no religious faith whatsoever. Men especially. Men seem to feel that religion is for women and children. And not even for all women. Some women they prefer without any religious faith at all. So they can have fun, if you know what I mean. But if a woman has children and has to take care of things, if a woman is responsible, if she has men and children to take care of, then she should have faith. That’s what they think. Well, this kind of argument holds no water whatsoever, as far as I’m concerned.
We walked through melting snow to church, our rubber boots black and shining in the slush. When we got inside, Mrs. Franklin and Mrs. Johnson met us at the door and gave us each a carnation, a pink one for me because my mother was alive, and a white one for my mother because her mother was dead. She died five years ago. She had sugar diabetes, but it was a heart attack she died from. We pinned the carnations to our coats and walked down the aisle to the middle pew, right behind Mr. and Mrs. Carlson and Leonard, who’s one year older than I am, and not very bright.
The text that Sunday was from the Book of Proverbs, written by King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, although he had a lot of wives. Mother’s Day is the only time we ever hear it: “Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.”
After the sermon we sang a hymn we sing every Mother’s Day. My mother says she could do without that song, but I myself feel it has a lot of meaning. We all stood up. Mrs. Carlson sang in her usual voice. Mr. Carlson didn’t sing at all, just looked at the words. Leonard turned around and stared at me a couple of times.
Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek thro’ the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home,
O, there’s no place like home.
That afternoon, I found the cat.
I had just come from Mary’s house to see what she had done for her mother on Mother’s Day. I knew it would be something clever because that’s how she is.
The cat was in a ditch when I first saw it. A kitten actually, scratching at a little drift and meowing. It was grey and skinny, its voice thin and unpleasant. I leaned over the ditch, picked it up by the fur of its neck as I’d been taught to do, and set it down on the concrete walk. But it didn’t go anywhere. It didn’t move. It just stood there by my ankle. I walked away and it followed me, meowing after me in its ugly voice. I didn’t know what to do, so I scooped it up with my two hands, laid it on the crook of my arm and took it with me back to Mary’s house. I stood in their porch and showed the cat to Mrs. Sorenson. She leaned against the porch wall, against a giant-sized pile of newspapers and magazines, and told me I should take it back where I found it.
“In the ditch?” I asked.
“Wherever you found it,” she said. “Its owner will be looking for it.”
“In the ditch?” I asked. “Will the owner look in the ditch?”
“It may be diseased,” she said. “It’s best not to bring it in the house.” She spoke kindly but firmly. Mrs. Sorenson is not a cruel person, but she’s no lover of cats.
I left Mary’s house and went back to ask my mother if we could keep it. She said the same thing as Mrs. Sorenson. “Take it back where you found it.”
“I found it in a ditch,” I said.
“By whose house?” she asked. “It no doubt belongs to the people who live near the ditch.”
“To Sorensons?” I asked. “Mrs. Sorenson can’t stand cats.”
“Maybe another house,” my mother said. “Ask at the other houses. I understand Mrs. Gilbertson has cats. But come home soon,” she added. “It’s nearly suppertime.”
I walked down the street, carrying the shivering kitten in my arms. I began knocking on doors. Everyone said the same thing: “Take it back
We walked through melting snow to church, our rubber boots black and shining in the slush. When we got inside, Mrs. Franklin and Mrs. Johnson met us at the door and gave us each a carnation, a pink one for me because my mother was alive, and a white one for my mother because her mother was dead. She died five years ago. She had sugar diabetes, but it was a heart attack she died from. We pinned the carnations to our coats and walked down the aisle to the middle pew, right behind Mr. and Mrs. Carlson and Leonard, who’s one year older than I am, and not very bright.
The text that Sunday was from the Book of Proverbs, written by King Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, although he had a lot of wives. Mother’s Day is the only time we ever hear it: “Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.”
After the sermon we sang a hymn we sing every Mother’s Day. My mother says she could do without that song, but I myself feel it has a lot of meaning. We all stood up. Mrs. Carlson sang in her usual voice. Mr. Carlson didn’t sing at all, just looked at the words. Leonard turned around and stared at me a couple of times.
Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek thro’ the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home,
There’s no place like home,
O, there’s no place like home.
That afternoon, I found the cat.
I had just come from Mary’s house to see what she had done for her mother on Mother’s Day. I knew it would be something clever because that’s how she is.
The cat was in a ditch when I first saw it. A kitten actually, scratching at a little drift and meowing. It was grey and skinny, its voice thin and unpleasant. I leaned over the ditch, picked it up by the fur of its neck as I’d been taught to do, and set it down on the concrete walk. But it didn’t go anywhere. It didn’t move. It just stood there by my ankle. I walked away and it followed me, meowing after me in its ugly voice. I didn’t know what to do, so I scooped it up with my two hands, laid it on the crook of my arm and took it with me back to Mary’s house. I stood in their porch and showed the cat to Mrs. Sorenson. She leaned against the porch wall, against a giant-sized pile of newspapers and magazines, and told me I should take it back where I found it.
“In the ditch?” I asked.
“Wherever you found it,” she said. “Its owner will be looking for it.”
“In the ditch?” I asked. “Will the owner look in the ditch?”
“It may be diseased,” she said. “It’s best not to bring it in the house.” She spoke kindly but firmly. Mrs. Sorenson is not a cruel person, but she’s no lover of cats.
I left Mary’s house and went back to ask my mother if we could keep it. She said the same thing as Mrs. Sorenson. “Take it back where you found it.”
“I found it in a ditch,” I said.
“By whose house?” she asked. “It no doubt belongs to the people who live near the ditch.”
“To Sorensons?” I asked. “Mrs. Sorenson can’t stand cats.”
“Maybe another house,” my mother said. “Ask at the other houses. I understand Mrs. Gilbertson has cats. But come home soon,” she added. “It’s nearly suppertime.”
I walked down the street, carrying the shivering kitten in my arms. I began knocking on doors. Everyone said the same thing: “Take it back
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