Kitty

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

My father's mother was a magical woman. She was really more like a fairy godmother than a grandmother. Her name was Catharine, but we all called her Kitty. 

She lived in an apartment in Paris on Rue de la Paix, and one magical summer my little brother and I spent a whole month with her while our parents were off doing those things in France that a young childless couple might do. I remember how Kitty let us eat whatever we wished, and how every night she read bedtime stories to us – in French – over and over again to our hearts' content. 

I have such fond memories of Madeline and Babar. When she took us to the park, we happily learned French from our playmates, and the cereal boxes contained the sweetest little rubber animals, enticing us to consume copious amounts of cereal just so we could open another box and find yet another little creature. Of course, Kitty indulged our every fancy.

At least once each year, Kitty would travel to the United States for a visit, and my brother and I would spend a glorious two weeks with her at her sister's farm, our great aunt Laura. The two women seemed not to care in the least what we did, run barefoot through the stream, sleep in late, have 10 pieces of bacon for breakfast and stay up late watching television until we could stay awake no more, falling asleep with Laura’s dogs on the floor. 

We loved the rotten apple wars we waged with the neighbor children in the apple orchard out in back of the house. There is nothing quite the sweet smell of a rotten apple. We really ran quite wild.

Then, just before school started each fall, Kitty would appear and take us, each one by ourself, back-to-school shopping. I could choose three dresses, one coat and a pair of Buster Brown shoes. At the end of a long day, my parents would sit on the living room couch and exclaim as I modeled each outfit. She was my fairy godmother indeed.

And even though she was far away, I felt that she was ever so close. We exchanged letters, back and forth across the ocean, up until the time that she could no longer write. I remember how her handwriting began to waver, and then was barely readable, and then she stopped writing all together. Over the years, I would confess to her my teenaged wayward ways and she always counseled me with understanding. I later expressed my young motherhood joys, and she delighted in each new thing my babes accomplished, and yes, she consoled me in my honest young mother's frustrations. She was my ever so special confidant.

She meant so much to me that when I was about 8 years old, and thinking of more grown-up things, that I decided to name my own daughter Catharine, after her, and so I ended up having four children. Yes, Catharine is my youngest, my ever so special daughter, though of course, all three of her older brothers are also ever so special.

And so it was, that when our last big black dog shuffled on to that magical place where all dogs go, I thought that I would name our next creek valley dog after her as well. I agree that Catharine is not really a doggish kind of name, but Kitty really seemed quite perfect.

Little Kitty has been home with us now for a week. She is tiny, but will certainly grow larger. She warms my heart with her puppy antics and has already learned to sit. We are now working on drop and down. While we do the animal chores, she enjoys watching the chicken show. She sits in the yard with her head curiously cocked to one side. She has easily gone nose to nose with the horses through the pasture fence, but is wary of the sheep and goats when we let them free range. 

Needless to say, she follows me wherever I go.

All I need do is call "Kitty, Kitty" and of course she comes running, though it occurs to me that she might end up suffering from a wee bit of identity uncertainty, but I don't really think so. My grandmother knew exactly who she was. She carved her own identity as an independent woman far ahead of her time. She followed her dreams, and even though she lived far away from my home, I knew that she was really ever so close. My memories and this little dog at my feet certainly bring smiles.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in Ohio south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.

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