About Cattie

For all of you who were wondering about the caterpillar in the last blog (Prose of a Small Box Store), here is the tale of Cattie.

I wished I could cry. But I couldn't, which felt worse. And here is how it ended up that I killed Cattie:

Simeon had found a very hairy caterpillar while I was at the market. He joyously kept it in a plastic baggie, complete with air holes, occasional water drops, a rock, and various plant materials to keep it comfortable. In fact, "it" was a she, I learned. And "she" had a name: Cattie. This caterpillar became the 5-year-old's fast friend and he was constantly talking about her, taking her out for "walks" on his hand or the table, and telling me all about her feelings and thoughts. I had to admit that Cattie was a beautiful caterpillar. She loved getting out, going for a wriggle, and fooling us all into thinking she was lost when she was really camouflaged on a chair. Her escapades  caused quite a stir.

Not to be left out, with a little help 3-year-old Safia was able to secure her own caterpillar. She named hers "Smart car: a Mazda". This origins of this name came from Safia's enthusiasm for cars. She was the first to call out if she saw a Smart car, and she knew that we drove a Mazda. Smartcaramazda was predestined for roving success. But while Safia enjoyed keeping up with her brother's latest interest, Simeon was practically inseparable from his caterpillar.

Nonetheless, I had to inform Simeon that we couldn't take Cattie on our trip to Science World. She would most certainly get smushed while being carried through a multitude of activities. The car would be way too hot for her to stay in as well. She would have to stay back at the hotel, contained securely and well hidden from any room service personnel. As we drove away without her, I saw the corners of the boy's mouth droop. He was too quiet. We all knew he was missing Cattie. 

A while later my son had become nicely distracted. He seemed to have forgotten Cattie for a while, at least. But his younger sister wouldn't let that happen. "I wonder how Cattie's doing" Safia nonchalantly dropped, reading him with her eyes for a reaction. I shot her a glaring look. Of course, it set him brooding all over again. Later I took Safia aside. "Don't mention Cattie," I whispered. She complied, after we'd rehashed empathy in 4 year old terms. When we returned to the hotel, there was Cattie, still in one lively piece as usual.

Unfortunately, since we were on a trip, Cattie didn't have a proper container. So the plastic baggie had to do as a substitute. This temporary solution was part of what led to Cattie's demise. Another part of the problem was that Simeon never put the baggie in the same place twice. 

So I had no way of knowing where Cattie was when I set the laptop down. Down on a tabletop in the dark hotel room while the kids slept. Then I realized that there was a plastic bag sticking out from under the laptop. I froze.  I contritely lifted the laptop. There was Cattie, but wait - she was still moving! Desperately, I opened the baggie. She tried frantically to get out, but kept going the wrong way, ramming repeatedly into the bottom. She curled up her body, and opened it again, curled and opened again, curled and opened again. Then she was completely still. I touched her. She didn't move at all. As I mourned, I realized that I had come to love this three inch ball of fluff, complete with personality, gender, and a name.

First thing in the morning, Simeon took her out on the porch to get out of the bag. He came running back a few  moments later. "Cattie's dead!" he said. He sobbed and sobbed, saying how much he loved Cattie. I held and comforted him. I told him how it had happened. After a very long while he cheered up a little by thinking about growing his own crystals. 

Two nights later, I heard whimpering sounds. Simeon was crying himself to sleep. 

The next day he said that he would never forget Cattie, not even in grade 1, 2, 3, or when he graduated. Not until he died.  I asked him where he'd found her. "On the garbage can," he said. "The garbage can along the sidewalk in White Rock, just outside of the market I was shopping at?" I asked. "Yes," he smiled. "Wow, you saved her from the garbage can," I said. He just grinned. "Now go to sleep," I said, mussing up his hair. "I don't want you to be tired for school tomorrow."

It's funny how a tiny creature could become so significant through the love of a little boy: one that could have easily been stepped on by accident, or taken out with the trash. It got me thinking. How many people have been stepped on; then judged - taken out with the trash? Everyone needs to be loved, to feel valued and significant. Whether marginalized or well attended, working at the bottom, working at the top, on the psyche ward, newsworthy, coasting along, striving for success, or sleeping in the park, we all need love.

If anyone happens across an extra-hairy caterpillar with black and yellow stripes, please feel free to drop it off if you're driving by. Better yet, we'll even come and pick it up. I know it would make one little boy very happy.

Prose of a Small Box Store

The day all started with breakfast at "Blazing Bagels". We were on vacation, and in this relaxed, Pacific coast town, unspoken rules were different than in the city.  

A lady sitting there smiled deeply at me, eating a bagel she and a friend had brought themselves because the store didn't have any gluten free. This way they could still hang out with their friends who could eat the bagels that were actually from Blazing Bagels. Two fire chiefs came in, followed by three municipal landscapers. The lady told one of the latter that he "smelled like hash" so he backed away and stood slightly behind the other two. That warming, small town feel was only just beginning. The next task was finding a grocery store. 

The first place I found said "Grocery" on the outside, but only sold flowers and a few items in glass fridges. Walking further, I spied boxes of fruit outside and found a tiny market. I don't know what it was called or if there was a sign, but outside someone had thoughtfully placed a token umbrella for customers to stand under and then dash out of again to get the fruit that sat poignantly in the rain.

Wafting through the doorway was the voice of Rod Stewart singing, "What a Wonderful World". And there he was, on a big flatscreen just above the tomatoes, crooning to vegetables and fruits crammed all over the place. There was a huge saltwater aquarium behind the front counter, maintained immaculately. There was a flat of mushrooms balancing on a box like an afterthought by my knees, priced and unpriced fruit crammed everywhere. For the bit of space to fit through it all, the word "aisle" could not have aptly been used. No style of stroller would have made it through. A sign plastered in a luxurious little space between fruit cartons read "If you are grumpy, irritable, or in any way grouchy you will be charged an extra $20 for the hassle of having to deal with you". I moved along, as if floating, charmed as the music continued "I see trees of green...red roses too, I see em bloom...for me and for you". In "slow mo" I made it to the counter, where my children were grinning with lollipops in their hands that the store lady had given them. 

There were a couple of people in line behind me as I came face to face with a woman with super frizzy hair. It was thinner in some places and it seemed to part itself all the way down the back of her head. She told me what cute children I had in a raspy, unique kind of voice. I figured she had the most fascinating voice of anyone I had ever met. 

It was at this point that my 5 year old hauled out a baggie with a hairy caterpillar in it to show her. Rather than just smile and keep the line of customers moving, she stopped. Taking it carefully like a rare prize, she slowly said, "Wow!" Then she took it and showed it to her husband who was behind the counter too. As she was handing it back to my son, I remarked wryly that the caterpillar could probably use some air. (After all, he'd been cooped up in a resealable plastic bag.) The lady froze with the caterpillar, then rummaged around with her other hand to find a pair of sharp little manicure scissors. Before she could cut some holes too, I offered to do the deed. I felt the need of the people behind me, all watching the whole scenario most patiently.

Just then, the worker who was about to bag the produce asked if we had plastic. I was confused. "no, we didn't bring any bags," I said. Then the frizzly one looked arrestingly at my spouse. She croaked matter-of-factly, "I have bad news for you. We don't take plastic. No, only cash or cheques. The old way, it works." We nodded solemnly. We had to. There was no room for disagreement in that moment. Thankfully, he had tucked a few cheques in his wallet.

The woman asked where we were staying, and was delighted to know that we were at the Pacific Inn. "Oh, my daughter got married there," she said. "It has the right...vibe." Indeed, she was fully into vibes - she had a very romantic produce store. She explained all about her saltwater tank that needed upkeep twice a day. "How did you hear about us?" she gushed. Her market was noteworthy, I thought. She had managed to cram her surreal store into the expanse of a bedroom complete with a sound system, large flatscreen TV, gorgeous aquarium, and piles of semi-organized produce.  Where else could one get lost in the atmosphere and unwind while shopping for produce? At what grocer could one anticipate a one-of-a-kind experience at the checkout or hear such a unique voice? 

And then we were done and walking away, out of that very small space where the normal constraints of time had faded. A place where all that mattered were the people, the vibe, kindness, and some fruit.