I remember an old black cat

I remember
      .. a white wood framed house with a long
         wooden porch by a 2-lane highway.
      .. the railroad tracks that ran along the
         west side of the house and the big freight
         trains that rumbled on the tracks.
      .. running out to wave at the man in the train.
      .. the whistle and the smoke that came
         from the train
      .. the clickity-clack of the big wheels and
         the man in the train waving to me as it
         rumbled by
      .. the big ole black tom cat sitting on top
         of the power pole.
      .. the 22-rifle that my dad was pointing
         at the old black cat.
      .. my father saying "that black son-of-a-bitch
         has killed his last chicken".
      .. the soft crack of the 22 and the ole black
         cat jerking and falling.
I do not remember
     .. a sound from the cat or the thud of its body
        as it hit the ground.
     .. what my dad said or if my mother was there
        or whether I was happy or sad.
I remember
     .. I was only four

Following in Her Footsteps Betty McCallister 11/12/09 I watched my mother gracefully age, become an old lady, not particularly understanding or liking what I saw. Why is this happening? This was a first, as I had never really experience the aging process of anyone before. My father passed in his early 60's and my grandparents were always old, weren’t they? But my Mom was a vessel of energy. A real go getter kind of gal, and now this. Growing up she drove myself and my four siblings totally nuts with her wild antics and bazaar behavior. You just never knew what was coming next. I left home young, cutting the apron strings I thought, to become an independent adult, but she never let go of me. She hung on for dear life, I was her Betsy, and her love for me was often times overwhelming and smothering. She was quite meddlesome to put it mildly in my life, yet I never had the courage to stand up to her. The commandment of honor thy father and mother rang loud and clear inside of me, as well as the boisterous screams that only I could hear. Annoyance and love make for strange bedfellows. By the time I was nearing 50 and she 70 we had grown into a pretty tight twosome. She mellowed and I matured. Funny how that happens. We came together as I overlooked so many of her bothersome habits and perhaps she did the same, though I am sure mine were few. I knew her likes and dislikes, what made her happy or sad. We bonded as two merry souls and for the next ten years I became accustomed to her ways, her smiles, her frowns, her ups, her downs became second nature to me. With my children heading out on their merry way, and a somewhat understanding husband, I had the time to devote to Mom that she deeply yearned for. She was growing older before my very eyes bringing about different changes nearly weekly, and today I see myself following in her footsteps, and I guess the footsteps of everyone else who has traveled the aging journey, but I especially remember my mothers. Walking slower, stumbling more, frequently annoyed, grocery bags are heavier and the shelves are higher, dropping things and mumbling that the floor is much lower for some reason. The voice is getting scratchy along with the penmanship. Why these were all my mothers traits and somehow are now mine. And oh to reflect on the ordeal of getting her in and out of automobiles brings laughter tears to my eyes. The same now for me. Either the seat is so high I need a shove to hoist myself up to get in, or so low to the ground I practically roll out. Neither is a pretty sight. And to maneuver the back seat of a two door auto, forget it. I am sure you get the picture. I spent my fifties catering to my Moms wants and needs until she left me at age 79. Visiting her often, holding her hand as we walked down steps. Now my daughter is doing the same for me, though I believe I am perfectly capable, she isn’t so sure. This brings me to a better understanding of the statement of ‘what goes around, comes around’. So now each and every day I remember Mama, the 70ish Mama, with her beautiful gray hair and her softer than silk hands and her very trying ways. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.