WELCOME TO CEDAR HILL

WELCOME TO CEDAR HILL
By Mary Moffett
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During hazardous winters, Daddy's acreage lay in repose, snow drifts grew higher as dawn succumbed to dusk. Oh, yes, my father had a farm with cultivated fields, and fallow lands of nearly seventy-two acres worth of delightful streams and rocky inclines. Virgin lands, he'd explain to all who'd listen, never built upon. We walked, breathed and scoured hill upon hill of standing timber as far as the eye could see. We held firewood parties. Best of all as December's early snowfall blanketed abrupt terrain, we waited patiently for Daddy to announce foraging forth for our annual Christmas tree hunt.

Mother bundled us in winter attire so tight we flitted about sideways, sliding in snow gear so cumbersome, to this day it amazes me we could walk. My brother always pulled his sled, as we steadfastly stepped inside Daddy's wide boot prints.

Snow was an enemy back then. For we needed to tend livestock, whose water troughs seemed always nastily frozen.

Cousins arrive, a bevy of activity with axes and saws lending sheer joy to the outing per se. My father never could cotton to his brother, Francis's idea of a tree. Scoffing at what passed for a Christmas tree, we ourselves never could figure out the scant Austrian pines favored by that family.

Each year, we'd look right through wide branches saying later: "It was too open, too thin."

"So lopsided," my parents remarked.

Our destination we dubbed Cedar Hill. This fairy like wonderland still stands to this day. Although, my cousin Sally built a house there about thirty years ago. Now, tree seekers visit her place every winter. Our family is not the type who call ahead. We recall decades without phones, people lined up in cars in driveways eking hours from gabby good-nights. Sometimes, kids fell asleep in eight cylinder cars built like comfortable limos.  Waiting, always waiting for exacting arguments about politics to end. Or words from relatives, who lived far away in an architectural marvel, the City of Brotherly Love, to promise when they'd next return to our place.  A woodsy farm, still there, but as silent now as the color of ice.

Daddy's middle name should have been Cedar. He loved Cedar trees. I liked the red ones. The burgundy hue of a cedar protecting itself, it's fragrant bark, it's bird life and randy insects all year long is like the Eiffel tower to me. Simply grand. So, we'd cut one per year without a qualm in the world.  This thinned the forest for new growth, my Uncle Francis explains to me, one winter after Daddy became a Florida Snowbird.
Winters seemed quieter since my parents left at Thanksgiving. With Mother at his side, enjoying tropical warmth, the Sunshine State never failed to offer them nor their series of RV's. Dad always said "he had it made" once he retired.

Well, back to the tree brigade, we quietly observe Dad break out his measuring tape, in case our choice specimen is too tall to fit in the house. Closing my eyes writing this, I still see his denim coat leaving his long-waisted figure as his huge frame seems to reach to the twinkling stars. All of us breathless, pulling cold air into our lungs. Everyone wanted to scream out the first "TIMBER!" Or best rendition thereof at the exact point the tree is felled. Of course, we'd accept nothing less.

Heck, we were born with standards. Those standards pretty much included never buying anything if we could build it, make it, grow it, sew it, or bake it for the holidays. In a sense these were ongoing, since we prepared all year.

Well, low and behold and to this day, I know in my heart, it was his adroit, uncontrollable generosity which got the best of him one year. Dad decides he'll supply a Christmas tree for my small second grade class room. This grandiose gesture shall be a surprise for Sr. Florentine. The entire classroom will be aghast with delight.

So, we proceed on a Saturday. Spare no effort to locate the greenest one. Fell the thing, load it into a station wagon, arrive at school about three p.m.  Darn, if that nun carefully voices a polite objection to our gift. "Paul, I don't think the children can decorate this tree as it is rather full. But we can stand it in the hallway, right here beside the foyer's double doors."

Or words to that effect, which crumble my father's face faster than my brother running outside to wait on the sidewalk. Until we went to school in this small town, we didn't even know what sidewalks were. Please, remember, we traipsed stones and woodland paths.

On Cedar Hill rose cedars as prickly as porcupines. Granted they require a full set of armor to decorate. Never fear, we managed without a snag in our demeanor nor our daring hand knit sweaters. Persnickety silver strands flew from flat cardboard a.k.a. tinsel. What is a Cedar Christmas tree without fake snow from an aerosol container (my mother protects for four years until it finally explodes) light bulbs so heavy branches break or silver tinsel so bright and airy, it's still found in the house mid July?

My brother rips off his earmuffs, glares at the poor nun. He helps dad move the tree. We leave. Dad drives us to two green houses. It is so early in December, street vendors aren't even set up in store parking lots with aisles of fencing supporting impromptu pine forests.

At the first florist shop, Dad buys Mother a poinsettia. Of which I must juggle upon my lap. After considering prices apparently, he drives on.

Thick glassed greenhouse number two is a corner place. Now we're treated to parking precariously on any icy street, enjoying a block long walk upon another fancy sidewalk. We admire Christmas lighting from a few blue places. Along the way, we window shop, a second favorite pastime of my father's. Entering the place is a joyful connection with warmth which oozes into our frozen limbs. A two storey affair, I explore the entire floral shop, still remember long low stone walls, brick flooring. Hanging plants everywhere interspersed with roses, carnations in large glass containers. Meanwhile, Dad talks the ear of the proprietor. But, yes, we leave finally with a tree. A pine! I am annoyed, flabbergasted in fact.

My brother beams all smiles. He's the type who hates embarrassment. As country folk we feel we're different. I'm proud of it. Dennis isn't but to this day he fells an annual cedar on Cedar Hill.

Now, Sr. Florentine is in complete shock. She tires to give my father $5.00 for the tree. The entire night has gone to hell. Stunned, my father is ashamed she thinks he is poor.  We end up eating finger sandwiches in an adjacent convent which smells like a disinfected hospital ward. Four more nuns continue to express their gratitude for both trees as we're given cookies with tea on fancy saucers.

I can still see my marvelous Daddy, mine, holding his saucer on his knee, delicately fingering a tiny cup. The scene, us cozened with friendly respectable Sisters beside their new artificial, pink, fuzzy tree causes my brother a fit of giggles. Laughter's contagious so we take off, slide on waxed hallways inside an empty school. Later, he tells me that pink tree reminded him of poodle skirts worn by teenage girls.  The Sister's black habits became leather jackets worn by the guys. On quiet nights when pins dropping made a racket, we entertained our baby sister with details of how the good sisters decorated their pink tree with gigantic black rosary beads which reminded us of beetles.  (When she is grown, my sister told us she believed what we said. Poor dear.)

Of note on the busy tree swapping night in question, at home Mother plies us with hot chocolates but we're so stirred up and rambunctious, our tums growl no thanks --- we're full. You see, Mother always set a fine table, Dad always used a saucer with his tea cup, kept his farm fowl, family and animals fed, tended his hearth with cedar logs for special aromatic effect on nights it suited him.

As for me? I'm off to embrace a snowy Cedar Hill. Then, calling in on Sally this afternoon for the best conversation around. Out in the woods, I'll read this story aloud, clip a few cedar branches in fond vivid memory of my father, Paul. He gave us what a peopled world can not.  Namely: a love for nature which in our large family tree steadfastly endures. Much like Cedar Hill which hopefully like these endearing memories of whom, my dying father also once more dubbed "little girl" in the snow ... shall stand the test of time.

The End


NEXT STORY:  A CAT CALLED WHATSHERNAME .. EH YEH CAN'T TELL

A CAT CALLED WHATSISNAME
By Mary Moffett

June and Jade stand outside their first floor parlor window, when Tom whom sometimes goes by Whatsisname, jumps up on the sill. Jade's bucket of hot water spills sideways, conveniently removing him from the two person team of window washers. Listening to June complain about the state of their windows for the last few weeks, he finally gives into wifely whims.  In short, on a sunny day in April, here they are outdoors with a step ladder, brushes, stacks of newspaper, a bottle of Windex, a few pails of water strongly laced with vinegar.

June's pleased by her husband's efforts.  They already cleaned three sixty inch windows, removing storm windows as they systematically circumvent the house. The fact old Tom seems to show keen interest in the wash up, comes as no surprise. "Whatsisname's always been the curious type," she tells Jade.

Unbeknownst to the couple, Tom isn't the only tabby cat nosing about their progress. Deep in high weeds, bordering the driveway, is a cat who happens to look exactly like their Tom. This female cat, clandestinely dropped off about a month ago, endured countless rainy days.  This tabby almost forgets wearing pretty dresses while playing with a little girl named Catherine, whose family can no longer afford to feed her. They can't keep their house, nor feed their own daughter. So, one night as often happens to felines, she's bagged in a pillow case, thrown into a car, driven far from the only home she's ever know, by the only humans she's ever cuddled upon.

Jade lets Tom out of the house. The cat proceeds to run under Jane's feet each time she moves the step ladder, causing her to grab the sill in the manner of a tightrope walker. Jade heads for the shed to locate a tube of window caulking, since the goings on from their pet, reveals a few pains which he decides need a bit of strengthener against prevailing winds.  Which send myriads of loose pine needles upon them as the couple makes their way beneath tall pines, tickling the daylights out of their roof and paint-less shutters.  The latter attached to the brick wall for effect, actually immobile, useless against cold weather.

June croons to Tom ... Here kitty, kitty .. coaxing her favorite lap sitter toward an open door of the shed.  While Jade thinks their window washing chore, an annual event, is generally brought on by June's cataracts, which she states cause her to no longer abide clouded windows.  Primarily, they plan to undertake the first floor only.  It's late morning, and first indication of a possible lunch break comes when Jade's tum growls as loud as groans from a weak branch overhead.

"June, why must we be out here in a hurricane force gale? Can't we just call it a day, dear?"

"Jade, we'll be to the far end of the house in a minute or two," his wife replies swiping with a squeegee, which no doubt washed many a car, since they bought the thing back in 1970.

The cat in the weeds, benevolent, hungry, confused, allows herself to listen with pricked ears.  It's been awhile since she heard any human contact.  Voices carrying on the wind prompt her to raise up a bit from her hiding place.  She watches the lady deposit another cat into smaller, metal house, a makeshift affair with a screechy aluminum door. Creaking of the door, the pines branches, impromptu conversation cause this usurper to relax in a somnolent fashion, rendering a dreamlike state of wishing to be included in this family.  The way she began, as a pet, as a fond member of a family who cast her out to forge for herself.  She's endured rain, late snow, captured a mouse a few days ago, with truly no idea how to continue with a weak will to survive without a soft bed pillow.

Few people in the world might ever see a grown cat cry.  But cry she does, this nameless little beastie. Tears wet her chin, which taste salty on her pink tongue.  Her eyes grow as glassed as compliant, stable pains beneath June's Windex spray. Oh, woe is me, becomes her silent lament.

Tom, to give him credit, smells the other cat, whom he knows looks exactly like himself. Black tipped tail, black stripes, a bit of a tan on the furry belly, which to Tom indicates that this visiting stray may already be in the family way. No secret there, since Tom's a night owl, apt to carouse late of a clear eve, just like teams of strays in the small woodsy copse beyond the weedy driveway.

So, what exactly can he do for the little one, whose hunger seems contagious?  Hunger for love, hunger for a simple bowl of milk, which Tom would gladly pour for her highness into a pretty cracked saucer, if only June would teach him how to open the fridge.

Drat, the life of feral cat.  Poor thing, thinks Tom as he splits the scene, jumping straight out the cracked window pain of the silly cramped shed. Of course, he knocks over a shovel, which brings Jade back to the shed, thinking Whatsisname's hurt himself. No cat in sight. Instead, a long shovel handle barring his entrance, which he does not notice in the darkness of the shed's interior.  Then he trips and is down for the count, a bucket of de-icing salt in his face.

He screams for June, who quits her ladder, a fist balled into her stiff lower back.  "Now what, Jade?" she demands to know. "Oh, hon," she says, finding the man sprawled on his stomach, his face filled with salt, which he's swiping out of his beard.

"Now, June, about that lunch break. I've had an accident, hon. Please, let's call it a day."

As the sky darkens, June surrenders, "Oh, alright. It looks like more April showers anyway. Yes, come along, luv, I'll fix frozen pot pies with a small salad. You know we're under strict instructions to eat more veggies."

"Sounds fantastic," Jade adds over his shoulder, quickly gathering the last of the stacked storm windows and other washing paraphernalia. As he heads toward the side of the house he thinks he may hear a cat crying. The wind takes a shammy, he's left chasing down the driveway.  He reaches, the largest of the potholes there, which becomes a small pond during a storm, but immediately does a double take.  Can it be?  Tom somehow multiplied himself. Magic, Jade always acquaints with cats, whom he truly believes possess a secretive nine lives factor.  They risk one, and have eight more to go by. Now, his eyes may be effected by the dip in the terrible, chemical laden salt, which last year killed an entire row of daffodils. So, they made due with icy sidewalks December to February past.

Inside the kitchen, June readies lettuce, hauling out a bottle of French Dressing, cutting onions with tears whipping across her vision, seriously taking in newness of their sparkling kitchen windows, which she tells herself are a clear as a bell.

Jade slows his pace, searching for Tom.  Now, he must know with certainty what exactly the little fellow's about.  He creeps into the underbrush.  He finds them at once, bundled together like a striped muff. Tom's cuddling another cat.  Now, that's something different, thinks Jade, and he feels for the little ones. He has June, his wife of all these years.  What would it be like to be lonely never really occurs to him.  So, he grabs them both up and runs.  The two cats are screaming to high heaven as the old timer drops them inside the front door, where they beeline under furniture. The new one goes out of sight. A stranger to the place, she goes mum. Tom nonchalantly takes to the stairs. 

The bearded fellow hurries around back, entering just as June sets out her salad, now complete with overpriced tomato slices, celery, a green pepper laid across the feast in the manner of a cross-stitch fence.

June takes two pies out of the micro, asks Jade if he's seen Tom when he did the putting away of all washing materials.

"Oh, Tom? No, guess he's still out there someplace.  Don't worry, he'll be along soon, I bet."

"Yes, I suppose," answers June, digging in with a fork. "Whatsisname's never one to miss a meal. Now, is he?"

After their meal, June takes a spot on the couch, picks up her knitting, which is sure to attract Tom, whose whereabouts at the moment are unknown. Then she spies him, pulling out from underneath Jade's recliner. Jade's in the shower, so she'll make sure to inform him, their Tom's gotten himself back inside. Oh what an intelligent little fellow.

The cat meows, as if objecting to anything at all, for no particular reason, then comes up to rub itself against June's legs.  This goes on a few minutes, as June notices her cat has a few burrs. Then she reaches for him, and that cat just goes berserk with happiness, as he jumps onto June's lap. Looking her squarely in the eyes, it begins to howl a piteous screech, rivaled only by thunder and restless wind, hitting recently washed windows with a vengeance.

June runs, holding the cat. "Oh, my, Tom, are you really this hungry?" She places a can of cat food onto Tom's dinner plate. The twin to Tom, digs in with gusto.

Hibernating, Tom thinks it best to share the food, not partake, although the smell of stinky store-bought cat food usually brings him out of hiding.  He elects to stay put upstairs, under a bed in the guest room.  Can it be true?  Has, he a new pal, to lay beside, cuddle through long nights, lick and care for as if it were he himself?  Thoughts of another real live cat in the house send Tom into a state of ecstasy and he promptly falls asleep.

Jade comes into the kitchen, dabbing at his wet hair with a bath towel.  "Oh, I see Tom's made it back."

June washes dishes, pays the two of them no mind.

Jade announces, "I think I'll comb Whatsisname after he eats."

June never wonders why Tom sits on the edge of Jade's knee until bedtime.  Not once.  Jade simply puts on the ballgame, rubbing the cat for the rest of the day.

This goes on for about three days.  One morning June notes that Tom is gaining weight.  Fearful, he may be eating wildlife, she directs Jade to not let him outside for a few days. 

"Yes, of course not. And you're right, June, he seems a bit paunchier, like me." He pats him tummy and smiles.

One afternoon, Jade must go for his tax return appointment. He thinks to shut Tom into the shed. Tom escapes and forgetful of the ruse, heedless of the usurper inside, he preens on the side porch atop a wooden picnic table.

June, meanwhile, unravels a few strands of wool from a striped cat's paw inside, cozy as sin, beside the fireplace. Dappled flames crisscross shadows outside, lighting the stage for erstwhile discovery.  So, there's Tom, now whom might this be?

"Oh, good heavens," she says aloud. "You're too fat? You are not Tom at all. Well, I never! That sneaky Jade!"

When Jade comes home, she tells him, they have a new cat who will go by Whatsername from now on.

"Nice choice, dear," agrees Jade. "You know people abandon pets left and right. It truly is raining cats and dogs, these days.  Out here in the burbs at least."

A few weeks later, appears as if by magical conjecture, three more Whatstheirnames.  Tom gladly washes kittens as they all relax in the parlor of a windswept, stormy eve. He's just too happy for words to express, smiling, purring all the time. June buys more cat food each week. Jade promises to wash more windows, but somehow time spent playing with cute striped, tabby kitties takes all his attention. As for their curtain to nature, streaked windows reveal day after day, even more pouring April rain.

The End
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