Category Archives: family history

Not the sort to carry on

Porthos copy

After it ended, I saw the tragedy. It isn’t death, it’s loss. So let me tell you this story.

I had a marvelous round soft black cat that understood me, as is given to few, especially cross-species between human and feline. When my mother entered the mean stage of Hospice, when things come from a beloved mouth that were never meant to, I passed across the yard from her bedroom in the next house, into our place, and blind to all details, I walked one foot at a time into the bedroom. There on the bed a small black blot of a cat rolled over, fixed me with his pure green eyes and said “Oh, wow!”

It broke me out of a bad place. I bent over his black fur self and knew I had my ‘oh wow’ cat.

That was Porthos. He saw me through fraught times, miseries, nightmares of legal complications (that actually never matured, thank God,) family misunderstandings,  parent troubles, coping, coping, coping, and somehow I could whisper all into his dense plush and feel he absorbed how I felt. Understood, and cared that I cared. Feral from the start, he would let me hold him until it became too much, and with an apologetic purr he’d walk away,  look back, smiling a cat smile, torn by the demands of instinct and affection.

In a year of tending both parents, mother in Hospice at home, and father with multiple brain hemorrhages, I damaged my back catching my father or trying to, whenever he fell, (and he fell a lot.) When my back was hurting I’d get up five times in the night to go to the bathroom or walk about the house, trying to ease the pain with motion. There Porthos would be, my tugboat, bumping my ankle with his round black head in the dark, making sure I’d not get lost, that I’d find my way back to a bed that some nights felt more like a rack than comfort. 

Porthos never took time off. I couldn’t ease my way from under the covers without hearing the solid plop of his strong little body hitting the floor so he could guide me yet again between the bathroom and the bed, or from the main rooms for a limping walk, back to the bed again. I could slip out without my husband knowing, but Porthos, no.

He loved me and I, him, of that I have no doubt. But he also loved Daft Wee Willie Wilberforce. 


A little orange tabby with golden eyes, WWW had more health problems than he had limbs. But from the first week, Porthos adored him. He would sit and look over little Willy with his features softened into adoration, a besotted lover gazing at his own golden kitten. However sick WWW might be, Porthos forgave the snarls and hisses, the siren growls and swats, the smell, and simply stepped aside so that Willy could eat the food from Porthos’ bowl, bent his black head to wash Willy’s defiant neck. They wrestled and chased and tussled over the years, and Porthos never hurt Willy, however hard Willie hit or bit him. I’d pass by their shared chair with a pause to stroke the smooth conmingled furs, gold and coal black. I found the thought passing in my head that if Willie died from one of his elaborate genetic complications, what would we do to comfort Porthos? But I had the wrong end of the problem.


One shocking week one summer, and Porthos was gone, from a polycystic liver disorder, genetic in origin, previously undiagnosed. Some of us had called him fat— but I always corrected it to ‘burly’.  The night before he died, he surprised me by coming far up the bed and taking my hand in both his paws. We slept like that several hours, or at least I did, until my back made me get up and walk around. Porthos returned to a pile of soft things we’d arranged on the floor for him, but he didn’t guide me to and fro. When I settled  down again, it was on the floor by him, with my hand close to him, but he didn’t hold my hand again. I think he was too uncomfortable, though he purred a little. Those black morning hours passed slowly. 

When we came back from the vet’s  I curled up my ten-year-old black cat in a soft-lined basket and placed him on the bed for hours, so Willie could see and smell and understand that Porthos was dead. Willie came and washed Porthos’ ears. Then I buried my black blot cat by the studio door and splashed some champagne on the grave. Porthos loved champagne every time I’d given him a drop off the tip of my finger, pink tongue flicking avidly, his eyes slitted in pleasure at the taste.

About this same time our daughter headed off to grad school in Arizona. This may seem unconnected, but I’ll connect it later.

Willie seemed lost, disordered, after Porthos went. He purred anxiously, followed us about. We decided —a new cat. Kitsune, an older flame and snow shelter cat came to us. Then two kittens. None of them were the cat Willie wanted. Not acceptable housemates, much less anything more intimate. 

At Christmas our daughter returned. Willie greeted her with astonishing clear pleasure, his head lifted, his face happy as only cats’ faces can express happiness. You know how when you smile, your eyes narrow and uplift at the outside corners? Cats do that also. Willie moved with light anticipation, joy, his orange striped body eager. We hadn’t realized how depressed he was until we watched him dance about and jump blithely up into her lap, looking about as though expecting something. 

Perhaps three hours later, Willie crashed into a deeper despondency than ever. All we can imagine, and we admit it’s imagination, was that he associated our daughter’s departure with Porthos going, and thought her return meant Porthos’ return. When he found it wasn’t so, he fell back into his depression. However you look at it, whatever your interpretation, Willie-cat never rose again to that level of happiness, no matter what attentions we might provide.

Yesterday, September 20th, 2018, we had to let Willie go. The best guess is he had a cancer, causing cachexia and a myriad of other symptoms. The vet came to the house and Willie went to his final sleep upon my lap. We buried him by Porthos near the studio and I poured a salute of champagne to them both. 

I realized a few hours after the last shovelful of dirt, the full sense of tragedy. It isn’t that Willie died, it’s that he never recovered from his loss. Three years and a month after losing Porthos, now he’s gone. My dream is that he’s back with his gentle black beloved again, loved as no one but his Porthos ever could love him, tangling in wrestling joy with his black best beloved friend. Batting and rolling about in mock combat.

 Animals. Where after all, do we come from? What does it tell us that they may share with us deep strains of what we humans name as most noble and high? Affection, selflessness, love, loyalty. I keep hearing Phillip Phillips  singing “Gone, Gone, Gone…” I heard it when I was losing Porthos, and how clearly I heard it yesterday.    Not my usual music, but it fits these cat friends.                     

 Where do you suppose we should go from here, to become our best selves under this night sky? In a time of stress, public disloyalty and strife, of threat and domination praised as though it were righteousness, can we back off from our food bowls to let a younger weaker friend eat? Can we tend to a sick friend, even when he’s dirty and rude and stinks? Can we wait and love, even in absence being faithful? Give me reason to believe.

Porthos and www copy



Filed under blog, cats, experiences, family history, friends

Traveling Memories

It appears that my high school class will have an unofficial meeting at a venue in Florida this fall. I ended up being involved with parts of the planning, so that does seem to obligate me to actually show up.

I’ve already booked myself a room, which if you knew how many oddities I indulge in about travel, would profoundly impress you. Funny for someone who grew up traveling! But planning makes me anxious. I find it easiest to plunge off on a whim– it used to always be a big question if I would get a visa to go to Nigeria to visit my parents, and often I would buy a ticket and go within forty eight hours of receiving my passport back from the Embassy. Stuffing my cheap new-bought luggage with basic supplies like bottles of peanut butter and plastic-bagged toothpaste, seed packets, colored chalk, dried Chinese mushrooms for my mother, and BOOKS, I’d make every square inch count.

I particularly remember a night in the Lagos airport back in the days when it had open walls to the outdoors. Geckos and major cockroaches with dancing troupes of moths passed through, and military with Schmeissers and riding crops coming in every two or three hours to beat sleeping ‘vagrants’ out of the place. Never bothered the whites or the people in good clothing, I think that was how they decided if you were a legitimate traveller or not. But I recall having John McPhee’s Oranges, and a fat new biography of Samuel Johnson to keep me awake for the night. Rarely have I been so thirsty, before or since.

The next morning the airport woke up around four or five AM, small birds opening a seething noisy chorus in the trees around the building. I found a man who knew where he could get me a soda, and I found an unofficial porter to help lug my suitcase over to the domestic flights section. I said the suitcase was cheap, didn’t I. Well, the handle tore off. No options for fixing it, so he loaded it onto his head and we marched on.

I had a ticket, but because of a late arrival the night before, had missed my flight from Lagos to Enugu. So I got in line with my ticket and waited in what shortly became a seething throng. I was denied every flight through the day, despite my best manners and firmest insistence on my right to be seated. I think they may have realized that I was not going to give a bribe, and was possibly becoming an embarrassment, so they finally gave me a boarding ticket for the last flight, after the dark had come down with the early suddenness it does on the Equator. It’s interesting that I have no recollection of managing to get any meals in that long day, but I did get a few sodas.

Such a relief to be seated on that flight– I didn’t believe it until I fastened the belt. Another forty miles of driving lay ahead to reach my parents’ home in Nsukka after I would land. By this point, since none of my efforts to telegram ahead seemed to have worked, and I was a day and more late, I knew no one would be waiting for me in Enugu.  When our little Fokker began an abrupt descent to Enugu, the gentleman ahead of me down the aisle on the window seat began to chant “Pray God, a safe landing, pray God a safe landing,” which he kept up until our plane touched down in the darkness. It was a safe landing and we all cheered, probably inspired by the man up the aisle.

I walked off the plane down the roll-up steps with the Nigerian night holding me in its heavy warm fist, and all I felt was triumph. Of course, that soon shifted to the tension of the assault of taxi drivers and a bidding war to get a ride. That I didn’t have enough money in my pocket, cast no shadow on my bargaining. I had no conscience left about such details, and knew that my parents, if I reached them, would be happy to pay.  Soon we were lurching through the night traffic of Enugu. I made a little conversation, but the driving was challenging, involving goats and pedestrians and other vehicles, so I soon subsided, figuring it prudent. Once out on the highway, we sped along pretty well, but it seemed an interminable ride. I’m guessing now it wasn’t much over an hour and a quarter. I recall talking a lot with the driver about times over ten years ago in Nigeria and my wonder at being back now, in 1976.

I didn’t have a street address for my parents’ house, but my driver knew a solution.  He could go to the University of Nigeria at Nsukka postal center, because they would know.

I went in with him to the green-white lit building. I was shocked to see  the white metal clock on the wall said it was no later than five minutes of nine– we’d barely made it before closing.  I felt like it must be midnight. The neatly dressed man at the counter made me feel my messiness, my unbrushed hair, my rumpled days’ old clothing, the coating of dried sweat. At first all I saw was his shaking head, but he went to consult with an associate, coming back at a trot. Yes, now he had the name right, he could give us the address.

We circled around in the taxi and back a part of the way we had come, before we drove up into a little driveway.

“We are here,” my taxi driver said.

“Wait. I need money to pay you.”

Was it truly the right place? I went to the front door. I knocked, looking and seeing no one through the glass panes,  I opened the door. There was my mother seated at the dining room table under the big paper moon lantern that held the electric bulb, working on a pile of papers. A small vase of roses and gardenia stood near. She looked up.

“Hi, Robin,” she said. “I thought you might be coming, one of these days soon.”


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Of Blood Pressure Reduction and the Opposite

So we want life. Long life. The cardiologist says low blood pressure is the key to life, life ongoing, possibly everlasting Man, you can’t get enough of the stuff. More is better. So you take the drugs that will lower your blood pressure and you do all the things, You decrease the high and low points of your existence, you temper everything, you lose weight, and you go in obediently to the end of the year to your doctor, and hope that your drugs and exercise and diet have lowered all the excesses of your genetics and your vibrant sins so that maybe… you might live forever with no stroke, no heart attack… with lower blood pressure.

And tell me what does it serve a man that he gain the world and lose his soul?

Think what happens when you attain an orgasm. Do you fancy this is a freebie?…


Think what happens in that magic of moment when you are lecturing and you see the spark light in student’s eyes and you know you have infected them with that wonder, that joy of knowledge shared. Think of that instant when the brush in your hand makes the perfect movement and lays down a line of living paint that will vibrate in human brains forever. Consider striking the key on a piano that sounds a timing and an emphasis beyond planning– that alchemy of performance that can never be bettered. Turn upon the stage and speak words in evocative inflection, knowing in that instant that no one ever shall do it just so again. Spring from your computer in the recognition of an equation completed that has never been completed before.

And die.

Because all of these attainments break the placid expectation of what is “good” for us. They give us high blood pressure, and we love it. It kicks our asses. This is a drug beyond regulation or reasoned application.

This may kill us, but it’s why we live.


Filed under family history, health, medicine, science

The Suitcases

two suitcases

They sent her overseas to save her life. A small-boned young woman just beginning her twenties, hair fashionably short in the American style swinging against her strong jaw, her black eyes proud and watchful, ranging over the seething common crowd of Chinese at the dock. She moved flanked by the black and white of two nuns, her protectors. I imagine her standing on deck while the vessel backed slowly out from the dock, clad in a slim navy wool coat, her gloved hand raised to shield her against the sunlight, controlled in every gesture, contained.

Her blood ran arrogant in her veins, and in the changing China they had none of them invited, my mother’s family feared she would not survive. Some day too soon, she would say a thing that would be unforgivable, in public, with the snap of authority, with the precision she had learned from tutors before she went to the nun’s school, and she would die for it. So they sent her away, with the two leather suitcases her father had owned during his years in the diplomatic service, and in time she came by ship to America. I see her small height strung straight, balanced on her tiny feet by the railing with perfect pride and defiance, her hair neat, her face wisely giving nothing away, her short gloves matching the jacket over her simple dress. She probably didn’t touch those leather suitcase handles until the end of the trip. Some ship crewman would have carried everything for her, carted her trunks packed with silk, cotton and wool, and her beloved books.

Today the two suitcases lie stored in our closet in America. I look at the imprint of her father’s name upon one, and I touch the stamped in letters. He was a modern gentleman who refused staunchly his mother’s pressure to have his daughters’ feet bound. He had them educated, and in the long nights they fell asleep to the sound of their cousins weeping at the pain of broken feet when they thought no one could hear them give way.

There are stories to tell that I will not, now, because I have one particular night upon my mind. All gold lights and black shadows, a blue so deep the sky seemed to fall away between the buildings and the leaning skyscrapers; a New York City night. The night I met my uncle by marriage, Xiao Qian.

My mother left family in China when she clutched those leather suitcases and went away. One of that family staying and studying in Beijing was a younger sister, who had the temper of a dragon, the patience of a tiger, the double cowlick that means these things, and when she fell in love with a writer much her elder in the torn China of those times, the family wrote to my mother and asked her what to do. My mother had by then married a New Hampshire farm boy–scientist and poet, and she said, it does not matter– if Margaret loves him, let her marry. Thus, younger sister Margaret married her beloved mentor, teacher and inspiration, Xiao Qian. He was of peasant origins, but had grown to be a writer of repute, and as the years passed he continued a correspondence of great liveliness with the English writer E. M. Forster.

My husband and I entered the New York hotel room to find several older Chinese gentlemen there to whom we were barely more than children, and my aunt Margaret. We settled to seats once the greetings had passed, and listened as my uncle spoke to his old friends and to us.

“You know it has been fifty years since we last sat together,” Uncle said, his round friendly face making his dark eyes look even larger. The lines of years of smiles marked his face, his alert glance moved from one to another of us. His quiff of silver hair gave him a look of humor, reminded me of a panda. “Fifty years, my friends! These were my students,” he said to us, gesturing at the gentlemen around him, and they murmured a deep note of assent and pride.

When the tide of the Cultural Revolution rose, E. M. Forster arranged a position for Xiao Qian in England, inviting him and his family to come and take up a new life. But Xiao Qian said “No, it is now, more than ever, that my country needs me, and I must stand by her and see her through these hard times.”

“I was such a fool,” Xiao Qian said, looking from one to another of us in the hotel room. “So proud of myself with my noble words.”

“My neighbors came to our house and they destroyed it, broke my daughter’s piano, smashed chairs, tore the books. Pulled us about and beat at us with their familiar hands. Stood us on the table and struck us, villified us. Our friends, the people we knew. That was only a beginning. I cannot tell you it all.

“They beat us into the street and in the days that came and went I fell into such despair. I didn’t remember my hopes for China, I could see only my own sufferings. There came a day when I decided to die rather than bear this, took pills I had hidden and swallowed them and my wife Maggie when she realized, went to beg the doctors for help but they were afraid. In spite of myself, and them, she made me live. Maggie, Maggie. My stubborn fierce Maggie,” he looked at her and she pretended not to be listening; she was like stone and fire, all the pride that she would not share implicit in the quiet lift of her head.

“They sent us to the country to tend the pigs. It was a hard life, but the abuse became less over time until it was only a hard life and no longer an impossible one. And the years passed.”

He paused, and I could not take my gaze from his homely face and huge black intense eyes. He made a little nod, a tender broken smile, a gesture of open hands.

“But you must understand this,” he said. “On that first night of our new reality when I looked upon my friends and neighbors, shouting and yelling in the night with their fists raised, with broken brooms and knives, I understood that if there had been any way to change places with them I would have been so glad to do it. I would have acted as they did, maybe shouted and hit harder whoever they gave me to strike. That old saying was true for me no matter how proud I was. How idealistic. There but for the grace of God would I have gone. Yes, there, I too, would have gone. There but for the grace of God. But the choice was never offered, that it was not, was all that kept me from being them.

“Now I am born again into the land of the living, of the remembered.” He gestured with his square old man’s hand and there was such liveliness and self-knowledge in his black eyes. “I am known now for the work I did long years ago, they do not even require that I write more. Here I am a guest in America, and I come with a message to you,” he looked about at his old friends, his former students. “You who are known as the overseas-Chinese…”

I had heard that term in my Chinese language classes.

“You are invited back to our country with honor, with welcome. None of your belongings will be touched or taxed, you will be greeted with joy for the knowledge and skills you have gained in this wide outside world. There, I have said it, and I will testify to the truth of it. Already I know families who have come back, many doubting, but they came home. So I bring you this welcome, I convey it to you all.”

“The letters,” one gentleman spoke into the silence that followed. “Your correspondence with E. M. Forster, what became of it?”

“A few years ago I received a letter from Cambridge,” Xiao Qian said, “enquiring that very thing. When I was first reinstated by the government, this letter came to me. But the letters E. M. had sent me were burned. My wife’s sister panicked when she saw how the neighbors behaved and she took all the letters from their hiding place and burned them.”

The men in the room caught their breaths in shock.

“But think,” Xiao Qian said, “for great though our sufferings were, how much more terrible would they have been if I had in my possession my friendship correspondence with an English intellectual? Treason, no less, all the arrangements he tried to make on our behalf to find us sanctuary in his land.”

“But let us talk of your lives and what has happened in them, and how you have been happy, my friends.”

Voices rose and fell, but I kept replaying his past words, looked over at my new husband and knew he did the same, saw how moved he was, his hand gripping the arm of his chair. Tears in his blue eyes.

“Yes, let us go and eat then,” my uncle agreed, turning to us.

“We will catch our train, we had not meant to stay so long, but this was wonderful. Thank you,” I said, and we nodded. We rose, but Xiao Qian raised his hand and such was his authority that we stopped.

“Share the meal with us,” he said. “This is a special occasion. This is once in a lifetime,” and the crowd murmured agreement. They swept us along, down to where a line of chauffeured cars waited, navy and black and gleaming, crowded on the street. One of these men it seemed, owned a restaurant in Chinatown and he had swept a table for his old teacher and mentor, Xiao Qian. I sat silent in the back of our limo, gripping my husband’s hand as the chauffeur wove us our way through the magic streets, and our throats were filled with tears.

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