Author: lindaktaylor

Editor, writer, college instructor, mom to three great kids and grandma to five more, Christ follower, pet lover.

Enjoy the Blessings

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It’s a new year—well, thirty days into a new year. I purposely avoided writing earlier this month because I didn’t want to think about new year’s resolutions or dieting or what I will do better this year.

But darned if I can’t get away from it.

I have to admit that 2011 wasn’t necessarily a banner year. It had its ups and definitely its downs. Some amazing highlights, but also some deep darkness. Self-doubt. Frustration. Fear. Depression. Sorrow. Days and days of barely coping.

Surely you understand.

So many people in my world faced difficult things in 2011—friends and family suffered through trauma, sorrow, fear, loss of friendships, betrayal, and big questions for God about how their past and their present can possibly come together and make any kind of sense in the future.

And I had many of those same questions. Suffice it to say, I want this year to have a little more brightness.

Alas, no amount of resolutions can keep bad things from happening. I can resolve to have a better year, but I don’t know what the next eleven months will bring.

So I don’t make new year’s resolutions. But I’ve certainly thought about a few things that might help this year be better—or at least help me react correctly to whatever God sends my way. I thought about this after reading my sister’s recent blog. She’s decided to purge from her life things that shouldn’t be there. (Go to my blogroll to the right and click on “Carol Fielding Blog.” Then subscribe!). She challenges us to “define necessity.”

So that’s what my husband and I are working to do. There are things we need to clean out of our lives, things we need to let go of, things we need to do better—for ourselves, for each other, for our family.

Sometimes we let things into our lives that shouldn’t be there. Sometimes we are, as my sister describes it, “drowning in stuff.” It could be physical stuff sitting around our homes crowding our focus; it could be negative attitudes crowding out our joy; it could be wrong actions taking our lives in wrong directions. We need to get rid of that “stuff” and get ourselves back on track so we can move forward with our focus on what’s most important. We need to “define necessity.”

What about you? What is taking your focus away from what’s most important? What is distracting you from your path? What do you need to purge from your life to keep you moving forward?

Sometimes that’s what it takes. I can’t control what happens in 2012, but I can do my best to stay where I need to be—close to my heavenly Father.

We’ve got some exciting and wonderful things happening this year and we intend to enjoy every moment. Actually, I would say that is what’s most important. There are only 365 days in this year (well, now there are 334) and it is absolutely a necessity that I enjoy every blessing God has given me.

That’s what I want for you, too.

The Tradition Continues

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Some traditions are just worth continuing. As far back as I can remember, my family has decorated cut-out Christmas cookies. Mom would spend a day mixing up the dough and letting it chill. The next day I helped her (and later my sister joined us) as she patiently cut out the shapes in the dough, lifting them carefully with a spatula onto a cookie sheet, setting it into the oven, wiping her hands on her apron and starting again–mashing the dough together, adding more fresh from the refrigerator, and rolling it out. She has always been a master with a rolling pin. The recipe says, “Roll the dough to 1/8 inch thick” and I have no doubt that her dough, spread across the counter, was 1/8 of an inch thick all the way across, without a wave to be seen. Soon the counter was covered with piles of white cookies–trees and little men and little women and Santas and reindeer and stars and holly leaves.

Finally came the evening of decorating. Mom would once again don her apron, gather the bags of confectioners sugar, some milk, some vanilla, her biggest mixing bowl, and her beaters. She divided the mound of white frosting into several small bowls. Food coloring created red, blue, yellow, and green, along with the requisite white. Each bowl had a spoon (for stirring) and a knife for decorating (“Careful! Don’t mix the colors!”).

Out of the cupboard came sprinkles and red hots and little silver ball decorations and coconut (of course, makes great snow!) and chocolate chips. Those and the bowls of frosting went into the center of the kitchen table. Each person got a dinner plate that served as the palette and working surface.

And a glass of milk. The rule was, of course, you break it, you eat it. And one needs milk to wash down one’s creation.

My dad would meticulously create his little cookie men–working hard first with the white frosting and then, with a toothpick, putting on the trademark blue stripes of a New York Yankees uniform. I loved to make the Christmas trees “jawbreaker” style with as many of those little silver balls as I could make stick into the green frosting–or make the “hot tamale” style covered with red hots. My sister–ever the artist–made creations we always oohed and ahhed over. Mom was in charge of keeping the supply of cookies and frosting coming, and dutifully moving the decorated cookies to another surface to harden.

She usually made her trademark fudge and some popcorn balls as well, and those, along with carefully chosen decorated cookies, ended up in baskets wrapped in plastic wrap and ribbon that my sister and I delivered to all the neighbors.

Across the years as men entered our lives, my sister and I got to christen them into the family cookie decorating tradition. My husband tried to create cookies with deformities (don’t ask); my sister’s husband, a diehard Red Sox fan, created a Red Sox cookie to give the Yankee a run for his money. As children were born, they too joined in the process as soon as their little hands could sprinkle the sprinkles or hold a short knife and spread the frosting.

And so, last week, the day after Thanksgiving, I donned my apron and stirred up a batch of sugar cookies, duly dividing the dough and putting it into the refrigerator to chill. The boys were home (with their girls) and after they did the Black Friday thing and slept in, they pulled the boxes from the basement and Christmas proceeded to throw up all over our house (sorry, I couldn’t help using the analogy–it’s so appropriate). As they decided to find a place for every Christmas item my husband and I have gathered over the last 28 years, put up the tree, and wrap the porch in lights, I started cutting, scooping, and baking. And baking. And baking.

Maybe quadrupling the recipe wasn’t such a good idea . . .

And baking. And baking . . . placing the carefully baked white cookies on a line of foil on the table, preparing for the next phase. I was so thankful that the kids were excited to decorate. I recounted to them a time (probably when they were all in junior high) when all three of my kids got too cool for such traditions and my husband and I had sat at the kitchen table by ourselves splatting frosting on a hundred cookies, leaving the creativity for another Christmas. This time would be different–and it was.

I got out the confectioners sugar, stirred up the green and red and blue (no yellow–where is that yellow? Darn, I’m reminded that yellow is a primary color and we can’t make it by mixing). One person tried to make purple and sort of got a brown color–which worked great for the bottoms of the Christmas trees. We got beautiful creations–Van Gogh-inspired decorated Christmas trees and some with three-dimensional lights (thanks to artfully dipped and placed marshmallows), along with a zombie and Frankenstein.

And they stayed with me till the bitter end, licking fingers, munching broken arms and heads, and, like my mom before me, I moved the decorated cookies to another flat surface to dry.

The cookies are already on their way to two colleges and their sets of friends. I have no doubt that by tonight, the cookies will all be gone. Eaten, no doubt, with plenty of milk.

Some traditions are worth continuing. Thanks mom and dad.

And so, the Christmas season has begun!

October Skies

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The summer has passed and fall is upon us. Today marks two years since we trundled our way from the city to our little spot in the world we call “green acres.” My writing classmates would say it’s a cliche for me to mention that I can’t believe where the time has gone, but . . . well, I can’t. Time has flown. Changes have occurred. Many things remain the same. And all of it by God’s grace.

We came here as a married couple plus one dog. The count is now: one married couple, one dog, one part-time dog, two housecats, four barn cats, two chickens, and one rooster. I haven’t counted how many fish are in our pond, but they all slip up to the surface every morning when they see me coming to feed them–they’re my private fan club, and there are at least twenty of them.

Oh, and people-wise, we have been fortunate enough to add a son-in-law in the last year and will add a daughter-in-law next year. We are empty-nesters enjoying the benefits of an ever-expanding family.

We have lived through the four Indiana seasons twice. We have planted flowers, and borne the winds that buffeted us from across the cornfields, and shoveled snow, and mopped up water in the basement after torrential rains.

And we have enjoyed the beauty of countless sunsets. Almost every night one or the other of us will stand at the front door and say, “Come ‘ere! You gotta see this! It’s amazing!”

We’ve gotten used to traveling on tight two-lane roads without edges or curbs, often riddled with potholes. Sort of like the journey of life. Sometimes we sail along smooth roads; we’ve also managed to hit a few potholes. We get our bearings and continue on. We have places to go, people to see, things to do.

We get older. We get wiser. We appreciate what we have. We are blessed.

Under these beautiful Indiana October skies, we stand constantly amazed. We do not know what our path will look like in the coming years. But we have faith in a great God. And that makes every day an adventure.

We look around at our growing family and our many creatures and our green acres, and we can only say “Come ‘ere! You gotta see this! It’s amazing!”

How About a Nice Cup of Tea?

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In my current grad school class that focuses on fiction writing, our assignment is to write a “diptych” or “triptych,” two or three stories that are linked the way stories would be linked in a composite novel. These linked stories are able to stand alone but are related in such a way that, when read together, they give the reader that much deeper an understanding of each individual story.

I have a visual diptych right here on my porch, two diverse stories that have very little to link them until today, because today my husband and I hung up the shelf and washed my teacup collection.

Now let me tell you my “diptych.”IMG_8925

The shelf is not just any old shelf, you see. This shelf means so much to me because it came from my Grandpa Chaffee. And it isn’t even a shelf; it’s a mail sorter that came from a post office in a tiny town many many years ago. My grandfather was a rural mail carrier all his life. He exemplified the old saying, “Neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail” would keep the mail from getting through. He drove his big old car all over those country roads. If he couldn’t get through due to western Pennsylvania snowfalls, he would strap on his cross country skis, grab the poles, and get the mail up to the house. My dad recalls riding with him at times and getting to be the one to cross all manner of difficult terrain to make sure the mail got through.

Somehow my grandfather ended up with this mail sorter and it ended up in the barn on his property (the barn my cousins and I spent many a happy afternoon exploring as our parents yelled at us to “stay off the second floor” because they were certain we’d fall through). The post office probably remodeled and updated, and gramps asked to keep the sorter. Maybe grandma thought she could do something with it. Maybe gramps just couldn’t bear to see it tossed away.

I’m glad he did that. My husband immediately saw the potential in it when we cousins were asked to take what we wanted from grandpa’s home after his death. We decided on the mail sorter.

Now for part two.

IMG_8927The teacups are a collection I began years ago when someone told me I should collect something and I couldn’t figure out what. Collections seemed odd to me–why have lots of something that just sits around? I decided if I was going to collect something, those things might as well be useful. Teacups seemed to fit the bill–beautiful yet usable. These teacups have special meaning to me because I began the collection when my family lived in Europe during my high school years. Every time we visited a country, I purchased a teacup. So these cups represent much of Europe. (Of course, my high school mind thought I would remember where I bought each one, and my 50-plus-year-old mind hasn’t a clue. I recall the one I bought in Paris, but that’s it. That’s kind of sad, really.) Many other cups are gifts from family and friends wanting to add to my collection. I have full-size cups and several demitasse cups. They are beautiful works of art. Just looking at them makes me happy.

Quite by accident, I discovered that the teacup saucers fit exactly in the spaces between the slats of the mail sorter. Voila. My own personal diptych–two stories now fit together. A mail sorter from a time past when folks stopped by and visited one another and shared conversation and a pot of tea.

Would you like to stop by? Tea’s brewing . . . and you can choose from a fine collection of teacups!

A Foul Fowl

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So much for my care for our dear survivor chickens (referenced in my previous blog) . . . This past week I turned my back on our rooster and learned the hard way not to do that. The next thing I knew, I felt claws at my back that were tangled in my hair.

My Facebook update, referencing this event, led to all manner of snarky comments from “You never know what a cock-a-doodle-do” (thanks Dave), to the help from my cousin who gave me the title to this post (thanks Rhea), to Randy wondering if I’ve been eating too much at Chick-fil-A thus provoking the attack, to Maggie warning me that PETAR (People for the Ethical Treatment of Attacking Roosters) had caught wind of what happened and are now watching me.

He is a foul fowl indeed.

I admit, we don’t know much about chickens. We have to go to Google every time we have a question about what to do next. We naively let 12 of the original 15 get eaten by the local wildlife, but so far have been able to keep these last three safe. We recently visited Menards to look at paint swatches for a decorating project we’ll start next month to make this place look more “us,” and in the process, wandered into the gardening section. The helpful guy in that department listened to our dilemma and suggested that we get both chicken wire to build a pen and a set-up with low-voltage electrified wire to run around the pen that would gently zap our marauding fox should he venture too near.

We put up the chicken wire fence, creating a large area beside the barn for the chickens to wander and be safe. We never got around to installing the low-voltage wire because it didn’t take more than a couple of days for the chickens to realize that they could simply fly out of their protective area and continue to wander the yard. The three of them stay together, cawing and clucking, and, yes, cock-a-doodle dooing. Then, when they want to, they all fly back inside their penned-in area.

And apparently Mr. Rooster has decided to let us know that he is in charge here. I didn’t know that roosters crowed ALL DAY LONG. Call me stupid, but I thought they just crowed at dawn. But no, they merely START at dawn. We can tell where the three amigos are in our yard at any particular moment by listening for Mr. Rooster.

It’s funny to watch him. While most other farm animals make their noises with half-sleepy nonchalance (mooo, baaa, cawww), Mr. Rooster works hard to make his presence known. When he gets ready to cock-a-doodle-do, his neck stretches up as high as it can go, his eyes bulge out, and the piercing call comes from the very depth of his being. He is here, he is large (at least, he thinks he is), and he is in charge (ditto). The two hens will follow him in and out of the protective area. “OK lady, bring food, bring water, open and close the chicken coop door, but don’t forget who I am. Cock-a-doodle-doooo!”

Just don’t turn your back on him.

Life and Death in the Country

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I have been facing the difficult reality of life and death in the country. We came to the country as city folks who have been learning the hard way about the harshness of nature.

Not that there isn’t death everywhere, but it seems more–well–in my face here. The sadness came to me the day I sat on my back porch and saw a fox attack the little group of chickens that were trusting the safety of our little back garden. The fox came out of nowhere. He must have crept along the sides of the buildings and attacked from there. The flock scattered in all directions but the fox managed to grab one. I saw him tearing across the lawn toward the high hay in the field behind us with one of the “Three Amigos” (the three matching red chickens) in his mouth. I chased him, but of course was unable to save my poor little clucky friend.

We’ve been wondering what’s been happening–we started with 15 chickens and are now down to three. Hence my sorrow. My husband says we should think “circle of life” and realize that we provided the fast food joint (a la Kentucky Fried) for the local wildlife population. Surely some little baby foxes had full tummies thanks to our provision.

I have on purpose not fallen in love with these chickens. Leave it to me to be away for a few days and then hear from my husband by phone, “Guess what I bought?” I came home to find 15 little chicks in a big box under a warm light. Various different colors and breeds and sizes. They grew. Fast. There were the big red ones, and the little ones with feathers on their feet, and the tiny white one with black trim around his feathers as if someone carefully used a black magic marker to outline him. They really have their own kind of beauty.

Once they outgrew their box, we moved them onto the back porch (it was still too cold to put them into their coop). Finally, when the weather broke, we put them outside, opening the coop door for them each day to strut down the special walkway my husband built and wander the yard. I love watching them strut about and peck the ground. I love hearing the rooster crow. I enjoyed having them wander the entire yard, staying in their little groups together, sitting under the bushes on the hot days. When they wandered too far, we chased them back, with them “cawww”-ing at us as if annoyed that we dared to chase them back to safety. Once we even had to chase them back to our yard from across the road. Yes, they crossed the road. Why? I have no idea.

Dumb chickens.

After the horrifying fox attack, we lost a couple more (including one more of the “Amigos”)–feathers in a pile beside the tall grass of the adjoining field revealed yet another attack. We have since put up chicken wire and are keeping our free-range chickens penned up to try to protect them. From certain death.

And I guess that goes for the sadness I feel every time I see some poor animal by the side of the road. From my perch shotgun on a recent lengthy trip to the Northeast, I counted ten deer by the side of the road–and that in just one stretch of highway. Poor sweet deer running and skipping and then . . . well, I don’t want to talk about it. Seriously, I can’t even watch those nature shows where one animal kills another. It’s all just too sad.

We’ll never be hunters. We’ll never be able to kill and eat (these chickens are for “pleasure” only, and maybe eggs; we could never hurt them ourselves). Not that I have a problem with those who do hunt (bless you sis and bro-in-law), but somehow I just can’t yet stomach death in the country.

I know they’re just creatures and it occurs all the time. I just don’t want to see it, hear it, feel it.

But that’s part of life, right? Hard things come. We buck up. We get through it. We rejoice with the three little chickens who are the survivors. We protect what we have. We do our best with what’s left.

Sure, there’s pain. But there’s also survival. There’s life. Real life.

And that’s what we celebrate.

Guess I better go close up the chicken coop. They’re counting on me to protect them as best I can. Even though they don’t have a clue.

The Sound of Silence

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After the ice-hail-sleet storms of last week left a glossy sheen to the little coating of snow that had already fallen on our vista, yesterday we had a different kind of snowfall. I’m beginning to get used to seeing snow “fall” horizontally past my kitchen windows. The wind whips across the cornfields from the west, the way our house faces, and the snow rushes past as if in a hurry to be somewhere else. In fact, most of the accumulation we get is on our front steps, where the wind sends it into drifts. Gives new meaning to “snowed in.”

But yesterday, the snow fell vertically in those fat snowflakes that act like they have all the time in the world between heaven and earth. Of course, I’ve seen it before. I’ve lived in enough snowy places. Yet there’s something about that kind of snowfall that always makes me pause and watch. It’s peaceful. The wind didn’t stir as the flakes frosted the branches of the huge pine trees outside my kitchen window.

When I let our puppy out, I too stepped out onto the porch. And that’s when it happened.

Silence.

It was literally so quiet it seemed like I could hear the snow fall. I did a mental accounting of the sounds that normally circle my world. Cars on the faraway highway? No. Dogs barking next door? No. Wind rustling through the trees? No. The crunch of a shovel as a neighbor attempts to clear his driveway? No. The hum of a snowblower? No. Not even the rustle or call of birds.

Nothing. Just silence.

It actually startled me. I called to my husband, “Come here. You gotta come hear this,” when I was actually asking him to come hear . . . the sweet sound of nothing.

Why is that so unusual? When was the last time I was in complete silence? I can’t remember. Silence is rare.

The snow was falling so hard that the barn across the field in front of our house—bright red that provides me with daily delight—had disappeared behind a white curtain. The snow covered the glossy sheen with white powder, evening out the ruts our cars had made earlier and covering the road in front of our house.

I could have stood there all day, soaking in the blessed silence. Of course, it wouldn’t be long before the snowblowers fired up and a four-wheel-drive made tracks down the pristine road.

But for a few moments on a Saturday morning, I stood in wonder . . . and silence.

Of Hyphens

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My friends, I have been lax. I know that writing a blog is supposed to be a regular thing, but perhaps it’s because I live with deadlines in every other part of my writing life—work and school—that I rebel against them in my private writing life.

But then again, I should be a bit more disciplined. I could rattle off all kinds of excuses of my busy work schedule, teaching schedule, school schedule, and wedding planning, but I know that you haven’t been crying and wondering where I’ve been. You have so much else to do—and read—in your lives. I am humbled and honored that you take a few precious minutes of your day to check in with me whenever I find the inspiration to write . . . and post.

I began this blog to talk about us city folks newly moved to the country. While I’ve enjoyed telling you about the big sky and the critters that have made their way into our home and hearts, I got myself uninspired. I mean, I still love the fact that the sun sets off of my front porch across the farm field and behind the red barn, but for some reason life closed in again. Busy.

I’ve been thinking about hyphens lately. As a writer/copyeditor/proofreader, I am well aware of the differences between hyphens and en-dashes and em-dashes. It’s probably more correct to call it an em-dash. Whatever it is, it represents a life.

And my life is busy.

Sometimes when I visit my parents in Pennsylvania, I enjoy a quiet walk through the cemetery across Route 427 that runs in front of their house just outside Corry. It’s a long-standing cemetery, with some new headstones tall and straight—shiny granite with loving thoughts; others are tipped at odd angles—moss-covered and nearly illegible. A group of three small block headstones, dirtied with time, are clustered near the turn in the path and always catch my eye. There’s a woman, her husband, and a baby with just one day noted on the tiny headstone. I wonder what is in the hyphens. By the dates I can tell that the husband was eleven years older than his wife, and he died twenty years before she did. The tiny headstone represents a baby who died at birth and didn’t even get a name or a hyphen. This married couple had one very terrible day in their hyphens—one day that surely caused pain for the remaining twenty years of the husband’s life and forty years of his wife’s. At one point, the woman laid her husband to rest and then lived as a widow for another twenty years.

Did they have a happy marriage? Other children? What occupations had they performed? Was the man a banker or a chimney sweep? Did they have financial struggles or did they live a life of ease? What kind of life was in the hyphens?

All the headstones have hyphens.

Another group of three in a new part of the cemetery share the horror of a car accident that took the lives of three young teenagers in the community. The parents had even paid for pictures of their dear daughters to be etched in the headstones. I always stand in front of these and wonder about the hyphens. Young girls—worried about their hairstyles, their weight, their next date, their future husbands—got into a car on the way to who knows where and ended up there, together forever in granite. The different starting dates and identical ending date of their lives are etched below the pictures of young smiling, hopeful faces. That first date had seen a mere fifteen birthday celebrations before there were no more. Now it is a mere etched hyphen on a headstone.

And then, nearby, my dear Grandma Grover is buried. I know more about her hyphen. Some of it joyous, some of it painful. All of it a blessing to those who knew her.

I don’t mean to be morose, but when I think about being busy—too busy—I think about my hyphen. One day, that’s what will be left of me for some future writer to consider as she walks past my gravestone on a sunny summer day.

I want my hyphen to matter. Nothing wrong with being busy—I think I’m generally busy with pretty good things. I’ve tried to live a life pleasing to my heavenly Father. I’ve tried to enjoy the sun on my face or the snow blowing horizontally (at least here it does) past my window, the smiles on my children’s faces, the feel of my husband’s hand in mine.

I was doing my bi-weekly four-hour commute last week playing one of those old Wow! CDs with Christian music from the 1970s. I sang at the top of my lungs with Phil Keaggy and Don Francisco and The Imperials and Andre Crouch. I cried unabashedly. And suddenly I was filled with an overwhelming sense of gratefulness for all of you—the many people who have touched my life across the last five decades. I don’t know what snippets you remember about me, but all of you have a spot in my memory reserved just for you. A word. A smile. A bit of encouragement. Some wise piece of advice. A hug. Moments of uncontrolled laughter. Times of tears.

You make up my hyphen. God put you in my life at that moment, and into now, for a reason.

Thanks for making my hyphen matter. I hope I have been able to give as much as I have received.

And Then There Were Two

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“Mom, can I bring Terra?”

My daughter speaking. She had not yet seen her new home and so was coming for a visit. But she needed to bring along her new feline friend. If you read last month’s post, Terra is one of the litter of kittens born to the stray cat that found its way to my sister’s back porch just in time to give birth. Said daughter happened to be visiting after the birth event and, you guessed it, simply had to have a kitten. (Thanks a lot, sis.)

Never mind that come fall she would be back in the college dorm where cats would not be welcomed (to her credit, sis did bring that fact up to her niece). Never mind that she would need to find a home for her kitten during the semester. No. All that would be, well, logical thinking. Instead, running on the emotions all of us have felt when visiting any pet store or after handling tiny kittens or puppies, my daughter brought one home. The little gray speckled one. The one she and her fiance named Terra–earth.

OK, so daughter and Terra arrive on our doorstep. Snickers, immediately sensing a new friendship on the horizon, leapt to the opportunity (literally) and quickly discovered that some friendships take time. KitKat, sensing competition, stalked around the edges.

During this week, the humans in the house had hospital appointments, which ended in a tonsillectomy for my daughter. Good for her, but decidedly not fun. By the end of the week she still felt miserable and was in no shape to do a nine-hour drive. We got a plane ticket . . .

. . . and a cat.

But you know what? I have discovered a brand new joy in life. There really is nothing quite like a cat snuggled up on your chest and purring. What an incredibly amazing and comforting sound! Having never owned or been around cats, I had never experienced that. What an amazing God to create these creatures who just love us so much! I have heard that cats are “stand-offish” and “sinister” and even “loners.” Well, not these two cats; they are lovers from the word go. And with a dog in my lap and two cats purring on either side, I can’t imagine feeling anything but joy.

And the three animals have decided to all just get along. They pounce, play, wrestle, and then fall asleep together in a furry heap.

So we have attracted yet another furry friend. We also have found a couple of garden snakes by the pond, plus several frogs who hang on the lily pads and along the rocks . . . but they’re way less fun.

I’ll stick with the furry, purry ones. But maybe we have enough now . . .

The Kitten Who Found Us

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It seems that our “animal attraction” continues. I’ve written about the dog who came to visit (twice), and last month about the lost black kitten who found its way into our garden. The saucer of milk we left out that night?

Empty in the morning.

The next day, we continued to hear meowing in the unmowed acre of our property. Patient waiting allowed us to glimpse black fur and blue-green eyes. “Blackie” was there all right. Stalking us. Watching us. We filled a bowl with milk, took it into the field, and set it where she would find it. Our rustling into the field only made her run away, but the bowl of milk was again empty the next day. We worried about her spending the night out there what with truly wild animals around and hawks circling above, but she wouldn’t let us come close. She’d just stare at us through the grass and keep her distance.

The next morning, however, Tom found her in the garage. She was hiding under his equipment and climbing around the motorcyle and bouncing across cabinets as if totally at home.

“Let me have one of your shoestrings,” he said, pulling one out of my gym shoe before I could answer. “I’ll make friends with her.” And he sat on the cement garage floor dangling that string until the kitten could stand the curiosity no longer and reached out with a little clawed paw.

Another day went by, another round of shoestring play, and kitten was in his arms . . . and on the porch . . . and in my lap . . . and in our hearts.

I’ve never in my life owned a cat, so don’t know a thing about them. My sister Carol offered advice (she of her own animal attraction, now currently caring for several kittens born to the stray cat who found its way to her porch just in time to give birth). We would need to get her to a vet, should she decide to stay (and once we get her to a vet, we’ll know for sure whether we have a he or a she. I told you, I’ve never had a cat and I’m not interested in figuring out that part).

Next problem, however, was a planned family vacation. We were just getting her used to us; would she stick around? We went out and purchased a self-watering bowl for water and another for food along with a bag of kitten vittles. We left the garage open just enough to let her in and out. We even (silly us) left the porch door slightly ajar for her to make her way there should she decide she wanted to cool off.

But would she decide to stay? That was the question.

After a week away, we arrived back to look for “our” kitten. “Here, kitty kitty kitty,” we called as we wandered around the yard and garage.

Nothing. We feared the worst. She had gone away, or she’d been . . .

Then, there stood Snickers, still, staring under the truck. Our beloved Shih Tzu, who was still trying to figure out this black creature, had found something. I got down on my hands and knees to peer under the vehicle and saw the familiar blue eyes. A dangling of a shoelace later, and she was back.

She hadn’t left after all, and she didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Each morning, she was in the garage and would bound onto the porch when we called to her. But now that she was apparently going to be part of the family, she needed a name–a candy bar name to follow in the tradition of our dogs Reese Cup and Snickers. I went to Facebook for advice (where else?), and Karen gave me the most obvious and perfect name–KitKat.

KitKat made her way out of spending nights in the garage to making her home on the porch, and was meant to stay there. I even put up one of those gates across the doorway, the kind we used across the stairway when our kids were toddlers. KitKat just jumped up and over. I had no idea they could do that. She liked the idea of coming into the house where the action was–where she could be chased by her new furry playmate.

We tried to keep her on the porch, but every time we closed the door, she would look so pathetically through the glass at us and the resident dog that we couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Pllleeeaaassseee can I come in?”

Good grief. We are just such suckers. I don’t know who did it first, but the door was soon opened and the invitation made. “Come on in, KitKat.”

What can I say? We fell in love with the kitten who found us.

Chalk it up to “animal attraction.” Wonder what we’ll attract next?