Boots & Star enjoying the TV; Star on the ‘tree’, Boots looking over someone’s shoulder. (ca. 1970)
I’m not sure when those photos were taken. or who took them. My folks and I were living at 818 10th Street South in Moorhead, Minnesota, at the time; which puts the date at around 1970.
Could have been earlier, or later, since that’s the house I grew up in. Maybe mid-to-late 1960s to early 1970s.
The point is that those cats were very much part of my life while growing up.
Boots was the older of those two. My folks picked him from a litter of kittens because, they said, he was the most lively of the bunch. They asked my input for his name, but may have suggested a focus on his four white “boots”.
At any rate, Boots grew into a somewhat oversize cat. We suspected he might have a bit of Maine Coon in his ancestry.
Boots was big, but not supersized, and had that breed’s lush coat. I’ve read that Maine Coons are “…sweet-tempered, gentle and friendly….” That fits him, sort of: although I’d say “regal” is closer to the mark than “friendly”.
That said, my guess is that Boots was a Maine Coon the way I’m a Scotsman: It’s in the gene pool, along with a good many other ancestries.
Evening Routines
Boots, and later Star, had the run of the house during the day. But when bedtime rolled around, they went into the basement.
As a child, I was usually in bed by that time. Dad, holding Boots, would stop by the door of my room to say goodnight. Then he’d have Boots ‘say goodnight’ too, by waving his left front paw at me.
As I said, Boots was a “regal” cat. But he was also — I’ll call it patient about human quirks. It helped that we had the sense, when we held him, to give his back feet a firm platform with one hand while supporting his chest or front legs with the other.
So when Dad and Boots looked in on me at bedtime, Dad’s right hand was under his back feet, while his left hand gently pushed Boots’ elbow, making him ‘wave’ at me.
Boots didn’t seem to mind, I was well aware of the puppetry involved, and it’s among the very good memories of my childhood.
That bedtime routine had ended by the time we moved to 1010, but Boots was still with us. He and Star shared 1010 with us for some years. I’d occasionally take one or the other of the cats for a walk.
Walks with Boots weren’t so much walks as stands.
A Favorite Spot
Hadal’s photo of a snow marble Bengal cat, not Boots, in a ‘Sphinx’ pose. (2023)
Boots had a favorite spot in the back yard, partway along the hedge on the south side, between two bushes. He’d sit there, posed like a sphinx, looking out through the fence.
I’d have preferred a leisurely stroll, but Boots was a cat: and was clearly having a good time, gazing off through the neighboring yards.
Time passed.
Boots grew older, but still liked his spot in the hedge — and his time in the back porch. Finally, one weekend afternoon, we noticed that he’d been resting there, on his right side, for a very long time. Our old cat had finally died.
We buried him in the back yard, in his favorite spot, with his nose to the south.
Remembering
More time passed.
I moved, temporarily as it turned out, to California. My folks were still at 1010 when my wife and I married, back here in Minnesota. My wife and I moved a few times, finally settling in her home town, my folks moved to the family homestead in North Dakota, where Mom grew up.
I checked 1010 South 16th Street in Moorhead with Google Maps recently. The house is still there, and so is a fence along the property’s south side. But the hedge is gone. After all these decades, that’s no surprise.
I’ll wrap this up with something from a happy childhood memory: Good night, Boots.
More; mostly about animals, houses, and being human:
Ricardo André Frantz’s photo: Bernini’s baldacchino in Saint Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City. (2005)
I’d planned on talking about something else this week.
But that’s not going to happen: partly because part of Thursday got spent at the local clinic. There’s still an open sore on my left leg. Several, actually, in a little cluster.
That hasn’t, happily, been keeping me from Sunday Mass.
And that brings me to what I’ll talk about this week: a few of the basic obligations that come with being a Catholic.
It’s pretty simple, actually. Jesus said we should love God, love our neighbor, and see everybody as our neighbor. Everybody. No exceptions. (Matthew 5:43–44, 22:36–40; Mark 12:28–31; Luke 6:31, 10:25–37; Catechism, 1789)
I said simple, not easy. The ‘everybody’s my neighbor’ part is distinctly not easy for me. And that’s almost another topic.
In practical terms, one of the ways I love God is remembering to get to Mass regularly.
I’ve talked about that before, including in the previous iteration of “A Catholic Citizen in America”, over on blogspot.com Which is where I got the title for this week’s post:
I didn’t get to Mass today. Or yesterday, when the rest of my family celebrated Mass. The Super Bowl is, indirectly, responsible for the latter. Soo Bahk Do class was rescheduled to 1:00 this afternoon, to give folks time to get home for Super Bowl coverage — which would have made for a very tight midday schedule today.
Maybe not the best reason in the world for using the option Catholics living in America have for counting a late Saturday Mass as fulfilling the Sunday obligation — but it’s accepted. (“Apostolic Letter Dies Domini of the Holy Father John Paul II to the Bishops, Clergy and Faithful of the Catholic Church on Keeping the Lord’s Day Holy” (May 31, 1998))
I’d particularly wanted to celebrate Mass this weekend, since we were doing the St. Blaise blessing. His feast day was February 3 — and the blessing of the throat is part of our regional Catholic culture — not just ours, of course….
…Does that mean I have some superstitious notion that magic candles will ward off sore throats? No. I’ve been over this sort of thing before…. (“Called to Holiness, Not Stupidity” , A Catholic Citizen in America (February 6, 2011) on blogspot.com)
Now, about getting to church on Sunday. It’s important, very important. But so is taking care of my health. And so, back when my wife and I were raising out kids, was taking care of an infant who couldn’t be taken along. (Catechism, 2180-2183, particularly 2181)
That was then, this is now. Taking care of infants is a ‘been there, done that’ thing for me.
Taking care of my health is another matter. It’s still an obligation, but not my top priority.
Priorities
Being, staying, or getting healthy matters. But if I made my health, having a neatly-trimmed lawn, getting the latest thing in household appliances — anything or anyone other than God — my top priority, I’d be practicing idolatry. And that’s a very bad idea. (Catechism, 2112-2113)
Time to wrap this up.
First, about being Catholic and whether or not I’m in good health. I’ve said this before.
Being healthy is okay. Being sick is okay. They’re both part of being alive. Getting well, and helping others get well, is a good idea. The same goes for scientific research: where ethics apply, same as with everything else we do. (Catechism, 1410, 1500-1510, 2292-2296)
Being a Catholic
Clockwise from top left: Old Catholic church, Hannover, Germany; Takatori Catholic Church, Hyogo, Japan; Dali Catholic Church, Dali, Yunnan, China; St. Maria Catholic Church; Westfield, Indiana, USA.
Finally, what started me thinking about this was someone’s comment in a discussion thread on social media — and that’s a whole slew of topics I don’t have time for today.
This person had been thinking about becoming a Catholic. Which struck me as a good idea: since I had the same thought, years back now. Although in my case I hadn’t so much ‘thought about becoming a Catholic’, as finally knowing too much and having no reasonable option other than becoming a Catholic. And that’s yet another topic.
Anyway, this person liked the idea of being Catholic, but had the notion that Catholics have an overwhelming number of rules we have to follow.
I’ve run across that perception: and met folks who, deliberately or not, give the impression that our faith involves running through a bewildering number of daily, weekly, monthly, and annual routines; and following a list of rules that’d strike a control freak as excessive.
Sure: over the last couple millennia, we’ve accumulated an impressive array of devotional practices. But the vast majority of them are optional.
The basics, like I said, are simple. Incredibly difficult, but simple. And, happily, being a perfectly perfect person isn’t an entry requirement. We’re all works in progress.
More about health, being Catholic, and why Mass matters:
Neither has the up-front-and-center prominence in my news feed that the annual Los Angeles fires get: and that’s another topic.
The good news, part of it, for me is that today’s smoke situation isn’t nearly as bad as the weekend’s. Getting to Mass Sunday morning, the sun had a distinct red hue: cheery or ominous, depending on the observer’s mood. 😉
That’s about all I had to say. I’ve talked about this sort of thing before:
Bemidji, Minnesota: halfway between International Falls and Fargo, North Dakota.
Two tourists in Canada asked someone which city they were in. The man replied, “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan”. One of the tourists said “oh! They don’t speak English here!”
I haven’t heard that one in more than a half-century, there’s a lead-up that makes it funnier, but never mind. This week I’m talking about a place in Minnesota, and a salesman who asked for help.
Sauk Centre, Minnesota, on U.S. 71/MN 28, looking north from near the Interstate.
This was back when I was working for a small publishing house here in Sauk Centre, Minnesota. I don’t remember if I was doing advertising copy and graphic design for them at the time, or was being the ‘computer guy’. Anyway —
One day I was getting (another) cup of coffee, when the receptionist/switchboard/keystone — you get the idea, and admittedly that’s my view of the company’s workings.
Anyway, this person took most of the incoming calls. And on that day, she’d taken one that was worth sharing.
A salesman, I think that was his job, had called, asking for help. He knew that Vocational Biographies, the company we worked for, was in Minnesota.
A Reasonable Question, Basically
Bemidji, Minnesota. There’s more to the town than Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. 😉
His job involved going to a place called Bemidji, Minnesota. The trip had nothing to do with Vocational Biographies, but apparently he figured that since we were in Minnesota, we’d know about this place with the strange-sounding name.
Well, of course, we did.
Both me and the company’s keystone knew about Bemidji. It’s a fair-size town, two and a half or three hours north of here: depending on weather.
Okay, fair enough. Traveling to a place you haven’t been to before, getting informed about regional conditions. The salesman was making sense.
Remember: this was before everybody carried little cigarette-case-sized gizmos they could use to look up anything from Bemidji’s current weather to the price of peanuts in Perth.1
Where was I? Someone from the civilized lands making travel plans. Right.
Giving the man credit, he’d already booked a seat on a commercial airline that’d take him to Minnesota’s Twin Cities. I’m guessing the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport.
So far, so good. He knew that Bemidji was north of the airport, beyond the Twin Cities metro area. And he apparently figured — or hoped — that some outfit in the Twin Cities provided rental vehicles.
He was right about that. You’ll find rental outfits in many Minnesota towns, certainly all the larger ones.
That’s not what had the company’s keystone laughing.
This man had, quite seriously, asked if he’d need an off-road/all-terrain vehicle to reach Bemidji, Minnesota.
Rentals and Regional Transportation
Looking north on U.S. Highway 71, between Sebeka and Menahga, Minnesota. (August 2024)
The answer, basically, was no.
Although folks can rent off-road vehicles, boats, trailers, campers, and log splitters around these parts; we’ve got paved roads connecting pretty much every town and village. And did, back when he made his call.
So he could have rented a car at the airport. And, provided that he could read a road map, or ask directions along the way, driven himself to Bemidji.
Odds are that with a little checking he could have found a regional airline flight to the Bemidji Airport and rented a car there. Or chartered with Bemidji Airlines. Both of which were up and running by the time he called, and had been for decades.2
Routes and Decisions
Minnesota Highway 371, near Backus, looking north. (August 2023)
But, again, I’m giving the man credit for thinking ahead.
I’d have been a bit more impressed if he’d asked which route was best.
Starting from the Twin Cities, I’d probably take Interstate 94 to Sauk Centre, then head north on U.S. 71. But that’s mainly because I live in Sauk Centre, and know the roads around this town.
But if I was driving, and wanted to go the more direct route, I’d take the Interstate to Monticello, then jog over to U.S. 10 and head north. That’d take about four hours, and is what a query that used Google Maps told me. The same query told me I could spend $188 and fly there, airport-to-airport, in an hour.
Taking a more scenic and cultural route — which no salesman in his right mind would do, unless he’d already lined up another job — would involve leaving U.S. 10 in Little Falls.
The Minnesota Fishing Museum and Hall of Fame, and a bunch of other places are there: more than enough to take up a day or so. Definitely “or so”: for me, at least, or someone like me.
Then Minnesota Highway 371, heading north, goes to Bemidji: by way of places you’ll never hear of if you don’t live there.3 Which is probably true of many ‘vacation spots’.
Deep in the Heart of Darkest Minnesota —
A small unit vehicle, or SUS-V, used by the Minnesota National Guard for winter operations.
So: what, if anything, is the point of all this?
For one thing, I’m on the same page as our former employer’s keystone: I think that asking if someone would need an off-road vehicle to reach Bemidji was funny. For another: it’s been a while since I’ve talked about life here: deep in the heart of darkest Minnesota.
Perceptions and Living in Minnesota
New York City, West Street, looking north near Morris Street.
First of all, Sauk Centre, Minnesota, is not New York City. And Minnesota is not much like Hawaii.
To this day, I regret not clipping and saving a headline from my youth: “Minnesota National Guard Arctic Maneuvers Canceled Due to Inclement Weather”. It’s not among my major regrets, and that’s another topic.
I don’t know why that particular cancellation made headlines. It’s something that happens now and then: and I think shows more about Minnesota’s weather than it does about National Guard preparedness. Sometimes, during winter, the smart thing is to stay inside and wait until it’s safe to bring out the heavy equipment.
Even if I could afford living in a major city like New York or Chicago, I’d prefer living here in Sauk Centre. I figure there are folks who’d rather live in either of those urban centers, than here: where we don’t even have a Starbucks.
But over the decades, I’ve gotten the impression that folks living out here in the vastness between the coasts know a lot more about places like New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, and Seattle, then folks living there know about our areas.
That’s inevitable: for the same reasons that wildfires near Los Angeles were national news, and wildfires in Minnesota’s Arrowhead region aren’t.
An Impression, and Something to Remember
I would, however, prefer not having also gotten the impression that a fair fraction of folks, when they think of us at all, imagine that we’re in a retroworld: inhabiting atavistic realms that — aren’t quite right.
“…Without knowing why, one hesitates to ask directions from the gnarled, solitary figures spied now and then on crumbling doorsteps or on the sloping, rock-strown meadows….” (“The Dunwich Horror” , H. P. Lovecraft (1928, published in Weird Tales 18929))
Sure, nobody’s going to imagine the Lovecraft was writing travelogues. But like I said: I have gotten the impression that a non-trivial fraction of my fellow-Americans profoundly don’t understand what life is like, out here in the boonies.
As for me, having lived both here and on the west coast: I love it here, and try to remember that urbanites are not like the stock characters I’ve seen on screen. Not those I’ve known, at any rate.
I’ve talked about attitudes, assumptions, and realities, before:
Since I’m mostly doing something else this week, I’ll talk about two mice. I didn’t see either, but I did hear one; and that’s the one I’ll start with.
The Resident Mouse and Me: Another San Francisco Memory
I was working at Pellegrini Refrigeration’s office/warehouse for most of the time I lived in San Francisco. The office section was big enough for — a dozen or more folks, I suppose.
The break corner, between the front office where I worked and the main room, was just an L-shaped bench, wrapped around a small table: very basic. It wouldn’t have held more than maybe four or five people comfortably.
I had the place to myself, except when a technician or salesman came through. Which suited me fine, although that’s why my employer hadn’t found anyone who’d work there more than a week or so before quitting.
Anyway, that break corner was good enough for me as another place to sit while eating lunch. More than good enough. I had room for whatever I was eating, a cup of coffee, and whatever I was reading.
Just Another Quiet Day, Until —
I’d been eating and reading, sitting on the bench with my back against the wall shared by the offices and the warehouse. The place had its usual tranquil ambience. Then I shifted my right foot. Just a little.
That’s when I heard, down by my right foot, a high-pitched but sincere scream.
Not a squeak. A scream.
Followed by the sound of frantic skittering: first toward the wall I’d been sitting against, then along the wall toward the back of the office/warehouse.
As the skittering faded into the distance, it fell into a rhythm: ‘skitter-skitter-skitter-THUMP-skitter-skitter-skitter-THUMP….’
The wall was finished on my side, but had open wooden studs on the other. The mouse apparently had access to the offices under the bench, but preferred the less-occupied warehouse side for retreat. And was running along the wall, hitting each stud on the way.
And at mouse-scale, my shoe would have been the size of a truck.
From the mouse’s viewpoint, it probably seemed a stable part of the environment, like the table legs. Until it moved!!!!
Judging by the sound, I’m guessing the mouse was right next to my shoe when I shifted my foot. Can’t say I blame the little critter for screaming.
Encounter in the Library
Livingston Lord Library, MSU: the card catalog as it was when the place was new.
The other ‘mouse story’ is from my father’s experience. Back then, the MSU library had a card catalog: dozens and dozens of drawers packed with three-by-five inch cards that helped folks find books.
Actually, it was the data on the cards, and how it was sorted: and that’s another topic.
The point is that there had to be a lot of room for people in front of those banks of drawers. And even then it could get crowded, if lots of us were making similar searches.
After hours, on the other hand, there’s nothing quite so empty as a library. Particularly after the lights are out.
That brings me to my father’s mouse.
He’d come — my father, that is, not the mouse — to the library in off-hours, I don’t remember why, with some other folks. It was after sunset, so they’d been turning on lights as they entered different areas.
When they got to the card catalog area, they noticed that they weren’t alone.
For humans, when there isn’t a crowd, the card catalog had abundant elbow room.
For a mouse, it would have been an immense void. With a linoleum floor, that gives pretty good traction for our shoes: and almost none to a mouse’s tiny claws.
That night, there was a mouse on the floor. Yards away from a wall or any other shelter.
The mouse was running with the energy of an Olympic sprinter, moving with the speed of a lethargic turtle. If it had slowed down and started walking, it would have made faster progress. But it would have taken great presence of mind to realize that.
If the lights going on hadn’t started the mouse running, the humans’ arrival did.
That’s where my memory of Dad’s account ends, and so does this week’s post.
Something new each Saturday.
Life, the universe and my circumstances permitting. I'm focusing on 'family stories' at the moment. ("A Change of Pace: Family Stories" (11/23/2024))
I was born in 1951. I'm a husband, father and grandfather. One of the kids graduated from college in December, 2008, and is helping her husband run businesses and raise my granddaughter; another is a cartoonist and artist; #3 daughter is a writer; my son is developing a digital game with #3 and #1 daughters. I'm also a writer and artist.
I live in Minnesota, in America's Central Time Zone. This blog is on UTC/Greenwich time.
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Blog - David Torkington
Spiritual theologian, author and speaker, specializing in prayer, Christian spirituality and mystical theology [the kind that makes sense-BHG]
