Homes Across America

For the average twenty-five year old person, perhaps I haven’t really lived in that many places. In fact, until I was eighteen I lived in the same house where my family still resides, where I write this post with my feet wiggling, drinking coffee and listening to The Rolling Stones in my jammies, like every other partially-employed twenty-five year old person with kind parents.

But anyway, since leaving this wooden house on the outskirts of White Haven, I have left my heart and head in many places, confusing my idea of home and stretching my feelings and squashiness across wide swaths of this great country, and into the continents beyond.

Recent and forthcoming days see me revisiting a number of these places: Huntingdon, of course, which is probably the closest thing to a real home for me (especially when one lives in a memory ghost house), White Haven, adjacent to river under trees and with one-eyed friend, Lusby, land of forests and sands and Madre y Padre and smiling dog and straight-faced cat, briefly to Baltimore, breezy window house with Ingrid and Franco, and then onto California and New Mexico, to watch the sky widen and the ice ocean and sprawling deserts fill with our loved ones.

There will also be a jaunt to New York City, the place we most recently called home, where we at least had an address and received mail and had a little room once, and a three-legged cat to fill it.

I will be seeing her, too.

Uncle Roy has been diligent in his godfathering duties (After all, “when Jake and Erica die” Roy gets her.) in our summer absence, sending me photographs since we left her at Chateau de C.C. Jaspers.


Olive Sleeper

"Literally casually posing like this for minutes"

“Literally casually posing like this for minutes”


…and before as well, when Olive still woke us each morning with her loud squeals and litterbox smells and Roy came for dinner or lunch or a beer or anything.

These are from back in October, and this window-visitor is what Big Steve calls the “perfectly good” cat who used to frequent our fire escape. (“I can’t believe there was this cat who was literally knocking on your door and you had to go to the animal shelter and pick out the most damaged thing they had.” -Steve, roughly paraphrased.)







And these are the little Night Terror just going about business as usual.


Olive Crouching

Olive Eyes

Kisses for you and for you and for you.

About bearicaquinn

Smallish, smushy in the sad parts, certainly destined for cat-lady-dom. Enjoys boats, bikes, black coffee, pug faces, sourdough bread, the morning when you have slept long enough, beards, mountainsides, art, rooftops, etc. Will continue to live in things that are interestingly shaped. So octopus.
This entry was posted in Olive, The Cats of Summer and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s