Hoarder or Collector? And, Am I Buried Alive

I probably shouldn’t tell you about the lobster shell my sister saved on the closet shelf in the teenage bedroom we shared. She was probably seventeen, and it was a souvenir from a date she had with her high school boyfriend, Jim Atkinson. I imagine it gave off an unpleasant odor around our school clothes but, in childhood, my sister was not a tidy person, and our mother chose not to take up that battle. So there the remnant remained.

Although I wouldn’t save a dead crustacean, or anything from dinner, I do understand the need to hang on to mementos, souvenirs, keepsakes. I have been a sentimental saver for as far back as I can remember. From the age of eight, I saved my birthday cards, now a half century old. Items that most people eventually dispose of, I keep. These objects hold stories, and they help me recall them.

Some souvenirs are normal, like postcards and photographs. The images help us remember places we’ve been and occasions we’ve had. Or, jewelry. A birthstone ring from my grandmother at age eleven for my confirmation, the sacrament when you accept the adult responsibility of being a member of your faith, brings to mind the teasing from her that my confirmation name, Helena, must be for Helena, Montana, and not for her name, Helen. My many pieces of kid-made jewelry recall the love and admiration of whatever little girl, now grown, once upon a time gave to me. A broken chain with the biggest blue jewel charm, a naked tin ring devoid of its stone that I wear every day, pins made of paper, artful creations of wire and gemstones, ribbon and glue.

The most peculiar collection of keepsakes in my household, and those which take up the most room, is clothing. Unfortunately, this is not limited to vacation T-shirts. I have the pink cotton nightgown, with eyelet trim, I wore at the hospital when I had my daughter. I always meant to make it into a pillow for her as a keepsake. The gesture probably would have meant more to me than to my daughter. We parents tend to save things we think our children will want. Having dealt with the belongings of both my late parents, I can tell you, we don’t want it. None of it. (Well maybe that cookie jar in case Antiques Roadshow comes to town.) And yet, here I am doing the same thing.

I have the green fabric flower from the dress I wore to the only formal I ever attended. And it wasn’t even my prom. For years, until the lettering was so cracked you couldn’t make out what it said, I saved the T-shirt I purchased at a Chuck Mangione concert. The imprint, which made my mother cringe when I wore the shirt as a maternity top, was the name of the horn player’s album, Feels So Good. The sequined costume from my high school marching band days is tucked away with the white go-go boots. The costume is a size I will never wear again; I guess I’m saving it for when I start shrinking and can wear it at the nursing home.

My clothing collection is not limited to my clothing. My daughter’s Liverpool High School jacket, and a costume poodle skirt her grandmother made and appliqued for her for a play, hang in my closet. For many years, I kept my daughter’s first soccer shirt. It adorned a small stuffed bear I had.

When our family entered the ex-daughter-in-law era, my mother-in-law continued gift-giving at Christmastime with both me and my sister-in-law, another ex. One Christmas, she gave each of us a flannel night shirt. Twenty-five years later, I still have mine. It makes me think of how much like home it felt there, my appreciation of the fact she was still in my life, the excitement of the family activity that was still taking place as there still were children around, and the possibilities that still lay ahead. Every time I see that flannel shirt, I picture her living room, that evening, and we three together. (I never did wear the night shirt because it made me hot and the sleeves crept up and I’m a fuss-budget, but I have it.)

After my father died, I grabbed his tennis racket and a typed report in a clear film report folder. My father was an accomplished tennis player in school and played all his life, so saving the racket made sense. The report, on “motivating employees”, did not have his name anywhere on it, was not in his handwriting, and gave no signs of necessarily having anything to do with him. But he MIGHT have written it! It was tantalizing to me that the document may have been written by the man from whom I got my love for vocabulary, writing, and reading the dictionary! The man always laughing at his own naughty entendres and puns.

I have my mother’s sneakers. A homemaker, an empty-nester, and then a widow, she suddenly had no-one to look after, no evening meal to prepare, nothing to run to the store for. So she started acquiring canvas KEDS-style sneakers in every color. Red, green, pink, plaid. Resting on the rug in the entry-way, the shoe-clones took on the shape of her feet. I have the turquoise pair. Somewhere. The comb I have that was hers also is turquoise. It’s the largest-size comb that comes in the cellophane package with the skinny comb, the rat-tail comb, and the small school picture day-size comb, in assorted colors. My mother had a perennial Ragu jar of sudsy water on the edge of the bathtub, in which she soaked her combs. It was as standard a sight in our home as the evening newspaper on the front stoop to see her jar of combs in the bathroom. So I have a Ragu comb. Somewhere.

The school picture of my sister, Lisa, toothless – so I’m guessing from first grade, is an art project in a clear glass furniture coaster, backed with felt. No doubt, a Father’s Day gift (fathers always got paperweights) from a daughter that was six 50 years ago. This keepsake, which I probably grabbed at the time I took the tennis racket, is on the shelf in my living room. Someday, I’ll give it to her son. Because I’m sure he’s dying to have it.

Kid art is in places of honor throughout my house; clay objets d’art, paintings, drawings, bead & wire jewelry, that take me back to the childhood faces that were my daughter, my granddaughter, and my nieces and nephews. How I miss those times, for my sake and for theirs. But, for them and for myself, stories can be re-told each time I take some odd treasure into my hand.

Susan Farnsworth
copyright February 2020

Hurt and Humor -- That's How It Goes; Monty, Again

Again, this morning, my heart flipped as I thought about wondering if just maybe Monty came back to bed and his form was nestled in the bedding at the bottom right corner by the window, his usual spot. I always got excited when I thought he had returned to bed. It was a chance for me to steal some snuggle time. Monty liked his Pop better, so I had to grab any opportunity, and this was his concession to out and out cuddling.

Now in a state of consciousness, I remembered that Monty was gone. I found myself in the same position I had been finding myself the past dozen days. I couldn’t get back to sleep, despite feeling unrested, and I couldn’t make myself get out of bed. The night before, as always, I made my mental – sometimes actual paper – list of things I wanted to get done the next day. This has been my grief recovery tactic since my daughter passed a year ago. Now morning, I couldn’t bring to mind one reason to get up. Up until recently, it was always to feed my little black buddy.

I have three pair of black boots, abandoned in various and random spots around the house that I pass in my travels. At least once a day, I think I see Monty.

I don’t miss having a cat. I miss Monty, the individual. A meme on Facebook both articulated for me, and gave me permission for, those feelings. It said we don’t just lose the animal companion, we lose the relationship. At the risk of sounding like a horrible person, I think that’s why I feel so lost when I didn’t feel lost at the passing of my daughter. I felt loss then. Feeling lost is a different thing. Monty’s absence has left a big fat hole in the fabric of my daily life.

If the Trump administration (and now, in posterity, you know when this was written) has got my house wired and bugged, they’ve got plenty of ammunition to have the local authorities come and lock me up. Surveillance will show me walking through my day talking to a being that is not there. Most mornings, I greet “Monty” with a “Good morning, boy”. The rest of the day is filled with my narrative, asking Monty’s opinions, and pointing out cool things I think he’d be interested in. Or, when it’s warm and sunny enough for him to have gone outside – despite it being winter, or too cold for an outing, I comment to him on the weather consequences. Then I chide myself, “you are outside”. I take the fact the “good mornings” happen less frequently as a sign I’m recovering a little bit.

Here’s a part of the story you are allowed to laugh at, even roll your eyes. Not only is it okay, it’s understandable.

So, when the veterinary hospital ER employee asked what “after care” I would like, I chose to have Monty put in a sturdy cardboard kitty coffin, as opposed to being cremated. And so he was. He would be buried in the rock garden with the two brothers that went before him. At home, I had grabbed the blanket Monty napped on to wrap him in for the trip to the animal hospital, a really nice blanket that was a gift from a family member. It was the nearest covering to grab and it was his. (I regretted that move later on – the point of this next part of the story; it was a really nice blanket.) At the ER, Monty’s Pop asked would they make sure the blanket is wrapped around Monty when he’s placed in the coffin. It was.

When the three of us got home, Pop placed Monty under the Christmas tree. (I always told Monty the tree was his. “We’re putting up your tree, boy.”) There by Monty’s last tree, the two humans had our “wake”. When it was time to go to bed, I carried the little white box upstairs and placed it in the boot box which was set out in the living room – his winter man cave, of sorts, so the boy could have one last time there. Now, the production was moved to the bedroom, and he was placed at the foot of the bed, under the glow of the small tree on the dresser, for all the “one last times” that were his life with us. We would bury him the next day.

Sunday morning. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to church and I wasn’t ready for that final act that would remove Monty from us once and for all. So we went to breakfast. Back at home, we couldn’t put it off any longer and I finally had to spill my guts to Monty’s Pop. “Todd, I have something to tell you. I don’t want to bury Monty in that blanket.” Now, keep in mind, Monty and the blanket were wrapped and ready for the UPS. “That blanket,” I continued, “is velour. It’s made from a petroleum-based material. Monty won’t be able to decompose.” I explained, in my most gentle tone, that if Monty is wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t decompose, he won’t either. And that really bothered me. A low o-okay was all Monty’s Pop said.

So, seated in Todd’s recliner, I un-taped the box that was Monty’s coffin and slowly lifted the lid. “Don’t do that in here!” rang out the panicked voice, as a pair of hands snatched the opened box from mine and a flash of blue jean rushed out the back door. What was worse was I had let Monty have one last “one last time”. This one, to look out his window perch that morning while we were at breakfast. The shelf installed for that purpose was over the radiator. Which had been doing its job of radiating. Heat.  When I opened the coffin to change blankets, immediately, Monty was in the air. “I wanted to put him in something else,” I said.

Reconvened at the ring of rock bordering the garden, I watched as Todd, carefully and swiftly, tugged one end of the non-decomposable gray velour blanket from under and around Monty. Suddenly recalling a pashmina I hadn’t worn in a long time, I ran back into the house and grabbed my beautiful Kelly green wool wrap. Racing back, like time was running out, I tucked the bright green pashmina around my boy, re-wrapping him as best I could. One last act of mothering. Re-taping the box flap closed, we lowered him into the hole his Pop had dug in the garden, by his brothers, and by the bird bath he loved to get up on his back toes and drink from. I had to keep the water full to the brim, otherwise Monty couldn’t get at it – to heck with the birds. In tribute, and in case the invisible being I talk to ventures outside, I will keep it that way.

Speaking a goodbye, an I’m sorry, and an I love you, to the creature in my heart, thoughts, and daily conversation, I turned from the garden just in time to see Monty’s Pop carrying the blanket on a stick toward the trash can. It was a really nice blanket, and there’s always tomorrow.

Dear Kim, We gave him love

Dear Kim.

I wanted to write you about Monty. That is what I re-named Blackie when we adopted him. (I had had a black cat named Blackie in the past, and “Monty” paid tribute to where Monty was from. In fact, to the tune of the song “Mona Lisa”, I’d sing to Monty, “Monticello, Monticello, I have named you!”) The name suited him; once he was Monty, you couldn’t think of him as anything else.

I’ll never forget, and never regret, how we came to have Monty. I was following his plight on Facebook. It was Spring 2013. A person named Tanya had put out a pleas for Monty – for a black cat the owner couldn’t keep and that was days from having to be put down. Well, all I had to know was this was a black cat, and that was it. I started asking questions, keeping tabs on the black cat’s status, checking back every day. My daughter saw my replies online and started getting in on the action. She was volunteering me, she was volunteering her uncle in Baltimore. Finally, I thought, I’d better see what’s what with this situation, and I called you. You were all excited and reported that Tanya was there, getting Blackie all loaded up for delivery to New York, to me. Well, I thought, I guess I’m getting a cat. A cat from Monticello, Arkansas. I certainly can’t let this little guy down now.

How we loved Monty. He was smart and standoffish and made me smile. Most of all, Monty loved being outside. So even though he didn’t have front claws, we let him out, as long as there was no wind – which he hated, rain, deep snow, or cold. My rule was that it had to be above freezing, but Monty didn’t seem to mind the cold as long as it wasn’t frigid. He was a fierce protector of his yard, and an accomplished mouser. A family in the village walks by the house every day with their two large white huskies. Monty chased them off whenever he saw them. In spring and summer, he brought a mouse to the door for us many a day. We knew he believed he was doing his job around the house, and that it was an expression of love. He was bringing us something to eat, not keeping it for himself.

Monty enjoyed toys and had them all over the house. Winter was hard for him. He couldn’t go outside many days and, because he was such an intelligent guy, he’d go stir-crazy. So Al and I were always trying to change things up in his environment. (Al was Monty’s “Pop”.) This included a window perch his Pop built for him, and a boot box he turned in to a retreat, complete with an awning. Monty had a cat tower my brother gave him that he never went into or on, but we kept his toys inside and he’d take out whatever he wanted to play with. Last winter, when Monty was at the end of his rope and things got desperate, I wound a few yarn balls for him. He loved those darned things, chasing them around all evening.

I kept a packet of catnip in the cupboard below the kitchen sink. Monty would open the door and take out the packet to bat around. I’d go into the kitchen and see the door open, the packet in the middle of the floor, catnip flakes all over.

Monty loved his Pop. He had different routines with us. Mornings, before the alarm went off, about 4:30 or 5, Monty, without fail, would hop up onto the bed and start bumping Al’s hand. Time for morning treats! After a few proddings, Al would get up, give Monty a handful of treats, pour coffee, and the two of them – Monty on his Pop’s lap – would watch the weather report until Al had to get up to get ready for work. At that point, Monty would sometimes get back into bed with me; other times he’d climb into his boot box or settle into one of the chairs. When he’d hear me stirring – my risings were later and more unpredictable, he’d come into the kitchen for breakfast and thus would begin our day together. He would follow me from room to room as I tidied, got my own breakfast, and carried out the day’s activities. Where I was, he was. All day long. If I went downstairs to the laundry, or outside, he was at the top of the stairs waiting for me when I came up. At three o’clock, we sat down for a break and watched Dr. Phil together.

To Monty, we were a unit. If Al and I were outside, Monty came, too. When we went inside, so did Monty. If we were settled in front of the TV for the evening, so was Monty. Al went to bed early and Monty stayed up with me. He supported my night owl habits. But when I finally turned in, Monty came to bed, too. Bedtime, everyone. Bedtime, family.

Monty met us at the door whenever we returned from being out and, as soon as Al sat in his recliner, Monty would be on his lap. When Al had his supper tray in front of the TV, Monty would wait patiently below for Al to finish, move his tray and invite him up. How Al loved Monty. He made regular trips to the Walmart on the other end of town to make sure his buddy never ran out of his treats. In fact, there’s an unopened tub in the pantry even as I write this.

I took out the letter you sent with Monty, saved all these years, and one of the things you wrote was how he “rips and tears” through the house. That made me laugh. He did do that. Right up to his last day.

In October, Al noticed Monty’s breathing was “off”. His vet wouldn’t see him and, instead, directed us to go to the emergency room at the hospital. There, Monty was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. We have Cornell up here, but decided not to put Monty through poking and prodding and cardiologists and possible surgery. So he had three pills he was supposed to take twice a day.

Restraining Monty to “pill” him was unsuccessful and traumatic. And he was, after all, a heart patient. Pill pockets worked, exactly one time – until he realized there actually was a pill inside. He wouldn’t eat any of his food (pâté for breakfast and dinner) once he realized it contained pieces of pills. Putting butter on his paws was successful for a short time. It was comical to watch him race through the house trying to out-run the butter, until he finally stopped and cleaned his paws and ingested the pill pieces stuck to them. Eventually, he became uncooperative with this method, too, and would just walk around with blobs of butter on his paws, leaving grease spots on the furniture. Cottage cheese worked for a while until he got bored with it. In the end, it was sour cream that worked. He loved it! Not wanting to push my luck, we settled on giving him the most important pill, in pieces, hidden under a little dab of sour cream that was his dessert each night.

Would Monty have lasted longer if I had tried to force three pills on him twice a day, when he’d either fight me or not eat? I’ll never know. All I do know is, despite his illness, he continued to “rip and tear”, and bounce up the stairs like he was on a pogo stick, even on his last day.

Saturday afternoon, after being outside – it was an unseasonably warm day, Monty came to his Pop’s call and bounced up the stairs. Suddenly, something “threw” him to the floor. All at once, he was on his back, unable to control his legs and get back on his feet. Al and I were right there – just a few feet away, and went right to his side but, in less than a minute, he was gone.

How we loved that cat. I have had cats all my life. But Monty came at a special time. Not long after he came, my job ended, then my daughter was diagnosed with a re-occurrence of cancer. For three years, I was back and forth to North Carolina. When Julie died, I already had been not working, so suddenly I was in a quiet house with no call to action to answer, no emergencies to respond to, no trip to pack for. For over a year, it was Monty and me. I had Monty to take care of, to talk to, sing to, Monty to get up for. How I loved that cat. Loved him like no other. We (Al and I) are still crying. We haven’t even been able yet to bring ourselves to remove his litter box. And it needs scooping.

Author's Note:
I was of two minds on sending this letter to the woman from whom we adopted our cat Monty, formerly Blackie.
Long ago, I had to re-home a dog I had bonded with. My mother had acquired him and she was ill-equipped to take care of a dog. I still can re-play the scene in my head when I dropped him off at his new – a stranger’s – home. It still tears me up. I never heard from them and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to. But I wanted Kim to know that we gave Blackie – Monty, love and attention, and loved him so much that we are still not in good shape. Al and I would tell Monty he had “his fanny in a tub of butter” – my boss’s expression for a good life. We had him for just 6-1/2 years and it seemed like we had him forever. We can’t remember our home without him.

Memories from the "way-back"

(Still emerging from Winter Storm Stella, with over a foot of snow on the ground on the second day
OF SPRING, I thought it would be a good day to post this blog entry I wrote back in October. You'll see why.)

When we Farnsworth girls were kids, we did not do lavish things. We grew up in the era where the neighborhood was the center of social life for a kid. Family vacations, a major trip, or any kind of travel really was rare. 

But, in the summer, there would be a day that my mother would make tuna fish and egg salad sandwiches, cut them on the diagonal and pack them in the Tupperware box used for road trips. (Diagonally-cut sandwiches were for special occasions – they were fancy.) This would be loaded in the station wagon with a Thermos jug of orange Koolaid, a bag of cheese curls and a package of Archway frosted spice cookies (my mother’s favorite). Away we would go with us girls bickering over seat turf, I’m sure, and probably playing Bury Your Animals. Our destinations were various places in upstate New York and, although I remember very little about the places, I remember the details surrounding the rituals of the trips - things that were unique to that tradition. I still bring those vignettes to mind - it was a happy time and they make me happy still. 

My brother wasn’t born yet, so it was us four girls that would cram into the “way-back” of the station wagon (which I later discovered was not a term I coined, but what everyone called the part of a station wagon behind the back seats), eight bony knees, too many feet, and loud voices rioting forth at our parents in the front.

And, there was the bag of candy. My mother always made sure to have a bag of pick-o-mix candies (our store’s version of “bulk” back then) that we kids commandeered from the way-back. The grown-ups, no doubt, were lucky to get one piece. I still can recall the assortment: root beer barrels, hard butterscotch candies, maple and raspberry toffees, and those flat round caramels with the white swirl. I guess the strategy was if our mouths were constantly full and chewing, there would be less bickering.

But, of course, we all could manage to speak that universal kid travel question. Are we almost there? When I think back, I realize my parents never snapped or even really lost patience. Every so often, my mother would call back to us, look at the cows, girls! My mother loved taking drives passing through countryside and small towns so she wanted to share her appreciation of America with us. My mother’s America.

Eventually, we would arrive at our destination and the tailgate would go down. My mom would open the box of sandwiches, fill paper cups with the Koolaid and eight knees would line up bending over the edge of the tailgate while we silently munched on the triangular treats.

Feed them and they will be silent.
Looking back, my father probably ate standing up and my mother probably didn’t stop bustling and didn’t eat at all.

At the risk of joining the ranks of the “in my day” sayers, treats were treats when I was a kid. My parents were members of the generation that settled the country with housing tracts and centralized school districts. They needed the one paycheck the father brought in to buy dryers and drapes from Sears. The neighborhood supplied your fun and entertainment. Neighborhoods were noisy because everyone was home. Travel was rare.

But, every now and then, on a summer day…