Saturday, August 28, 2010



“This is where the slaves used to live!” said a girl with a red and pink striped shirt with spaghetti straps. I can draw my picture in there!” Sweat beaded on the ball of her shoulders and she squinted with her bright blue eyes as the sun glared at her through a thick moss covered canopy of zigzagged snarled old oak limbs that stretched to the sky.
“It’s easy to get in here Samantha!” said a girl with greasy looking blonde hair. She wore a red, white and blue cheerleader uniform and marched along with a walking stick taller than her. She also wore scattered patches of BBQ sauce on her cheeks.
“Megan! Be careful honey!” called her mother from a white van with black trim. “Let me wipe your face!”
Samantha clicked and scratched her long, chipped and beaten cherry red press on nails with flaked off paint, against rough random patterns of jagged, sharp looking shells and solid concrete, on the outside of the slave quarters’ tabby walls. There was a small puff of loose dirt as one of the toes of her oversized worn blue flip flops bit the dirt. Her next foot slowly made it in the structure. The Muddy stagnant smell of the marsh at low tide hung heavy in the room. “It stinks in here like someone went to the bathroom.” Dirt dobbers with pipe flute looking mud houses clung to beams in rows like organ pipes and circular cobwebs hung in corners.
Samantha let out a piercing shrill scream that didn’t match her voice. Then a broad and sticky smile slowly drifted over her glittered and glossy lips exposing the gaps between her large teeth. “It’s a dried up snake on the wall! It looks like an oak root!” She reached out with a careful and steady hand to touch its rough surface. “Is it alive? Megan?”
She held a tattered dirt covered pink book tight to her chest and removed a pencil stuck in its gray spine. The books yellow pages rustled as she opened it revealing a cleanly lined drawing of a girl in a triangle shaped dress. She quickly drew a long line and then stopped. “It doesn’t have a head. I’ll make one up!” She quickly drew a happy face and a smile.



I’m using the car mirror on the windshield to fix my hair. I’m trying to put my hair in a clip. I want it to look nice, not really any other reason. I have a skirt on and a long sleeve shirt for fall, but it’s yellow so that’s spring and summer colors. I don’t want to trade head bands because I like the white one. I’m wearing the white headband, because white matches anything and black does to.
We were driving in bad rain and I thought we were going to bust in to the river because my dad was driving. The river was all along side of us and its gator water for tons of miles. That’s when we were in Louisiana.
There’s cactus out here now. We stopped at a hotel and I wanted to go swimming so bad. The pool was closed. I touched a cactus on accident on my arm and a thorn stuck in me. My dad said it wasn’t the kind with the barb, so it came out real easy. Mom cleaned it up and gave me a Band-Aid for it. There are tumbleweeds out here that aren’t rolling. My mom says whenever they get dry they fall off and start rolling.
I don’t know. This trip is long and boring. The rain was cool, and the boulders on rocks that looked like if someone pushed them from behind, they would fall. I’m looking at the map and we’re in New Mexico, and heading to Arizona, but I don’t know if we’re going to make it. My dad’s driving is scary. I stuck the window up on the map to hold it there. I thought the map said national park stadium map and guide, but I read it harder and it says national park system map and guide.
I thought we were going to get on the highway. This doesn’t look like a highway. This isn’t a highway, cause it’s not high. Like when we’re up high in New Orleans. There you can see down and the houses are all messed up with holes in the roofs from a flood or something and all the animals and dogs and children and people got sucked in to the ocean or something. Driving is fun, but I’d rather fly.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

The Foster Home

My hand is covered in a thick wet soggy washcloth and it’s red and raw beneath. I knew the cherry red burner was hot, but I touched it anyway. I jumped back at the white hot f lash of pain that came next and can’t remember if I cried or not .

I shouldn’t test the burner where bacon sizzles, swells and pops. Mother puts brown sugar on the bacon’s edges as it curls up in salty smelling grease. I love the rich caramelized scent as the brown sugar bubbles and fizzes. I also like to test the tall soft cushioned bar stools I can spin on in endless circles. I like to lean back on the seat as far as possible, while keeping my hands on the counter.

There is a warm, pink-orange light from the evening sun, above the light brown tweed sofa I don’t like to sit in because it’s itchy, rough and scratchy. The doorway to my bedroom is a dark shadow. My room has two small windows in it and in my dreams velvet stuffed animals, like on Sesame Street, pop up and stare at me through the window’s eye-like slits. The creatures have vacant black eyes and gaping mouths with bright red tongues.

Sometimes in my dreams I’m up high on a black webbed cargo net on a murky gray day. It’s one of those days where the thick musty smell of dark clouds full of rain makes me so nauseous I puke. I can see a lady far, far, off leaving a store with a shopping cart. Then a scary thumping sound comes that vibrates the air and I look back to where she was and she’s gone.

My best friend Chris left yesterday. He tips his head of curly black hair to the side when he talks out of the corner of his mouth, like Popeye. He does that because the corner of his mouth was singed together when he bit down on a fish tank’s long black electrical cord. I lean my head to the side when I talk, so I can be like him.

Today I played with the kids down the street. Our shoes squeaked and skidded on someone’s driveway as we punched, kicked, and fought over a tiny orange plastic ball. I walked home triumphant, shoes in hand, barefoot, skipping each crack with dry summer weeds. I hit a crack hard with my toe and it caused a bright stinging pain. The skin moved aside and a sore red smile showed up and then I put on a sock with a dirty brown toe to cover it up.

After that I took cold rusty scissors and used them to snip a green stem that cried thick sappy tears after it was cut. I smelled the busy looking curl of a Red Silk Rose and it smelled like baby powder and the vanilla powdered sugar mother uses to frost cakes. The rose is for the lady with dark blonde hair with curls at the end that wisp up making her face look soft and pretty. The man who is always with her has a beard of dark brown needles and large serious dark golden-green hazel eyes that I would not want to make angry.

They have been taking me to a fun place called McDonald’s to get small mushy burgers and steaming hot fries loaded with crystal flecks of salt. My social worker Joyce says it’s okay I go with them when they come to get me.


You’re on vacation in sunny tropical Key West, Florida, walking beneath the cool shade of a Weeping Fig tree. Beneath the tree, you see a cat on a cement park bench and it’s cleaning one of its paws. You take a closer look and to your amazement, you notice the paw it’s licking has a thumb just like a person! Guess what - you just saw your very first Hemingway cat.

Hemingway cats are named after the famous American novelist, short-story writer, and journalist Ernest ‘Papa’ Hemingway who lived from 1899-1961. Papa Hemingway was a fearless war correspondent during World War I, the Spanish Civil War and World War II’s Battle of the Bulge. He used his real life experiences in his novels, sometimes greatly exaggerating the events that happened to him, which made for great stories told both verbal and written.

In Hemingway’s teenage years he had a great enthusiasm for baseball, boxing and books and his friends enjoyed his wit and humor. As an adult, the force of his personality was such that it heightened the impact of his physical presence. Darkly handsome, broad-shouldered and muscular, he always impressed people as being taller than he really was. Actually 5 ft, 11 inches, he often was described as being a “huge man, over six feet tall.”

Papa Hemingway admired the spirit and independence of cats and believed that, “A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” Hemingway liked cats, because they were not disruptive when he was trying to write. He surrounded himself with them all his life and sought their comfort during times of loneliness and stress. Cats appear in many of his writings; particularly in A moveable Feast, Islands in the Stream, the Garden of Eden, and True at First Light.

From 1931-1940, Papa Hemingway lived in a house made of limestone in Key West, Florida given to him by his wife Pauline’s Uncle Gus. It was here he received his first cat with thumbs—a six-toed polydactyl tomcat (the term polydactyl is Latin for ‘many digits’) named ‘Snowball.’ Snowball belonged to Papa’s friend Stanley Dexter, a sea captain from Massachusetts. The captain had the tomcat on his ship, because polydactyl cats are excellent mousers and were considered good luck at sea. Upon his departure from Key West, the captain presented Snowball to Hemingway as a gift.

Today the descendents of the first Hemingway cat, Snowball, still possess the unusual six toes. Normal cats have five toes on each front paw and four toes on each hind paw. Hemingway cats may have as many as seven toes on each front paw and six toes on each hind paw. and it is rare for a cat to have polydactyl hind paws only. These front toes look like mittens so polydactyl cats are often called ‘mitten cats’. Some polydactyl kittens have difficulty learning to walk, however when they get older, cats with six toes can perform tricks a five-toed cat cannot. Some of these tricks include opening latches, catching objects with a single paw like catcher with a mitt, and picking up food to bring to its mouth. Some polydactyl cats can even pick up a pencil!

Hemingway once wrote, “One cat just leads to another…it doesn’t really seem as though there were many cats until you see them all moving like a mass migration at feeding time…” He was speaking of his eleven cats at his villa ‘Finca Vigia’, in ‘San Francisco de Paula’, which is a suburb of Havana, Cuba. Papa Hemingway lived in this spacious Spanish Colonial house for twenty-one years, from 1940-1961. During this time the number of cats swelled to a staggering fifty-seven.

Papa Hemingway named each cat he owned and had a personal relationship with each one. He gave them fanciful names like Howard, Hughes, Katherine Hepburn, and Spencer Tracy, who were movie stars of those days. He even named some of them after characters in his own books.
However, contrary to popular belief, Hemingway did not own a large number of cats at his house in Key West. He only owned two, but all of the polydactyl cats on the island of Key West today are descendents of these first two Hemingway cats .

Today, Hemingway’s habit of giving his cats fanciful names has become tradition in Key West. The polydactyl cats are named after movie stars, legendary writers, presidents, and even after some of Florida’s hurricanes. Currently, cats called Ivan and Frances, Emily Dickinson, Audrey Hepburn, and Harry Truman roam the grounds with their thumbed feet at the Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum in Key West, and these entitled felines are protected by the terms of his will. You will never be far from seeing a cat as there are now forty-six.

Upon Papa’s death in 1961, a local Key West businesswoman named Mrs. Bernice Dickson purchased the Hemingway house. She lived in it until she opened it as a museum in 1964, when she moved into the carriage house in back of the main house. The home was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1968 and the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home today is the property of Mrs. Dickson’s family.

At the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home all of the ‘mitten cats’ live a life of luxury. Many of the home’s visitors say they would like to come back as a cat and live there. This is because all Hemingway cats do is get up in the morning, eat, and take a nap, eat some more and then take another nap. The cats do nothing, the same way Papa Hemingway saw it and liked it at his house in Cuba, with fifty-seven cats running around his property. Every corner you take at his House and Museum you’ll find a couple of cats either snoozing or eating, or lapping up some water out of a special cat fountain that was once a bathroom’s urinal. Do you think you could live with fifty-seven cats?