.JPG)
To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 4
After the preacher pushed the intercom button, asking Jennifer to bring in two glasses of water, the preacher had begun to recover his composure.
“What we need is water for my kitten,” Matilda said.
Pastor Todd said, “Oh, should I have Jennifer––"
He was about to punch the intercom button again when she said, “Oh, Lordy, no, Pastor! You know I’m talking about the water that cleanses away our sins, that saves anyone who wants it, you know. I’m talking about our upcoming little baptism ceremony for Cinnamon.”
“Um... yes, that’s where we were. But Mrs. Graham, don't you see how what you're asking me really doesn't work. The cat can’t understand what Baptism is about, can't possibly understand the Bible.”
"Nonsense," Matilda bent down and picked Cinnamon up onto her lap, petting, telling the cat gently it should calm down. “Everything’s all right,” she whispered into her ear. “Please, act like it's Sunday. Your best behavior, now, huh?" She lowered her face in close to the cat’s and whispered something loving.
To the preacher she said, "You know I'm not getting any younger and when I pass on, when I go to heaven, I want Cinnamon to be up there whenever her time comes so we can find each other. Cats can always find home, I’ve heard."
"It doesn't work like that, ma'am," the preacher said. His voice was strident, impatience in his tone. "Even for my family, I could never be certain my wife or my children are going to heaven, even though I would dearly like that. We will be in the company of other believers. We don't know a great deal about heaven. The Bible, to tell the truth, hardly mentions it. Moses tells about Elijah riding his chariot when it was whisked off in a whirlwind up toward heaven.”
“Yes, sir, that’s where I’m going.”
“Some of the Old Testament prophets allude to it. Finally, in Revelations, John, when about 90 year old, writing to Christians from the island of Patmos, describes heaven and earth followed by a new heaven and earth. Unfortunately, if we want a picture of heaven, that book has a lot of apocalyptic symbolism and has many different interpretations.”
“Oh, but my mother and father told me all about heaven.”
“I’m glad of that, Mrs. Graham.” The preacher was now chewing on his pen. Noticing what he was doing, he chuckled wryly, wiped it off with his hands, laying it on his pad of paper. “Heaven is up there somewhere, but our physical and emotional needs will be totally different than they are on earth." The preacher conjoured up a bright smile. "It will be glorious.”
"Freddy, how can it possibly be glorious without Cinnamon?"
“God and his plan ….” He gave a slow shrug of his shoulders, arms extending outward, and sighed. “I’m sorry. We don’t know everything about God’s plan.”
The alert Abysinnian, still in the chair, was turning her head to look at whoever was speaking.
"You'll see,” the preacher said. “It will be a wonderful eternity. I suspect it will be cooler than the fires of that other place where some of our,” and here he hesitated, whispering the rest, “that place where some of our friends who are not saved may wind up." His voice got strong and proud again. "That’s my job: To find them and save them."
“So baptize and save my kitten.”
The preacher tilted his head back, eyes squinting, looking at the animal. “He’s a cat!”
“Oh, Freddy,” she said, picking up the cat and stroking her. Tears welled up in Matilda’s eyes. “You mean you don’t care if Cinnamon burns in hell.”
“No, no. I didn’t say that.”
The old lady lifted her cat up close, high under her sharply jutting jaw, rocking her back and forth like a baby, the fur tickling the lady's chin.
"That's why I need to get Cinnamon baptized."
“But cats don't like water."
“Posh. I can't swim and I did it. You baptized me. Remember?"
The preacher laughed. "I believe you swallowed some water.”
"So, then," she said, "you won't mind if my cat acts just a little put out after you dunk him under the river. I’ll cut back her claws before she comes forward on her big day."
“Oh, for Christ sakes, Mrs. Graham, you can’t. I don't think you have the idea yet. We don’t run a circus here."
"Oh, yes, I do have the goddam idea. It's you, sir, who don't have the idea." She stroked her cat and talked lovingly to her as she rose from the chair, spry like a twenty-year-old and every bit as petulant. "You want to get baptized, don't you, Kitten?"
Pastor Alfred Todd must have counted to ten because there was an ungodly long pause until finally he tapped his finger-tips on the desk, saying, “Like I said, we will carry out God’s plan. We just may not always understand it."
“Land o’ Goshen!” she said. “The God I pray to is a loving god. He understands his people, the people that follow Jesus, and He could only be cruel to them when they turn away from Him and the Savior––oh, dear, the Savior is God, I mean they are the same person, uh … or, god, or something.”
The pastor’s impatience had shifted now to a barely noticeable forrow above his handsome dark brown eyebrows, the mild look of hopeless puzzlement replacing the earlier almost angry looks, a bit of empathy mixed with it. Without a speck of warning, his chair shot back and he stood up with his right arm out to shake her hand and he moved around his desk, gently guiding the slender, elderly woman to the door.
“This has been such a very nice chat, Mrs. Graham. Right now, I really have another appointment I have to prepare for. Maybe we can do this again sometime. I’ll be ready with some relevant passages from Paul’s epistles. You can bet on it”
She exhaled loudly through her nose and held her head up at an angle. “I’m no gambler, Freddy,” she said, geninely offended by the accusation, and she made her way through Jennifer’s office and out the door, the perked-up cat leading the way.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Cat and the Preacher - Part 3
To start at the beginning, click Write Richly: The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1. To see previous chapter, use navigation links at bottom, i.e., "Older Post".
Part 3 (Read Parts 1 & 2 first)
Matilda didn't see anything to laugh at. "I'd love for you to baptize my kitten, Cinnamon." Her voice was choked up. She put a tissue to her mouth and cleared her thoat.
At first, Pastor Todd looked surprised. "It's a beautiful animal. What kind?"
She couldn't help laughing at the pastor's ignorance? "She's a cat, Freddy?"
"I mean, what brand of cat, Persian, or what?"
"Oh, Obolesquian or Cynsimian. Something like that."
"I think you mean Abysinnian."
"Yes, dear, that's it.""Very unusual around here. I saw a cat show at The Cow Palace once."
"Not a cow, Freddy, a cat. An abysinnian cat."
The pastor tried to hide a grin. Taking a few seconds to think this novel situation over, the young pastor leaned forward toward the cat, saying, "Little missy, do you know the Bible well enough, and do you understand what you're proclaiming when I lower you beneath the surface of the water in the baptistery? For us, you know, symbolically it's the River Jordan."The cat meowed once loudly and immediately bent down to lick at the base of her tail."See? She knows what she's preparing to do," Matilda said.Lickety-split and ever-so lightly, the animal leaped onto Matilda’s lap, and then sprung up onto the preacher's desk, stepping good-naturedly and unafraid to the preachers closest hand and rubbed herself on the back of his wrist.
But Pastor Todd swiftly put a stop to that. He picked the cat up, cradling it by her ribs, holding it far from his body, hastily setting the thing on the floor. Unfortunately, in the process, the animal's leash got caught on the preacher’s stately-looking pen-and-pencil set attached to a placard with his name on it, and the whole caboodle went crashing to the floor. The cat immediately shot out as far as the leash would let her race.Mathilda, hanging on firmly to the leash, beat the preacher to the fallen plaque and pen-set, all of which was still together there except for the pen that had squirted off toward the book shelf. Pastor Todd picked that up."I usually like to handle Cinnamon myself, Freddy,” Matilda said. Briskly, but with the usual tremor in her hands, she set everything back into place, making certain to square it neatly.
The preacher rubbed his hand across his name plate, giving it some careful scrutiny. "It's all fine. No harm done."
“I didn't mean for you to knock your nice sign off your desk. That might scare the dickens out of a house pet like Cinnamon, you know.”The pastor twirled the pen he’d just picked off the floor, rapidly flicking it forth and back, making it look rather like a model airplane propeller. He chuckled.When she turned to sit down, it suddenly came on again, that dratted ear disease thing, a sudden dizzy feeling, the feeling of being almost thrown to the floor. "Oh, hang on, girl," she said on the way down. There was nothing subtle about it. Fortunately, she had learned in a previous life to roll when one fell, minimizing the chance of breaking bones. Learning that skill took place some forty years ago during her rock-climbing days.Once again the woman sprawled grotequely on the floor, Cinnamon prancing around, dancing lightly onto her hip and back down, bounding up on to her shoulder, then sniffing tentatively at her face.“Oh, hell’s bells, Cinnamon, it happened again,” she cried. “I have to remember to always brace myself when I make a sudden turn. I just have to." She was acutely embarrassed and began scrambling to right herself.Instantly, Pastor Todd crouched at her side, asking her if any bones were broken while he carefully helped her to her feet. “That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Graham.”“Don’t be silly, Freddy. These days, it feel like I’m only doing my exercises.” The old lady was becoming quite used to this affliction. “See, I told you I’m no spring chicken. I got other more troublesome aches and pains, like everyone my age,” she huffed while trying to catch her breath during the exertion of getting to her feet.The pastor helped her over to the chair. “Are you sure you’re alright,” he said, his calming voice with a sympathetic soft rapidity. “It’s no trouble at all to call an ambulance and get the hospital to do some tests on you. Maybe the right medicine ….”“Oh, shphaw. That was nothing compared to the swan dive I took off the porch a couple of weeks ago. Lordy, it was dark but my balance was fine." She bent down and straightened the hem of her dress, followed by a check of her hair with her hands. While doing this, her talking did not cease: “I’m already taking medicine that helps a lot.” It was a little white lie, but she continued. “It’s just that it doesn’t always completely work. I need to remember to brace myself, that’s all.”The preacher chuckled at the woman’s pluck.“Deary me, I must look a fright. What must you think of me?”“Well, frankly, Mrs. Graham, your sudden fall was most definitely a fright for me. But you look fine now; we'll pretend it didn't happen.” He glanced at his watch, then quickly searched the floor of his office for the roaming, leashed cat. “I sure don’t think much of your doctor."
Part 3 (Read Parts 1 & 2 first)
Matilda didn't see anything to laugh at. "I'd love for you to baptize my kitten, Cinnamon." Her voice was choked up. She put a tissue to her mouth and cleared her thoat.
At first, Pastor Todd looked surprised. "It's a beautiful animal. What kind?"
She couldn't help laughing at the pastor's ignorance? "She's a cat, Freddy?"
"I mean, what brand of cat, Persian, or what?"
"Oh, Obolesquian or Cynsimian. Something like that."
"I think you mean Abysinnian."
"Yes, dear, that's it.""Very unusual around here. I saw a cat show at The Cow Palace once."
"Not a cow, Freddy, a cat. An abysinnian cat."
The pastor tried to hide a grin. Taking a few seconds to think this novel situation over, the young pastor leaned forward toward the cat, saying, "Little missy, do you know the Bible well enough, and do you understand what you're proclaiming when I lower you beneath the surface of the water in the baptistery? For us, you know, symbolically it's the River Jordan."The cat meowed once loudly and immediately bent down to lick at the base of her tail."See? She knows what she's preparing to do," Matilda said.Lickety-split and ever-so lightly, the animal leaped onto Matilda’s lap, and then sprung up onto the preacher's desk, stepping good-naturedly and unafraid to the preachers closest hand and rubbed herself on the back of his wrist.
But Pastor Todd swiftly put a stop to that. He picked the cat up, cradling it by her ribs, holding it far from his body, hastily setting the thing on the floor. Unfortunately, in the process, the animal's leash got caught on the preacher’s stately-looking pen-and-pencil set attached to a placard with his name on it, and the whole caboodle went crashing to the floor. The cat immediately shot out as far as the leash would let her race.Mathilda, hanging on firmly to the leash, beat the preacher to the fallen plaque and pen-set, all of which was still together there except for the pen that had squirted off toward the book shelf. Pastor Todd picked that up."I usually like to handle Cinnamon myself, Freddy,” Matilda said. Briskly, but with the usual tremor in her hands, she set everything back into place, making certain to square it neatly.
The preacher rubbed his hand across his name plate, giving it some careful scrutiny. "It's all fine. No harm done."
“I didn't mean for you to knock your nice sign off your desk. That might scare the dickens out of a house pet like Cinnamon, you know.”The pastor twirled the pen he’d just picked off the floor, rapidly flicking it forth and back, making it look rather like a model airplane propeller. He chuckled.When she turned to sit down, it suddenly came on again, that dratted ear disease thing, a sudden dizzy feeling, the feeling of being almost thrown to the floor. "Oh, hang on, girl," she said on the way down. There was nothing subtle about it. Fortunately, she had learned in a previous life to roll when one fell, minimizing the chance of breaking bones. Learning that skill took place some forty years ago during her rock-climbing days.Once again the woman sprawled grotequely on the floor, Cinnamon prancing around, dancing lightly onto her hip and back down, bounding up on to her shoulder, then sniffing tentatively at her face.“Oh, hell’s bells, Cinnamon, it happened again,” she cried. “I have to remember to always brace myself when I make a sudden turn. I just have to." She was acutely embarrassed and began scrambling to right herself.Instantly, Pastor Todd crouched at her side, asking her if any bones were broken while he carefully helped her to her feet. “That was a nasty fall, Mrs. Graham.”“Don’t be silly, Freddy. These days, it feel like I’m only doing my exercises.” The old lady was becoming quite used to this affliction. “See, I told you I’m no spring chicken. I got other more troublesome aches and pains, like everyone my age,” she huffed while trying to catch her breath during the exertion of getting to her feet.The pastor helped her over to the chair. “Are you sure you’re alright,” he said, his calming voice with a sympathetic soft rapidity. “It’s no trouble at all to call an ambulance and get the hospital to do some tests on you. Maybe the right medicine ….”“Oh, shphaw. That was nothing compared to the swan dive I took off the porch a couple of weeks ago. Lordy, it was dark but my balance was fine." She bent down and straightened the hem of her dress, followed by a check of her hair with her hands. While doing this, her talking did not cease: “I’m already taking medicine that helps a lot.” It was a little white lie, but she continued. “It’s just that it doesn’t always completely work. I need to remember to brace myself, that’s all.”The preacher chuckled at the woman’s pluck.“Deary me, I must look a fright. What must you think of me?”“Well, frankly, Mrs. Graham, your sudden fall was most definitely a fright for me. But you look fine now; we'll pretend it didn't happen.” He glanced at his watch, then quickly searched the floor of his office for the roaming, leashed cat. “I sure don’t think much of your doctor."
Friday, February 5, 2010
Preacher and the Cat - Part 2
Part 1 of this short story was posted in post just before this one. Read it first, of course! The "Parts" to the story will continue to turn up in reverse order since this is a blog version. --Rich
"Where are you?" She rubbed the pain beginning to set in on her hip.
The cat meowed again, but softer now, a meow mixed with a whining growl–maybe some sort of post-traumatic purr–but the strange sound of the cat came from a high place behind the bathroom door.
The delicate woman, bracing herself, peered around the door. There she was, the reddish-brown pet shivering, looking afraid, lying low on top of the shower door frame. The old lady hadn’t seen Cinnamon at first because of the positively impossible spot she had jumped to.
"Heavens, girl! How in God's creation did you ever get up there?” For the moment, Matilda forgot all about the pain in her hip. The old lady scooted into the kitchen, only twice grabbing something to hold her steady.
She laughed. "What I cat! The things you do to me." She grabbed the plastic stepstool and rushed back into the bathroom. Weak sighted and a trifle clumsy, she hefted and pulled her cat off the top of the shower-door frame. She stroked it softly as it snuggled into the crook of her elbow, which seemed to be custom made to hold this particular cat. Apparently, brimming with appreciation for having been saved, Cinnamon purred warmly.
“Guess that dizzy spell is all over with,” she told Cinnamon, sitting there on her bed. “I feel fine, now.” The thin-limbed Abyssinian cat purred her answer back, periodically extending its claws through her dress and on through the skin and flesh of the old lady's thighs.
In the back of Matilda’s mind, though, she wondered if she didn't need a walker, after all, this balance thing was getting a bit too common, kind of dangerous, and she was no spring chicken anymore.
When she called Perl, and later on when Trudy phoned her, she talked about her silly cat getting stuck on top of the shower door, but she didn't mention the dratted dizzy spells. Perl always sends cards and stuff like that to friends with little aches and pains. That would never do, she thought. Trudy was more serious minded and much too often a hair on the huffy side, but she would secretly worry about Matilda, too. But heavens, Matilda only lost her balance on turns. The doctor had a name for it, but she forgot it. The doctor only told her after checking deep inside her ears for infections to take it easy around corners and to call her if it gets worse. Okay, he prescribed some antibiotics, but the drugstore wasn't on the way home, and she let it go.
Oh, you do love your cat, Trudy had said. She's such a joy for you, and Matilda's kitten certainly was that to her, a little joy. Cinnamon had trotted in from its window perch and bounded onto the old lady's lap, turned twice, and settled in, purring loudly. Matilda stroked her and scratched her under the chin. "What would I ever do without you?"
While she was watching "The Rickie Lake Show," Matilda had the unsettling thought pass through her head. "What would Cinnamon ever do without me? I'm not going to last forever, well, at least not on earth." She by now had fed the cat, and the darling little thing was curled up on the sofa cushion next to Matilda. The old lady worried. She had imagined her balance problem was getting better until this last incident. And, heavens above, now the loud bang of her falling down is genuinely scaring her pet into jumping up to strange, strange places, places that "kitten" didn't know how to get down from.
On Thursday of that week–thankfully there had been no more dratted spells with bad balance–Matilda put the flashy red harness and leash on her playful Abyssinian, walking the two blocks to her church, up the stairs, the sprightly cat leading the way, silent and stealthy, its eyes and ears like radar sensors, swiveling back and forth, taking in everything that was new to her or moving.
The little lady had always walked most every day–that was healthy she was told–and at 74 years old, she had no problem climbing up the eight steps, as long as she paused halfway to take a breather. It was a sunny spring day, the blue sky so lovely, blue as the eyes Matilda saw in the the mirror each morning. She was happy that her preacher, Pastor Alfred Todd, had an open door policy on Thursday, a promise to his congregation to talk to anyone about anything related to the Bible or family, anything religious.
"Yes, may I help you?" Jennifer said. She was Pastor Todd's rectionist-secretary and she looked up at Matilda entering the office, her voice reflecting poorly hidden irritation, perhaps at the interruption, that didn't quite go with the cheery charade of a smile, a smile that only her lips participated in.
“I forgot your name, Miss?" the voice still distant and unfriendly. The preacher’s secretary got up, managing to disentangle her ample hips from the arms of the undersized chair, and she plodded heavily toward a bunch of folders spread on a worktable.
"Oh, I'm Matilda Graham. Been coming here for 25 years."
Suddenly, Jennifer looked down at the brownish cat, her expression registering a look as if she'd just seen green fuzzy stuff all over her cottage cheese. "You know we don't allow cats in here,” the secretary blurted.
"Cinnamon, here, and I wish to speak to Pastor Todd if you please, honey. It's open-door-policy day, you know."
"Well, kindly pick up that cat and drive it home, first. Then I'm sure pastor Todd would love to speak to you, Mrs. Graham."
“Oh, nonsense, honey. I’m quite certain Cinnamon can handle acting right in church."
Jennifer lowered herself into her chair, miraculously clearing the arms of it without bump or crushing them. She blinked her eyes a couple times at Matilda, shifting her gaze down to the sleek Abyssinian, the active cat now pulling on its thin red leather, diamond-studded leash, sniffing and stabbing its paw at a lone Three Musketeer wrapper under the table.
“Which door is it, honey?”
Finally, Jennifer sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded her head toward the far door. She pushed the button on the intercom.
"Yes, Jennifer." It was the familiar voice of the pastor.
"There’s a Matilda Graham to see––” The double-wide secretary halted talking. The gray-haired lady was already going through the door, giving a light tug on the leash, the cat gliding around her ankles and into the preacher's office.
Pastor Alfred Todd smiled, got up from whatever preachers write about, moved around his desk, cordially holding out his hand, shaking hers warmly, cupping his other hand cozy-like over Matilda’s hand. Then, he notice the cat. Immediately, the pastor whipped his body around, reached over, and jabbed at his intercom.
"Jennifer," he said, his voice laboring to find a note of pastorly kindness, “you need to tell these people that their pets can't be brought in to the church."
"But she did tell me," the thin old lady said, defending the secretary.
Simulateously, over the intercom, the sharp voice of the secretary came: "I did, Mr. Todd!"
At this, Pastor Todd frowned mildly and shook his head, as though what he heard could be erased by shaking it out of his brain. “Oh.... Oh .... There seems to be a slight misunderstanding here.” And the preacher lifted his finger off the button.
The cat by now had stretched the red diamond studded leash to its full length and was sniffing around the base of the trash can. Then she shifted her attention quickly to a nearby vase. Matilda jerked lightly at the leash and pulled her pet away from the vase, a colorfully painted vase full of tall stemmed, beautifully lush Lilies.
"Freddy, I came to talk to you, in fact, about my kitten, here."
Pastor Todd’s eyebrows arched high, his full, youngish lips forming a crooked smile. He sighed and sat back down. This might take a while.
The message he had spoke into the interom sounded to Matilda as if the pastor was trying, perhaps straining to be civil. "Are you allergic to cats?" she said.
He shook his head. His smile got wider, more sincere.
At least they hadn't been kicked out yet. It was hard for Matilda to imagine this was what an open-door policy was like.
Sticking his pen into its slot, Pastor Todd spoke firmly, his Sunday voice. "I see it's your day to give your cat a nice walk. What can I help you with today?” And the man rocked back and forth in his high-backed, comfortable-looking leather chair.
“It's rather simple, Pastor.”
“Oh, do have a seat.” The minister motioned at one of the leather-cushioned visitor chairs.
The lady slid both visitor chairs over in front of the desk, she settling herself in one and the cat hopping up, satting in the other, her tail curled around behind her.
The pastor looked at the cat and laughed, in spite of himself. The lithe, tidy little beast seemed to want to be part of the discussion.
"Where are you?" She rubbed the pain beginning to set in on her hip.
The cat meowed again, but softer now, a meow mixed with a whining growl–maybe some sort of post-traumatic purr–but the strange sound of the cat came from a high place behind the bathroom door.
The delicate woman, bracing herself, peered around the door. There she was, the reddish-brown pet shivering, looking afraid, lying low on top of the shower door frame. The old lady hadn’t seen Cinnamon at first because of the positively impossible spot she had jumped to.
"Heavens, girl! How in God's creation did you ever get up there?” For the moment, Matilda forgot all about the pain in her hip. The old lady scooted into the kitchen, only twice grabbing something to hold her steady.
She laughed. "What I cat! The things you do to me." She grabbed the plastic stepstool and rushed back into the bathroom. Weak sighted and a trifle clumsy, she hefted and pulled her cat off the top of the shower-door frame. She stroked it softly as it snuggled into the crook of her elbow, which seemed to be custom made to hold this particular cat. Apparently, brimming with appreciation for having been saved, Cinnamon purred warmly.
“Guess that dizzy spell is all over with,” she told Cinnamon, sitting there on her bed. “I feel fine, now.” The thin-limbed Abyssinian cat purred her answer back, periodically extending its claws through her dress and on through the skin and flesh of the old lady's thighs.
In the back of Matilda’s mind, though, she wondered if she didn't need a walker, after all, this balance thing was getting a bit too common, kind of dangerous, and she was no spring chicken anymore.
When she called Perl, and later on when Trudy phoned her, she talked about her silly cat getting stuck on top of the shower door, but she didn't mention the dratted dizzy spells. Perl always sends cards and stuff like that to friends with little aches and pains. That would never do, she thought. Trudy was more serious minded and much too often a hair on the huffy side, but she would secretly worry about Matilda, too. But heavens, Matilda only lost her balance on turns. The doctor had a name for it, but she forgot it. The doctor only told her after checking deep inside her ears for infections to take it easy around corners and to call her if it gets worse. Okay, he prescribed some antibiotics, but the drugstore wasn't on the way home, and she let it go.
Oh, you do love your cat, Trudy had said. She's such a joy for you, and Matilda's kitten certainly was that to her, a little joy. Cinnamon had trotted in from its window perch and bounded onto the old lady's lap, turned twice, and settled in, purring loudly. Matilda stroked her and scratched her under the chin. "What would I ever do without you?"
While she was watching "The Rickie Lake Show," Matilda had the unsettling thought pass through her head. "What would Cinnamon ever do without me? I'm not going to last forever, well, at least not on earth." She by now had fed the cat, and the darling little thing was curled up on the sofa cushion next to Matilda. The old lady worried. She had imagined her balance problem was getting better until this last incident. And, heavens above, now the loud bang of her falling down is genuinely scaring her pet into jumping up to strange, strange places, places that "kitten" didn't know how to get down from.
On Thursday of that week–thankfully there had been no more dratted spells with bad balance–Matilda put the flashy red harness and leash on her playful Abyssinian, walking the two blocks to her church, up the stairs, the sprightly cat leading the way, silent and stealthy, its eyes and ears like radar sensors, swiveling back and forth, taking in everything that was new to her or moving.
The little lady had always walked most every day–that was healthy she was told–and at 74 years old, she had no problem climbing up the eight steps, as long as she paused halfway to take a breather. It was a sunny spring day, the blue sky so lovely, blue as the eyes Matilda saw in the the mirror each morning. She was happy that her preacher, Pastor Alfred Todd, had an open door policy on Thursday, a promise to his congregation to talk to anyone about anything related to the Bible or family, anything religious.
"Yes, may I help you?" Jennifer said. She was Pastor Todd's rectionist-secretary and she looked up at Matilda entering the office, her voice reflecting poorly hidden irritation, perhaps at the interruption, that didn't quite go with the cheery charade of a smile, a smile that only her lips participated in.
“I forgot your name, Miss?" the voice still distant and unfriendly. The preacher’s secretary got up, managing to disentangle her ample hips from the arms of the undersized chair, and she plodded heavily toward a bunch of folders spread on a worktable.
"Oh, I'm Matilda Graham. Been coming here for 25 years."
Suddenly, Jennifer looked down at the brownish cat, her expression registering a look as if she'd just seen green fuzzy stuff all over her cottage cheese. "You know we don't allow cats in here,” the secretary blurted.
"Cinnamon, here, and I wish to speak to Pastor Todd if you please, honey. It's open-door-policy day, you know."
"Well, kindly pick up that cat and drive it home, first. Then I'm sure pastor Todd would love to speak to you, Mrs. Graham."
“Oh, nonsense, honey. I’m quite certain Cinnamon can handle acting right in church."
Jennifer lowered herself into her chair, miraculously clearing the arms of it without bump or crushing them. She blinked her eyes a couple times at Matilda, shifting her gaze down to the sleek Abyssinian, the active cat now pulling on its thin red leather, diamond-studded leash, sniffing and stabbing its paw at a lone Three Musketeer wrapper under the table.
“Which door is it, honey?”
Finally, Jennifer sighed, rolled her eyes, and nodded her head toward the far door. She pushed the button on the intercom.
"Yes, Jennifer." It was the familiar voice of the pastor.
"There’s a Matilda Graham to see––” The double-wide secretary halted talking. The gray-haired lady was already going through the door, giving a light tug on the leash, the cat gliding around her ankles and into the preacher's office.
Pastor Alfred Todd smiled, got up from whatever preachers write about, moved around his desk, cordially holding out his hand, shaking hers warmly, cupping his other hand cozy-like over Matilda’s hand. Then, he notice the cat. Immediately, the pastor whipped his body around, reached over, and jabbed at his intercom.
"Jennifer," he said, his voice laboring to find a note of pastorly kindness, “you need to tell these people that their pets can't be brought in to the church."
"But she did tell me," the thin old lady said, defending the secretary.
Simulateously, over the intercom, the sharp voice of the secretary came: "I did, Mr. Todd!"
At this, Pastor Todd frowned mildly and shook his head, as though what he heard could be erased by shaking it out of his brain. “Oh.... Oh .... There seems to be a slight misunderstanding here.” And the preacher lifted his finger off the button.
The cat by now had stretched the red diamond studded leash to its full length and was sniffing around the base of the trash can. Then she shifted her attention quickly to a nearby vase. Matilda jerked lightly at the leash and pulled her pet away from the vase, a colorfully painted vase full of tall stemmed, beautifully lush Lilies.
"Freddy, I came to talk to you, in fact, about my kitten, here."
Pastor Todd’s eyebrows arched high, his full, youngish lips forming a crooked smile. He sighed and sat back down. This might take a while.
The message he had spoke into the interom sounded to Matilda as if the pastor was trying, perhaps straining to be civil. "Are you allergic to cats?" she said.
He shook his head. His smile got wider, more sincere.
At least they hadn't been kicked out yet. It was hard for Matilda to imagine this was what an open-door policy was like.
Sticking his pen into its slot, Pastor Todd spoke firmly, his Sunday voice. "I see it's your day to give your cat a nice walk. What can I help you with today?” And the man rocked back and forth in his high-backed, comfortable-looking leather chair.
“It's rather simple, Pastor.”
“Oh, do have a seat.” The minister motioned at one of the leather-cushioned visitor chairs.
The lady slid both visitor chairs over in front of the desk, she settling herself in one and the cat hopping up, satting in the other, her tail curled around behind her.
The pastor looked at the cat and laughed, in spite of himself. The lithe, tidy little beast seemed to want to be part of the discussion.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Cat and the Preacher - Part 1
When I was a youngster, every Saturday we couldn't wait for our favorite serial movie, Flash Gordon (Buster Crabb) and his arch villain, Ming the Terrible. After 25 minutes, we'd be left with a cliff-hanger scene, and we'd have to wait for the next week to see how Flash and Dr. Zarkov got out of their impossible problem. Well, here' my current project I plan to show in bits and pieces, so you'll have to see what happens to the hero "next week." Be sure to buy Kellogg's Sugar Corn Pops and get strong 12 ways with every vitamin and mineral known to science. And enjoy the show.
The Cat and the Preacher
Richard A. Burns
After the thud of her sudden fall, uttering an understated, habitual, “Oh, my!” and the interminable struggle back up, her long scrawny fingers of her left hand curving over in a desperate dance, clawing the edge of the bedroom end-table, her right hand gripping the mattress hard through the bed covers because she was afraid the hand-knitted bedspread might give way, she managed to hoist herself up, first on to her bony knees. Pausing there, swaying like she was about to be blown over, white-haired Matilda Graham then pushed, grappled, and strained, surprised to finally be standing, surprised she could stand at all steadily. It was only her second fall that day, and she was glad it was over a thick carpet on a wood floor.
She yelled out to her companion: “Oh, Cinnamon, where are you?” Whenever the cat was with her, it always gave her a sense that everything was okay, as it was meant to be, rather heavenly, in fact. "Come here, kitten!" Her high quavering voice could still carry quite far, but no cat, no kitten, no anything.
Then, the “Yeow!” of her pet, loud as any fire truck siren, emminated from somewhere on the other side of her bed, a modest twin bed that looked out of place in the large expanse of her master bedroom. A louder “Yee-oww!” made Matilda step faster, but gingerly around her bed, feeling for the edge of it to make sure she stayed stable. Around the corner, perhaps from the master bath; that’s where its coming from, she thought.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, girl. Why don't you come to me when I need you?" She let go of her bed and turned the corner into the vanity. The kitten–she called the cat her kitten–sometimes would be curled up there in the sink, rubbing its whiskers on the clean, dry marble sink in a strange, cute, friendly way, but Matilda didn’t see Cinnamon anywhere in the vanity.
The cat squalled, clearly from the shower room now, and that kind of scared the elderly lady. Too unusual.
"Cinnamon, come here, right now, girl.” She tentatively let go of walls and walked with care through the vanity area and on into the shower room. She heard the wail of her Cinnamon another time and Matilda braced herself with the door frame. No cat on the toilet. Not in some corner on the floor of the smallish toilet-and-shower room, either.
(Have your mother buy Bosco chocolate syrup, boys and girls. Stir it into ice cold milk. Tastes great! And it's nutritious, too.)
Click link below to continue reading this furry story.
http://writerichly.blogspot.com/2010/02/preacher-and-cat-part-2.html
The Cat and the Preacher
Richard A. Burns
After the thud of her sudden fall, uttering an understated, habitual, “Oh, my!” and the interminable struggle back up, her long scrawny fingers of her left hand curving over in a desperate dance, clawing the edge of the bedroom end-table, her right hand gripping the mattress hard through the bed covers because she was afraid the hand-knitted bedspread might give way, she managed to hoist herself up, first on to her bony knees. Pausing there, swaying like she was about to be blown over, white-haired Matilda Graham then pushed, grappled, and strained, surprised to finally be standing, surprised she could stand at all steadily. It was only her second fall that day, and she was glad it was over a thick carpet on a wood floor.
She yelled out to her companion: “Oh, Cinnamon, where are you?” Whenever the cat was with her, it always gave her a sense that everything was okay, as it was meant to be, rather heavenly, in fact. "Come here, kitten!" Her high quavering voice could still carry quite far, but no cat, no kitten, no anything.
Then, the “Yeow!” of her pet, loud as any fire truck siren, emminated from somewhere on the other side of her bed, a modest twin bed that looked out of place in the large expanse of her master bedroom. A louder “Yee-oww!” made Matilda step faster, but gingerly around her bed, feeling for the edge of it to make sure she stayed stable. Around the corner, perhaps from the master bath; that’s where its coming from, she thought.
“Oh, Lordy, Lordy, girl. Why don't you come to me when I need you?" She let go of her bed and turned the corner into the vanity. The kitten–she called the cat her kitten–sometimes would be curled up there in the sink, rubbing its whiskers on the clean, dry marble sink in a strange, cute, friendly way, but Matilda didn’t see Cinnamon anywhere in the vanity.
The cat squalled, clearly from the shower room now, and that kind of scared the elderly lady. Too unusual.
"Cinnamon, come here, right now, girl.” She tentatively let go of walls and walked with care through the vanity area and on into the shower room. She heard the wail of her Cinnamon another time and Matilda braced herself with the door frame. No cat on the toilet. Not in some corner on the floor of the smallish toilet-and-shower room, either.
(Have your mother buy Bosco chocolate syrup, boys and girls. Stir it into ice cold milk. Tastes great! And it's nutritious, too.)
Click link below to continue reading this furry story.
http://writerichly.blogspot.com/2010/02/preacher-and-cat-part-2.html
Saturday, November 28, 2009
The Perfect Scene - A Link
I rediscovered an old link on my browser favorites list, it's by Randy Ingermanson, all about the function of a scene and the follow-up scene, which he calls the "sequel," the quasi-scene or narrative consolidating, cleaning up, and cogitating over what just happened in the "scene," and resting the reader a little in preparation for another high point, the next scene. It was an extremely useful article for me.
Judging from a lot of early drafts of good stories in critique groups that I've been involved with, understanding and applying this principle would be helpful for many B+ writers whose novels feel too monotone.
The story tension and stakes for the protagonist are akin to being on a roller coaster--this is my analogy, not Ingermanson's--where the scenes are the high points and the sequels are the necessary lower "valleys" to gather up steam again. But unlike a roller coaster, the general lay of the track tends, throughout the novel, to get higher and more precarious until the ridiculously high stakes and scariest conflict, the place on the track near the end of the ride that must be resolved via the climax. You (the reader following and rooting for the protagonist) have reached the awesome point where you see the whole city and you feel on the brink of plunging someplace you don't want to go or you feel like you're going to fall off, and then, the bottom falls out as you speed, out of control, downward.
Ingermanson says the scene ought to have a goal (for the protagonist), conflict, and disaster. The sequel should have reacton (to the disaster), a dilemma (makes the proagonist consider what to do next), and then a decision. Without the sequel, how is the character to grow? How will the protagonist ever reach her goal?
This decision (the decision to act, to actually physically do something) morphs into yor character requiring the goal for the next scene, a covenient way to make for action and an efficient, straight line story, instead of one, like some of mine, meandering from this place to that. Meandering is an unnecessary time-out from the story line, possibly fascinating stuff, but not the makings of a real page-turner, which is the bottom-line, elusive story characteristic publishers and readers are looking for these days.
Oh, I almost forgot, here's the link: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php
Judging from a lot of early drafts of good stories in critique groups that I've been involved with, understanding and applying this principle would be helpful for many B+ writers whose novels feel too monotone.
The story tension and stakes for the protagonist are akin to being on a roller coaster--this is my analogy, not Ingermanson's--where the scenes are the high points and the sequels are the necessary lower "valleys" to gather up steam again. But unlike a roller coaster, the general lay of the track tends, throughout the novel, to get higher and more precarious until the ridiculously high stakes and scariest conflict, the place on the track near the end of the ride that must be resolved via the climax. You (the reader following and rooting for the protagonist) have reached the awesome point where you see the whole city and you feel on the brink of plunging someplace you don't want to go or you feel like you're going to fall off, and then, the bottom falls out as you speed, out of control, downward.
Ingermanson says the scene ought to have a goal (for the protagonist), conflict, and disaster. The sequel should have reacton (to the disaster), a dilemma (makes the proagonist consider what to do next), and then a decision. Without the sequel, how is the character to grow? How will the protagonist ever reach her goal?
This decision (the decision to act, to actually physically do something) morphs into yor character requiring the goal for the next scene, a covenient way to make for action and an efficient, straight line story, instead of one, like some of mine, meandering from this place to that. Meandering is an unnecessary time-out from the story line, possibly fascinating stuff, but not the makings of a real page-turner, which is the bottom-line, elusive story characteristic publishers and readers are looking for these days.
Oh, I almost forgot, here's the link: http://www.advancedfictionwriting.com/art/scene.php
Friday, October 30, 2009
Does a Good Writing Day Wear You Out?
Today I spent a lot of time rewriting three chapters in my novel. I had sort of painted myself into a corner, so I had to unpaint a little trail out of that corner, got rid of some very good stuff, and added some very good other writing. Some of it was average writing, but what is average to some is a treasure to others. I think what I added wasn't as good as what I took away, but I had to do something to get the plot back on track. You can't have a dead guy come back to life, you know.
So my question to the world of writers out there is: Are they like me, that is, does one or two hour of serious writing or rewriting wears you down? It's kind of like I wrote a fight scene, but when I was done writing it, I felt very much like I'd been through the fight, in fact, I've been through it receiving each of the two fighters blows. I was kind of sweating and tired afterwards, just like I have been in a real fight. Of course, I won't need any bandages, no real blood flowed, no broken bones -- maybe some bony fingers from too much typing -- but golly Miss Molley & Craft Cheese Whiz, I do get pooped.
Probably, it's a good sign, like I really get into it.
Take yesterday, please! (This is my Henny Youngman imitation. Now there's a great first name to add to my name list.) Quoting the funny man: "The food on the plane was fit for a king. 'Here, King!' "
Back to my thread, only yesterday, for example, I ran wild. I pounded out three hours of writing, 1100 words, many of them not new, I just improved the order in which things happen, and, like I said, got rid of some plot point that couldn't have happened, unpainting myself out of that idiotic corner.
How do other writers do what they say they do, write for seven hours a day, five days a week, without completely wearing themselves out? These people must be geniouses beyond my ability to imagine.
There are so many pitfalls to watch out for and move carefully around. Alway, we need to bring in movement, new information; conflict; develop realistically the relationships between talker and listener during dialog, and show (not tell) how the content of the dialog and body language changes the relationship. A key character's motivation must rise from his personality traits and (unwritten) backstory, must stay consistent. Deciding when to explain something a little bit subtle that is necessary later on or deciding simply to let the reader figure it out is a tough choice for me. Coming up with character quirks, making sure the eyebrows are doing the right thing, frowning or rising, without the descriptive words sounding hoaky. I must try to write in a style that is bare and sapare as possible to save precious ink and the reader's time, and I must put enough variety into the chosen words and sentences that the reader stays interested, no, captiviated, enthralled the whole time, for nearly every single page in the novel. Now that's hard.
I make it sound totally hopeless, and that is no accident. I've put up with the dream this far, but it isn't a frivolous question. I'm perfectly serious. Do you need three days away from it after each days struggle with adding, pruning, and improving your novel?
Strangely, I'm on the last five chapters of my seventh go-over (rewrite paints misleading picture) and the story is exciting enough at this point--it's the climax--I'm thrilled that it's all about done, and the resolation, to me, is satisfactory. But will it be to agents and publishers? Maybe that weary thing is just for the middle chapters. Or , hey, just maybe I have dull middle chapters that need to to be axed.
I admit, my novel's a bit long, my writing is very detailed, cinematic I have been told, but the doggone thing is only a couple of weeks away from the query letter phase, and, as I say, I'm elated. --rb
So my question to the world of writers out there is: Are they like me, that is, does one or two hour of serious writing or rewriting wears you down? It's kind of like I wrote a fight scene, but when I was done writing it, I felt very much like I'd been through the fight, in fact, I've been through it receiving each of the two fighters blows. I was kind of sweating and tired afterwards, just like I have been in a real fight. Of course, I won't need any bandages, no real blood flowed, no broken bones -- maybe some bony fingers from too much typing -- but golly Miss Molley & Craft Cheese Whiz, I do get pooped.
Probably, it's a good sign, like I really get into it.
Take yesterday, please! (This is my Henny Youngman imitation. Now there's a great first name to add to my name list.) Quoting the funny man: "The food on the plane was fit for a king. 'Here, King!' "
Back to my thread, only yesterday, for example, I ran wild. I pounded out three hours of writing, 1100 words, many of them not new, I just improved the order in which things happen, and, like I said, got rid of some plot point that couldn't have happened, unpainting myself out of that idiotic corner.
How do other writers do what they say they do, write for seven hours a day, five days a week, without completely wearing themselves out? These people must be geniouses beyond my ability to imagine.
There are so many pitfalls to watch out for and move carefully around. Alway, we need to bring in movement, new information; conflict; develop realistically the relationships between talker and listener during dialog, and show (not tell) how the content of the dialog and body language changes the relationship. A key character's motivation must rise from his personality traits and (unwritten) backstory, must stay consistent. Deciding when to explain something a little bit subtle that is necessary later on or deciding simply to let the reader figure it out is a tough choice for me. Coming up with character quirks, making sure the eyebrows are doing the right thing, frowning or rising, without the descriptive words sounding hoaky. I must try to write in a style that is bare and sapare as possible to save precious ink and the reader's time, and I must put enough variety into the chosen words and sentences that the reader stays interested, no, captiviated, enthralled the whole time, for nearly every single page in the novel. Now that's hard.
I make it sound totally hopeless, and that is no accident. I've put up with the dream this far, but it isn't a frivolous question. I'm perfectly serious. Do you need three days away from it after each days struggle with adding, pruning, and improving your novel?
Strangely, I'm on the last five chapters of my seventh go-over (rewrite paints misleading picture) and the story is exciting enough at this point--it's the climax--I'm thrilled that it's all about done, and the resolation, to me, is satisfactory. But will it be to agents and publishers? Maybe that weary thing is just for the middle chapters. Or , hey, just maybe I have dull middle chapters that need to to be axed.
I admit, my novel's a bit long, my writing is very detailed, cinematic I have been told, but the doggone thing is only a couple of weeks away from the query letter phase, and, as I say, I'm elated. --rb
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Post Mortum of a Poetry Reading
Hey, I had a very fun time reading poetry at the Poetry Center San Jose, reading at the Arts Object Gallery. Thank you Linda Lappin, and to Ken, who had the refreshments and provided his gallery. I think the audience enjoyed it, too. They laughed at all the right places, seemed thoughtful, seemed sad at the right places, and when they threw rotten tomatoes at me, none of them landed.
I tood advantage of a chance during break to chat with a few other poets, small-talk, really–my word, I'm horrible at trying to remember names–I stumbled upon no new earth-shaking secrets. The other reader was a Santa Cruz poet, Dana Cervine, a good reader, but he was a little shy in his commentary, so I heard very little of that. It must have been pretty good because he smiled and laughed a lot. (Dana's day job involves working and managing in children’s mental health for Santa Cruz County.) As I was about to say, I should have the nerve to tell these well-meaning, talented folks to speak up. This fellow has had lots of experience and he seems to spend most of his life writing poems, even does it driving sometimes, if I’m to believe wild stories. If I did that, turn out say a poem a day, most of mine wouldn’t make sense, hance, pretty much be a bunch of drivel, absent of profundity. I come up with a couple of poem-worthy ideas most days--maybe that's a false impression--and I don't have time to put a pen to everything. How is it worth the effort if it isn’t clever or very good, stunning, hitting the listener between the eyes? I don't think anybody gets to be a millionaire writing poetry, no matter how good it is. You have to love the process, the readings, and the marketing of your work. I love my work; it gets rather polished and on-target, given the time for it to mature and bake up tall, brown, sweet, and tasty.
I tood advantage of a chance during break to chat with a few other poets, small-talk, really–my word, I'm horrible at trying to remember names–I stumbled upon no new earth-shaking secrets. The other reader was a Santa Cruz poet, Dana Cervine, a good reader, but he was a little shy in his commentary, so I heard very little of that. It must have been pretty good because he smiled and laughed a lot. (Dana's day job involves working and managing in children’s mental health for Santa Cruz County.) As I was about to say, I should have the nerve to tell these well-meaning, talented folks to speak up. This fellow has had lots of experience and he seems to spend most of his life writing poems, even does it driving sometimes, if I’m to believe wild stories. If I did that, turn out say a poem a day, most of mine wouldn’t make sense, hance, pretty much be a bunch of drivel, absent of profundity. I come up with a couple of poem-worthy ideas most days--maybe that's a false impression--and I don't have time to put a pen to everything. How is it worth the effort if it isn’t clever or very good, stunning, hitting the listener between the eyes? I don't think anybody gets to be a millionaire writing poetry, no matter how good it is. You have to love the process, the readings, and the marketing of your work. I love my work; it gets rather polished and on-target, given the time for it to mature and bake up tall, brown, sweet, and tasty.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)