew up to be mousers and ratters. Wandering tomcats often made their rounds, killing any small kittens they found. As farm kids we could never quite figure out why. Many small tykes today, having spent time watching an animal channel on TV, have witnessed this same thing happening with lions in the wild, and might explain it as nature’s way of strengthening a pride of lions (or clowder of cats) by preventing excessive inbreeding.

OK, about that word “clowder” – that’s a “book word” for a whole herd of cats. But in my eighty-plus years, I have never heard the word used in conversation.

For the most part, cats haven’t changed much since they first left the wild and agreed to live with humans. Numerous distinct breeds have been developed. And a few cats have learned, and are willing to perform, various tricks. I’ve always felt that felines could be taught to do almost any stunt a dog can perform, and many a dog can’t. But most of them refuse to lower themselves to that level. After all, in ancient history cats were often considered to be god-like creatures, and not jugglers, fools, or clowns.

Some of my cat-loving friends are convinced that their cats love them and miss them when they are not around. I certainly won’t argue with that. But I’ve never heard of a cat lying on its dead master’s grave and starving to death. That’s more the kind of behavior we expect of dogs.

Anyway, if you wanted a “cat column,” Mary, this is about the best I can do.

THE CAT’S MEOW

Morning’s sun warms up the front steps
And the old cat lounging there.
Now and then, she’ll lazily stretch
And she’ll comb and groom her hair.

Tabby’s master comes outside and
Sees her enjoying the sun.
He wonders if cats remember
Things they’ve known and things they’ve done.

The first day she came to his farm
He encouraged her to stay
By setting out a small pan filled
With fresh cows’ milk twice a day.

That was 14 years ago now.
Tabby’s old as farm cats go.
She’s survived the hottest summers
And waded through winters’ snow.

People at her farm home were kind
And mostly treated her nice.
The cat paid her way by helping
Them control their rats and mice.

Her body, so slim and agile,
And her teeth strong, sharp, and keen.
And her claws, like sheathed steel daggers,
Made her a “killing machine.”

In the summer, she would visit
A pasture or field of hay.
There she’d stalk and kill striped gophers.
She would bring one home each day.

She produced a hundred kittens
Give or take, maybe a few.
All in all, Tabby did what farm
Cats are expected to do.

She always hid well her kittens
When they were helpless and small,
Protected them from tomcats that
Would have tried to kill them all.

A farm cat’s life is no picnic,
Dodging mean dogs and rat traps,
And each day having to fight for
Her share of the table scraps.

The farmer knows, before long now,
Tabby will have to move on.
Up to Cat Heaven, the day when
Her ninth, and last, life is gone.

LIFE'S STREAMS

One unexpected stocking stuffer I received for Christmas was a set of video tapes of four of the old Gene Autry movies. I looked over the titles and…Wow! I was fortunate enough to have the show titled “Oh Susannah!”

I couldn’t wait to get that one home and get the cellophane cover ripped off and get it popped into the VCR. I knew this was one of the two Gene Autry movies in which the country music group “The Light Crust Doughboys” had appeared. I once met and spent half a day with Marvin “Smokey” Montgomery, one of the members of that group.

In 1931, the Doughboys were organized and sponsored by the Burris Mill, the producer of Light Crust Flour. They first performed on radio station KFJZ in Fort Worth five days a week. One of the original members of the group was Bob Wills (of “New San Antonio Rose” and “Faded Love” fame), who not only played fiddle and sang, but also drove truck for the mill, and all for $10 per week.

With the daily radio show, the Doughboys’ popularity grew, and their transcribed musical performances were soon heard on stations all over Texas and a number of the neighboring states. By that time, naturally, they were in big demand for personal appearances all over the Southland.

The group grew from three to seven members. Bob Wills eventually left to organize his own “Texas Playboys” band. As years went by other members came and went, including names like Herman Arnspiger, Zeke Campbell, Hank Thompson, Slim Whitman, and Charlie Walker. Marvin “Smokey” Montgomery and his “Smokin’ Banjo” joined the group in 1935.

The Doughboys were off the air from 1942 to 1945 because of World War II, but came back strong and broadcast regularly until 1951, when TV began to put pressure on the radio industry. They continued to make personal appearances at state fairs, rodeos, super market openings, TV shows, homecomings, etc. In 1977, the State Senate of Texas passed Resolution No. 463, honoring the Doughboys for their part in Texas history. In 1981 the group recorded an album titled “50 Years Of Texas Style Music.”

In 1982, while visiting our oldest son Mick in Texas, he and I were working on several (non-too-successful) music projects. We went to see his friend Smokey at a large recording studio in Dallas. Smokey gave us a lot of advice, and also wrote up lead sheets for two of my “creations.” He gave me a copy of the above-mentioned Doughboys’ album, also a copy of one of his own albums, “Mostly Banjo,” on which he demonstrated his almost unbelievable skill with the tenor banjo.

My career as a tone-deaf songwriter has been anything but successful. Here is an example of one of my works, a kind of lament in three-quarter-time that just “didn’t quite get published” (until now).

The stream in the valley
Runs murky and black.
Hell, yes, I am leaving
And I ain't coming back.

I’ve been here too long in
This valley of tears,
Just came for a look,

butStayed too many years

In this valley, I’ve had
To face life’s great test.
I’ve seen lots of changes,
But none for the best,

The stream in this valley
Grew old, just like me.
Now muddy and still where,
It once rippled free.

All the homes here are old
And kind of run down.
And black factory smoke

Comes filtering down

The big old machines are
All covered with rust.
In the street I’m up to

My ankles in dust

As I sit on this bench
On a moonlight night
I stare at the bars with
All their neon lights.

My stream in this town just
Ain’t pretty no more
With old dreams and beer cans
Now choking its shore

Now I have found a place
In my dreams at night
Where summers are gentle
And winters are light,

Where an old man can stay
For many a year.
The stream in the valley
There runs crystal clear.

The stream in my valley
Looks murky and black.
Hell, yes, I am leaving

And ain’t coming back

I’ve been here too long in
This valley of tears,
Just came for a look but
Stayed too many years.

NEW YEAR’S

Now is the time to celebrate

The birth of a brand-new year,

A time for faith and hope and trust,

Not for worry or for fear.

No time to mope about the past,

But to look forward, instead.

Focus on a brighter future,

Envision great days ahead.

We know with each day problems come,

Every month’s another test,

Our whole lifetime’s built out of years,

Let’s make this new one the best.

We’ll seek out progress and success

As this new year passes by.

If we fail, let’s make sure it’s not

Because we just didn’t try.

We often can blame just ourselves

For defeats in early years.

We’ve ignored the success blueprint

Hidden right between our ears.

We’re all seeking a better way,

Hoping to “get in the groove,”

But things don’t just “fall into place”

We have to make the first move.

Most times there really is no need

To relocate, rove, or roam,

Often our “acres of diamonds”

Lie hidden right close to home.

So let’s get those brain cells working,

Be prepared to plan and dream.

Keep looking for the bright side, and

Find that winning theme or scheme.

Happiness follows clear thinking,

Persistence and strength of heart,

Making New Year’s Resolutions

Seems the perfect way to start!

THE STORY LIVES ON

In our hearts, the story lives on:
A dark night, with one bright star,
Angel choirs singing to greet
Three wise travelers from afar.

Before beginning their journey
They'd pondered which gifts to bring,
Then chose gold, myrrh, and frankincense
Fit gifts for The Newborn King.

At a stable, they joined shepherds
Who had left their flocks that night.
Walking to the songs of angels,
They, too, followed the star's light.

Together, both high and lowly,
Knelt down on the earthen floor
Before the babe in a manger,
To worship and to adore.

Could any of that group have guessed
That all else would fade away,
But that Baby in the manger
Would still be worshipped today.

CHRISTMAS SEASON

Once again, whether we are ready or not, the Christmas Season has arrived. Just as it does every year. A time when many folks find themselves busy. Perhaps more so than they should be. Sad to say, Some people wind up finding themselves too busy to really enjoy the great season.

There are last minute gifts to buy and food to prepare. There are plans to be made. Often travel plans, and at a time of year when the weather and road conditions can be anything but cooperative. Airports are often crowded with people who are frantically trying to work their way around flight cancellations so they can make it home for the holidays.

Christmas is a time for family and for friends. A time for people to enjoy the company of others. And a time that seems to bring out the best in people. A jolly season that can help us forget our problems. And forget that winter has just begun, and the long, cold month of January lies directly ahead of us.While driving at night, we can hardly help but feel our spirits lift as we view the Christmas lights that decorate homes and places of business.

Christmas is a time to reminisce. To drift back to childhood and try to recall the feelings of anticipation of the Great Day. At the country school attended, we decorated the schoolroom and put up a large tree. We all drew names and then each of us bought a small present for the person whose name we drew. These fits were placed under the tree.

Each year we put on a Christmas play, an evening event followed by a social meeting for parents and students. Santa Claus would appear just in time to hand out the fits beneath the tree, along with a paper sack of candy and mixed nuts for each student. A neighbor and family friend named Matt Schiffman was the best I've ever seen at playing that role. He was convincing enough to almost make believers out of some of us boys who were old enough to know better.

Christmas decorations were quite simple back then. Almost every family I knew put up and decorated a tree, often a small, freshly cut cedar tree. For appearance these could not begin to compare to the neatly pruned commercial spruce, fir, and pines available only with a homegrown tree.

Most of the Christmas trees in our neighborhood were decorated with a few strings of red roping and tinsel. Most had a star on top. There were few glass ornaments and so strings of lights. Later, shiny foil icicles became popular. Some children cut strips of paper and then, with paste, made loops, or links to form paper chains to hang on the tree. I"ve witnessed a few attempts to string popcorn for the tree, but most of these tries were short-lived, ending with few popped kernels on the strings, more kernels broken by the needle. And, eventually, most of the popcorn eaten by the unsuccessful stringers.

As the years went by, the Rural Electrification Act put electrical power into most of the farm homes. Small wreaths with a single lighted bulb in the center became available. Then, soon, thee were strings of six or eight colored lights. The aggravating kind, wired in series, so that when one bulb burned out the circuit was broken and they all went dark. A far cry from today's strings of a hundred or more bright colorful, blinking or marquee bulbs.

One way or another, the story of Christ's birth is still being told. As it has been for more than 2000 years.

A story has been handed down
As years have come and gone.
Still told to children by adults,
That great legend lives on.

The tale of a Savior who came
To cleanse us of all sin,
But no grand welcome did He find,
With no room at the inn.

We are told the Christ Child was born
In lowly stable small,
No proper place for Newborn King -
Fit for no child at all.

The angel choirs sang out for joy
On that first Christmas Day.
Shepherds, in wonder, gathered 'round
The manger where He lay.

Now, years later, we enjoy great
Old songs carolers sing.
On Christmas Morn, faithful gather
When the glad church bells ring.

We all await the peace and joy
The great day holds in store
And, in our hearts, almost become
As small children once more.

As Christmas fills our lives, and hearts,
All other gifts seem small
When compared to God's gift of love,
The Greatest Gift of all.

WINTER

Each year, late autumn begins dropping hints as to what lies ahead. Day by day the cooling temperatures remind us of the coming of winter. Another Midwest winter with all of its snow and cold, its slippery, icy roads, and its cancelled activities and appointments. Winter, with its huge (this year exceptionally huge) home-heating fuel bills. Such weather is really nothing new. We’ve all been there before.

Everyone loves springtime. The bright, warm days and new plans for the coming summer. And all of that fresh, new, green growth. Many of us look forward to the return of the songbirds and the northward migration of waterfowl.

As we move through the summer, we may begin to complain about the heat and the insects. And about all the work the lawn and garden require. Also the air-conditioning costs. But, overall, most of us are usually quite happy and content. We can usually find a spot of shade where we can sit and relax and think. The warm weather makes possible many sports and other outdoor activities. And who can remain unhappy long when surrounded by our beautiful green fields, hills, and bluffs. And our great rivers and

streams.

Even long after retirement, many of us who grew up on farms still thrill to the growth progress we see in the roadside cornfields. As we drive by, we watch for fields in which the young plants have reached the “knee-high stage.” Next we keep an eye out for “hip-high corn,” and later for corn that is “shoulder-high.” Next, it is the “tasseling out” and “shooting ears” stages. Lush, healthy green of knee-high, weed-free fields of soybeans and alfalfa can have a calming, almost healing effect on a worried, troubled soul.

Next comes autumn, which is most people’s favorite season of all, and the one we would least want to miss out on. When the hardwood trees and sumac begin to don their bright clothing, it is almost as if we are in a different world, one with its own sights, sounds, and smells. Fall is a great season for nostalgia. For remembering countless great times we have enjoyed in many autumns long gone by.

After the bright leaves have fallen, we know that it will be only a short time until the landscape will be wearing a white blanket of snow. And then we must face that annual question: Go or stay? Do we really want to remain here to face another frigid and angry winter? Or should we join the “snow birds,” and head for a warmer southern clime?

So far, except for occasional trips that are two or three weeks in length, we have always opted to remain here in the frosty Snow Belt. Perhaps we are in a rut. Or maybe just content with our regular routine here at home. Or curious to see just what the heck is going to happen next around here. No, I can’t say that we really enjoy winter all that much. But we also have no real desire to leave.

WINTER

Early morning radioSays,

“No school, because of snow.

And no basketball, as well.”

Tomorrow? Too soon to tell

Beneath dark and brooding sky

White snowdrifts are soon knee-high,

Raging north wind howls and roars,

A good day to stay indoors

All day long this storm will rage,

Best check the fuel tank’s gauge,

Keep all doors and windows locked,

Be thankful our shelves are stocked

Make sure the snow shovel’s near,

Check all snow removal gear,

Everything we’ll need and use,

Mittens, scarves, and overshoes

Wind-driven snow moves and shifts

Front walk hides ‘neath waist-deep drifts.

Driveway heaped from street to door

Snowplow will add a lot more.

Power lines must all be down

Up on the north end of town.

Neighbor gives a friendly call –

No heat at the bingo hall

Friends in Arizona boast,

Weather down there’s warm as toast.

They phone just to rub it in,

I can almost see them grin.

Winter visits us each year,

But what do have we to fear?

Just the thought of spring’s warm smile,

Almost makes this all worthwhile.

Truly, what could be more grand

Than this winter wonderland?

Wouldn’t it seem sadly strange

Not to see the seasons change?

So far, this winter’s been rough,

The next month could still be tough.

’Though right now we’re in a bind,

Can springtime be far behind?

THANKSGIVING

For me, Thanksgiving has always been kind of a special holiday. Farm children can easily relate to celebrating, and giving thanks for, a bountiful harvest or a successful hunt. And I always have loved food.

One year, Gloria and I celebrated Thanksgiving in the Boston area with our son Mick. I thought it was great to be able to celebrate right in the area of the very first Thanksgiving. But I found that there are some mixed feelings about the great day.

Each year, hundreds and even thousands of members of the United American Indians of New England, along with many of their friends and supporters, gather on Cole’s Hill, an area that overlooks Plymouth Rock, to observe their “National Day of Mourning.” A sad occasion brought about by the survival of the Pilgrim colonies and the colonization of America. The day is devoted to prayers and speeches.

One of their elders, Mahtowin Munro informed the crowd, “As Native Americans, we have no reason to give thanks for the European invasion of our land, and the genocide of our people. We are also here to talk about the continuing racism and oppression that we still face today.”

“We celebrated the first Thanksgiving with the settlers, and after that they took the land of the Native Americans,” said Edwin W. Morse, “Chief Wise Owl,” leader of the Chaubunagungamaug band of the Nipmuc tribe. “Indians saved the settlers and taught them how to survive – fed them and kept them alive. Every day is a feast day for Indians. Each day when we have dinner we thank the Creator.”

This autumn congregation of the Native Americans has not always been welcomed with open arms. In 1997, violence broke out. Twenty-five Indians were arrested. After the dust had settled, the town of Plymouth agreed to dismiss all charges if the protesters promised not to pursue misconduct charges against the police. It also agreed to put $100,000 into an education fund that would focus on American Indian history, to pay for the legal fees of the protesters, and to spend $15,000 for a plaque that will explain history from the point of view of native peoples. Its message will be a reminder of the genocide of millions of people, the theft of their lands, and the relentless assault on their culture.

We celebrated our Thanksgiving in the East much as we always have here at home, with turkey, dressing, and all the “fixin’s.” We really enjoyed our first trip to New England with its “stern and rock-bound coast.” I’m sure there will never be a shortage of rocks and boulders out there. We loved visiting the smaller villages. Each had a “common.” In early days these park-like, grassy areas were used as meeting places in the time of emergencies. Many now have plaques and statues to honor their founders and heroes. And tell of important happenings of bygone days.

New England architecture has its own style. And it appears great efforts are made to adhere to this. Almost no glitz or golden arches. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish a fast food restaurant or a filling station from establishments that are centuries old. I had only a few complaints with the area. There seemed to be a decided shortage of public restrooms. And those found in the places of business are there strictly for the use of customers only!

We really enjoyed a parade in Douglas, Mass. Riding a trolley, we wound up right in the parade itself, waving to the crowds gathered along the streets, just as if we belonged there. Then we watched a long line of parents with small children wait for as long as two hours just to visit with Santa Claus. As the dark of night descended, we witnessed the “lighting of the common.” The mayor threw a giant (dummy) switch and all of the trees were simultaneously lighted with myriads of colored Christmas lights. Then followed a period of carol singing. It was a Thanksgiving week we will long remember.

THANKSGIVING

In the kitchen, women’s faces

Glowed from heat and pride and sweat,

Putting our noon meal on, knowing

It was their best effort yet.

Big old gobbler from the farmyard

Filled the roaster to the brim.

He steamed real good on the platter;

We sure did our best on him.

Our meal was a feast, the biggest

And best I have yet to taste.

And there’s lots of good leftovers,

I know none will go to waste.

As we sat down at the table,

Grandpa Lowther said a prayer.

He talked of that first Thanksgiving

Just as if he had been there.

Uncle Lige Craig said, “We like to

Hear about those days of old,

But pass down them mashed p’taters

Before they start getting cold.”

It’s been dark for several hours now.

The sun’s slipped behind the hills,

But I’m not ready for supper,

I’m still filled up to my gills

With too much Thanksgiving turkey,

‘Taters, pumpkin pie, and squash,

But I’ll give it my best effort.

I’ll be no quitter, by gosh!

I’ve never been strong on history,

But there’s no way I can see

That the Pilgrims and the Indians

Had as good a day as me.