The Cat's in the Cupboard and Can't See Me

Valley hiding from everyone in the hall closet.

I was walking toward my bedroom last week.  Everyone was home.  Caleb was picking up his toys and smacking them against the tile floor.  The percussive "Crack!  Crack!  CRACK!" made it hard to hear the TV, which was turned up to be heard over Caleb's racket, vied for most irritating noise ringing throughout the house.  Charlie was barking at someone he thought was at the door.  Nathan was playing a video game in another room and the "Thud-thud-thud-thud-RATATATATAT" added to the din.  

I would add that the dishwasher was augmented the level of noise in the house--but we have a dishwasher that, when it is going, I can't even hear if I'm standing right next to it.  The clothes washer and dryer are in the garage--so I couldn't hear them either.  It was late afternoon--so no one was mowing the lawn or edging outside.  

Even so, the house pulsed with sound and the energy of five adults and one 10 month old grandson.

As I passed the closet in the hallway leading to my bedroom, I noticed that the door was half open--and a quiet "mee-u" caught my attention.  With everything going on in the house, Valley had sought refuge in a place I had never seen her before.  She looked at me, "mee-u".  I reached in and stroked her head.  In a whole house of bedrooms, a cat tower, hidden window ledges with an outside view--she had retreated to the relative safety of a place where Charlie wouldn't bark at her, Caleb couldn't grab at her, and no one would try to pick her up.

I had to get a picture.

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It is 10:35pm and the entire house is quiet.  Brent, Nathan, La, Roberto, Caleb, Charlie, and both the cats are still and sleeping.  It is now that I like best to sit and write.  

Brent used to ask me why I stayed up so late after everyone had gone to bed.  Classes, kids, errands, appointments, chores all began early in the morning.  When the kids were younger I used to go to visit friends who had been sick or just had a baby--when they opened the door they stared at me and then exclaimed "Come in!  Come sit down!  You look so tired . . . are you OK?"

Being awake in the late night hours, though, gave me the assurance that everyone was safe.  They were all under our roof and sleeping.  Everyone was here--but no one needed me to do anything for them.

When Meg and La were very small--during the years when Brent was in law school--they played happily with each other as I cleaned the kitchen and mopped the bathroom floor.  I could make beds, take dirty clothes down stairs and bring clean clothes back up.  I could put away books, file papers, answer the phone--no problem.  As soon as I sat down, however, I was fair game.  

I would sit at the kitchen table to type a paper for class or start to grade papers my students had written--and "Whoosh!!" they appeared--on my lap.  I would sit on the couch to read a book for class or sit at the piano to play a piece of music and "TaaDaa!" I had two small bodies squirming on my knees.  I couldn't even go the bathroom without the two of them needing me to hold them on my lap and read them a book.  

When they were asleep, however, I could read textbooks, prepare lesson plans, write out checks to pay the bills, write a letter, type a paper--even sit at the table to eat something--and neither Meg nor La would materialize out of thin air between me and what I had started to do.

Of course, now that Meg and La are both married with their own children, my lap is more often invaded by one of our cats--both of whom are easily dislodged with a determined poke of my finger.  I can sit and watch TV all day or scan bills and old photographs into computer files that will float out in space for the rest of eternity--if the eternities have iCloud.  I can even lay down and take a nap in the middle of the day, undisturbed until it is time for dinner and Nathan comes in, wanting to know what's planned for that night.  

The odd thing about my life now is that even with all the time I have, I have more money than time.  It is much easier to pay someone to come and clean the kitchen or mop the bathroom floor.  Nathan will do the laundry if I will sort the dark from the light colours, and put the whites in a separate pile.  And there are no stairs to carry anything up or down.  

At the State Fair on Wednesday, we waundered into a room where the prize winning quilts, crochet wall hangings, knitted baby sweaters, and needlepoint projects were all displayed.  The county quilting club was set up with someone demonstrating how to quilt, information about their organization, and a beautiful quilt that was being raffled to help raise money to support the charity work that they did.  It was a stunning wall display quilt with squares featuring birds and wildlife from the area.  It was intricately stitched and edged.  Since raffles are a kind of gamble (albeit a benign kind), I asked if I could just donate without receiving a ticket.  The response was "I don't know how we handle that sort of thing."  I guess it wasn't a common request.  In the end they graciously accepted my $10.  As they thanked me, I mentioned that I was in a place that made it much easier to give monetary support than to actually spend time working for worthy, charitable projects.  It seems like such a cowardly way to feel that I am "serving my neighbor."  

I look back on the things I did when Meg, La and Nate were in school--and I am amazed.  I had energy and strength and patience and TIME . . . that, somehow, have disappeared.  One friend, also a grandmother, said that for her "the days dragged, but the years flew."  I am still puzzled by that.  I remember times when I had to sit and wait for a doctor appointment or stand in line waiting for my turn to take a driving test--and wishing that I could save up that time and use it later when I was doing something that I loved to do.  Especially during college, during the freezing winters, walking to class--I really wanted to take that time and save it for something else.

Time doesn't save, though, does it?  Ideas, goals--art, garden, school plans--all these can wait for later.  Standing in line at the grocery store, sitting and waiting for a meeting to begin--these things demand that time be taken THEN.

Very often, when things I don't really want to do dictate how I spend my day, I feel like Valley--and would creep off to an obscure place to wait out the commotion if I could.  Later coming out--as Valley does at night--when it is still and my time is my own.