262 Miles and All the Air Between

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It is a dense rain day here and the yard is turning green, slowly. Olive stares out the window at the empty birdfeeder and watches the creek slide by.

Often when unwillingly watching time escape I think in 24-hour sets– where I will be when the sun and moon have cycled and I am in the same part of a different day. 24 hours ago Sarah’s Sarah-It-Works slow light and bird clock brought her room into focus and the six of us bunked in there– on the bed, along the bed, at the foot of the bed, and the dogs wedged in between people heard her from the kitchen rifling through dishes, the whirr of the coffee grinder, the kettle screaming until she appeared with an enormous tray of cups of different shapes and sizes brimming with coffee and we all sat up in our pajamas and spoke and laughed and peered at each other from over blankets.

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I have a difficult time readjusting after weekends like this one. I am afflicted with a big-time buddy hangover.

It is strange, because though each of my visits to New York are poignant, I am increasingly reminded of why I am not suited to live there, and the longer I stay in Huntingdon it just continues to speak to me, give to me. But oh, oh do I miss all the ones we left there when we drove away last May. And that place still holds something for me.

We slid out of Manhattan when the sun glinted against all the windows in SoHo, telling stories of another time we drove this way. Traffic started and stopped, the tangled street ahead of us dotted with red. And then we drove under water and were gone and as we crossed through New Jersey and into Pennsylvania the sky smeared with pastels and increasingly the air smelled of woodsmoke and river. On the side of Rt. 22 between Mount Union and Huntingdon our car’s dim headlights caught a man in orange walking on the shoulder, pushing a wheelchair with a dead deer draped across it. After leaving Helena at the shop and Jake with his motorcycle, I drove home through the fields with the windows down to hear the peepers peeping, our town’s only radio station singing old songs back in response.

From the front porch I could hear Olive yowling, welcoming us home.

Here are some cats from just some of those people.

from HURRICANE BEN

Andrew WK, complete with kitten companion.

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from BLUM

Sent in anticipation of this very visit.

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from SARAH

Coon

 

from MIKE SHEA

The one, the only… Scooter. A “tangential associate” of Mike Shea.

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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 Mixed Bag O'Cats, The Cats of Others and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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