Well-Swept Yard

I brought Philip Glass to campus for a presentation. Some time ago. A colleague and I did a short interview on our NPR affiliate about the visit. We played excerpts from the composer's music.  "My mother would enjoy this," I thought to myself and sent her a copy. Going through her things recently, I came across the cassette I sent. On the envelope my mother had written "Killing hogs I think." Milton Puryeur killing hogs on his land. Marion Post Wolcott, Library of Congress, Farm Security Administration

Two black kittens, small but getting about, took residence a couple of doors away. No mother came with the little furries. What did is a black male. Attentive, protective, he lies on his side the the small ones snuggle his tummy with their tiny lips. All sleep snuggled. A neighborhood conversation. So far the local rag and tube have not been told. Good. My childhood always had a dog or cat or both who came home to our place. They had wonderful stories; some we knew and some we surmised. This story of my adulthood will join those of special relationships of long ago. If only such kindness were common in the adult world.