Tag: cats

My mother was an avid magazine reader. I can remember from the time I was a child what seemed to be a steady flow from the mailbox to her lap, as she curled up in her favorite chair, cigarettes and ashtray at hand, and depending on the time of day, her cup of black coffee, iced tea (sweetened), Diet Rite, Coke, Tab, or Diet Coke on the table next to her. The magazines: Time, Newsweek, Reader’s Digest, Saturday Evening Post, Look, Life, Ladies’ Home Journal, Better Homes and Gardens, Good Housekeeping, McCall’s, Redbook, TV Guide, Southern Living. No matter where we lived, those magazines with their articles and fiction, recipes and photos, were a constant. But since the times were a’changin’ as fast as our addresses, she also read Mad, Rolling Stone, Ms., and Mother Jones. I don’t think there was any magazine she wouldn’t read, and even after she lived on a fixed income, she kept up a few subscriptions.

She’s holding Joe Willie the cat here, but next to the end table, you can see her bucket o’ magazines. If your eyes are really sharp, you can also see her lit cigarette. She’s in her early forties in this photo.

By the time she died in 2008, those magazines were coming to her at my address.

Even though I wasn’t as absorbed by them as I apparently was in infancy, I would flip through them and then find homes for them: waiting rooms in clinics and doctors’ offices, Lynne’s break room at work, online friends who might enjoy them. Finally the subscriptions began to run out, and today I got this with the October issue of the lone remaining subscription:

The slogan for Ladies’ Home Journal is “Never underestimate the power of a woman.” I concur, but I would add, “Never underestimate the power of a woman who reads.” A lifetime of books and magazines kept a woman who had to drop out of school in eighth grade to take care of sick family members–whose only work outside the home was as a hospital, Red Cross, and museum volunteer–smart, savvy, aware, and connected to generations of men and women, many of whom thought she was pretty damn special. When I saw my nephew recently, he recounted a story of how her “boys” (a group of gay men who befriended her in her seventies) were going to throw a Wizard of Oz party, at which she would go in character as Dorothy (which was, after all, her name). They were able to find everything for her costume except the ruby slippers–so essential that without them, the party was canceled.

No matter; she pretty much thought all of life was her party, and everything she read was her guidebook for making it more interesting.

One Christmas both my father and my brother were stationed overseas (different countries), and we were a household of women. Well, except for the dog and my sister’s cat, Joe Willie. Here’s Joe Willie as a TV-obsessed youngster:

He got his name because of his four white feet. Quarterback Joe Namath, who led Alabama’s Crimson Tide to a 29–4 record over three seasons and later had a stellar career with the New York Jets, was known for many things, including his white football shoes when the rest of the Jets wore black. Joe Namath also had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and our Joe Willie was as legendary in our neighborhood.

These were the days before we knew to spay and neuter our pets, and therein lies a cautionary tale.

I’d like to think my sister took this photo because she was feeling the Christmas spirit as Mother and I decorated the tree. But I suspect she was documenting that once again, I’d robbed her closet for something to wear, because that’s her wool shorts-and-sweater set. Thanks, Debby! It’s probably about the last time I could fit into your clothes.

Once our tree was decorated and all the presents tucked beneath it, we decided to go with Mother to a party at some friends’ house. As we were leaving, we encountered a female cat on the porch, crying at Joe Willie in the window and begging him to come outside to…play.

“Nope, he’s staying in tonight,” my mother said. “You’ll have to find another boyfriend.”

What she failed to consider was that Joe Willie wanted to go out and…play. We came home to a tree all askew, ornaments scattered around it. Even worse, we had to get a new tree and my mother had to rebox and rewrap all the gifts. This Christmas is always referred to as “that time the cat peed all over everything.”

May your Christmas be cat urine-free.