Debbie & The Brat (Bluehawq's Silly Pet Stories W/O)
Jun 02 '01
The Bottom Line Did you know that some of the world's best dolls are cats (e.g. my childhood pal, Debbie)? Sometimes, she even wore doll clothes while riding in a buggy!
Before getting into this bunch of cute, little stories about my cat, Debbie, and me, I would like to ask anyone who is (or knows) a woman in her mid-forties whose maiden name was Debbie Goff to get in touch with me, either in this comment section and/or by using my e-mail address (which will be shut down about the first couple to 2 1/2 weeks in July, because I'll be traveling so much). Thanks! :o)
THERE'S MORE THAN ONE WAY TO NAME A CAT!!!
Let's travel back in time to 1957 when I was 4 1/2 years old (or was that 1956 when I was 3 1/2 years old? I think it was 1957, though). . .
By this time, my folks had been promoted to having three weeks of summer vacation by Delco-Remy (the local division of General Motors). They had their vacation time down to a science by then to where each one was on the same schedule.
We would spend the first week (minus travel time of about a dozen hours) on the farm in Kentucky that was shared by my grandparents, Aunt Mary & Uncle Jim, and the latter's then three (the number would eventually increase by two more) kids.
Most times, Aunt Jenny & Uncle Dick (along with their own son and daughter) would drive up from Madison, Tennessee to spend a couple of nights, as well.
The next week was spent traveling down to Biloxi, Mississippi (generally, non-stop driving) to visit with Uncle Kermit and his two elderly cousins (Lillie & Finn), who were also second parents to him.
The final week was spend back on the farm.
That particular year, I made some wonderful discoveries in Biloxi.
One of those discoveries was a self-operated elevator. I loved to get into it and make it go from the first floor to the second floor and back again to the first by pressing two buttons: one with a U for UP and another with a D for DOWN.
The other discovery, was an adorable toddler named Debbie Goff, who lived in the same house on Howard Avenue (which had been divided into two apartments) as Uncle Kermit, Lillie, & Finn.
I thought she was the stuff!
She came over to play with me on several occasions, and she always cried when she had to leave. I would hear her crying even when she was back in her own apartment, and I felt so sorry for her. It was also nice to feel so appreciated that a friend would actually cry when it was time to say good-bye.
She was, at the most, two years old, and all of us simply fell in love with her.
When it came time to leave, Uncle Kermit asked me if I would like to put Debbie in the car trunk and take her back to Indiana with me. I was game for that!
If this sounds warped, you'll have to remember that I not only had no fear of car trunks then (no knowledge of how dangerous--even fatal!--it might be to be shut into one), but my cousins and I had even turned ours into a Wendy House the week before (with the trunk open, of course, and grown-ups close-by to make sure it remained open). So it seemed very logical that Debbie could ride back with us.
I was disappointed to learn that Uncle Kermit was not only kidding about the trunk but that Debbie couldn't ride back while sharing the backseat with me--but, when I was told that her Mommy and Daddy would miss her, I understood, and realized that I would just have to wait and see her next year.
By next year, she and her folks had moved to who-knows-where, so--other than a picture of her that Finn gave me--I never saw her again. In person, anyway--though I did happen to read a human interest story about a Debbie Goff from either Kentucky or Tennessee who had married a guy who had been in a serious accident. I don't know if she were the same one or not.
Anyway, we eventually returned home to our farm that was south of Anderson, Indiana.
At the time, Aunt Ruby (widowed in 1955) and her 12 year old son, Phil, lived in the converted barn where I now live. One evening, they called us with the exciting news that a stray cat had given birth to kittens in the middle basement of the barn (a bank barn, where one side opened at ground-level)!!!
My dad (who took care of me evenings while my mom worked) and I went to see them.
I named the mother cat Mrs. Zion, because, back in those days, it was customary to call grown-ups, except for those who were either family or close-as-family, by a title and a last name if you were a little kid. Since this cat was a Mommy, that meant that she had to be a grown-up. Thus, Mrs. Zion. Why Zion? She just looked like a Zion to me--and I have no idea where I came up with that for a last name. Maybe from listening to a hymn or Bible story.
One little tiger kitten in the bunch became extra friendly with me, so it was decided that she would be my pet when she was old enough.
Choosing her name was easy--I chose Debbie.
As for Mrs. Zion, she also became our pet. She was an outdoor cat, but I let her in the house at times. One time, she came in and jumped all over everything.
So my mom was telling our neighbor, Eleanor Broshar, how Mrs. Zion had gotten into the house and had jumped up on the table, stove, counter, etc.
Our neighbor was very surprised to find this out, saying that Mrs. Zion had never done anything like this at her house--turns out that there was a lady who lived about a mile south of us who cleaned houses, and her name was Mrs. Zion!
TRAVEL NO FARTHER THAN THOMASVILLE, OR YOU MIGHT GET KIDNAPPED
I grew up traveling.
In fact, my first road-trip came when I was just weeks old, going to Cunot, Indiana to visit Grandpa and Uncle George (Oh yes! A little trivia: Uncle George's middle name was Willard, so he could have very well been called George W.!).
We stayed in a motel a little ways east of Midway (the point where U.S. 40 and U.S. 231 intersected).
It was a Mom & Pop motel, and they had no crib, so I ended up sleeping in a drawer that had been padded with enough tiny blankets to make it serve me well as a bed. Imagine my sleeping in a drawer now--I'd probably splinter it the moment I sat in it! lolololol
Anyway, I grew up traveling, and one of the things my folks got me doing to entertain me was to have me look for landmarks and towns that we would pass through on our way to wherever.
One day, I dressed Debbie up in a pretty, little doll dress, put her in my toy buggy with a couple of other dolls, and told all of them that I was taking them to Thomasville, Indiana.
This consisted of just pushing the buggy down the lane from our house to Aunt Ruby's.
When we got there, I told them that we were now in Thomasville, Indiana.
How I came up with that name, I'm not sure. Possibly, because my cousin's name is Phillip Thomas Alexander (or, as we called him, Phil-Tom). For whatever reason, the name just sounded good to me--sounded like a place you might come across on a long journey..
Traveling to and from Thomasville, Indiana seemed like enough for awhile--but I was always looking to broaden my horizons, and I was a very independent child.
So, one day, I didn't dress Debbie in any doll clothes. And, instead of having her riding in a doll buggy, I was going to carry her.
Instead of being my doll, she was going to be my traveling companion, and we were going to take a long, l---o---n---g journey, so I could show her some of my favorite places.
Now, my Mommy and Daddy watched me like hawks, but they gave me a couple of rules to follow in case they weren't right there:
(1) I wasn't to get in a car with strangers--no matter how nice they seemed--unless they were there with me to see me get in and know where I was going.
and
(2) I wasn't to get anywhere near to the highway out in front of our house (At that time, it was both Columbus Avenue/Columbus Avenue Road and State Road 109).
They told me a couple of true-life horror stories to hammer this point home with me.
In one of those stories, a man invited a little girl about my age to get in the car with him and go to the candy store. Instead, he cut her up and threw her in the river.
In another story, there was a lady who seemed very nice and told the kids that she wanted to preach the Gospel to them. The kids got in the car with her and were never seen alive again.
So I didn't walk along the road.
Instead, I went carrying Debbie through the cornfield.
When we were so far into the cornfield, I heard what sounded suspiciously like my mother calling my name loudly--which wasn't exactly what I wanted to be hearing at that time.
In order to be fair, though, I decided to talk it over with Debbie (with me doing all of the talking except for a meow or two).
"Do you think that's Mommy yelling for me? Or is it the Broshar kids out playing?. . . . . . .I think it's the Broshar kids out playing, so let's go on. I have so much to show you!. . ."
I then went on to tell Debbie how we would be stopping at the gas station to see Kenny Clore before going on the see "The Kenny Story Motel." (Actual name of the motel was MarJon Motel, but it was owned by Kenny Story and his family, which is where I got that name from).
Eventually, we came to a barb-wire fence separating our land from the farm north of ours.
East of us was another fence that separated our land from the railroad track. When my folks were with me, we could climb up this bank formed by a railroad bridge and walk on the track together--something we loved to do. But this--or climbing over the barb-wire fence between our land and the track--was too much for child of four or five to do.
So I could head west and walk along the highway. Since it wasn't running in front of our house, I wouldn't be disobeying my folks by walking along it.
I traveled along the side of Columbus Avenue going north, still carrying Debbie.
We eventually got to Kenny Clore's filling station, which was on the southeast corner formed by the intersectng of Columbus Avenue and State Rd. 67 (which would, in time, also be known as 53rd Street.).
Kenny Clore was very surprised to see me and asked me if I were running away from home. I told him that I wasn't and introduced him to Debbie, explaining that I was taking her for a walk.
He invited me to have a seat in his office while he called my mother to let her know where I was--but I told him that I didn't want to stay that long, because I wanted to show Debbie The Kenny Story Motel first. I told him we'd see him in a little bit.
Debbie and I left and turned right to walk east along the side of State Rd. 67, and I showed her The Kenny Story Motel, Buddy Bathouer's house, and a few other familiar sights.
I decided that we would go a little farther before turning around and going back, just in case there was something else worth seeing.
If you were to go along that same route today, you'd see a lot of things--including Yip's Chopstick House (which I've reviewed here) on the opposite side of what is now 53rd Street (though still also State Rd. 67).
There would be all kinds of businesses mingled in with the houses--and, yes, Buddy Bathouer's house and "The Kenny Story Motel" are still there, too.
Kenny Clore's filling station was torn down, and he had a new one built. Eventually, he sold the filling station, and the new owners converted it into a little bar called Wertz's Place.
Anyway, at the point where we decided to turn around was just a big, empty field. Today, a bank, a strip mall, a Pizza Hut, a filling station, and a building materials company occupy the part of the field that's closest to the highway.
On to the south is Applewood Centre, a large,. attractive shopping center with several businesses of various kinds on its outlots.
Back then, though, it was just a big field--so it was time for Debbie and me to head back home.
I drove that same route several years ago just to see how far I'd traveled. I can't remember offhand just how far it was, but it seems as if it were around two or three miles--and I still had enough energy to retrace my steps to head back home.
And I would have made it, too--except I was about to get kidnapped!!!
The car pulled up beside of me, and a seemingly-nice couple I didn't recognize asked me if I needed a ride.
Remembering Mommy and Daddy's words, I politely thanked them and told them I was fine.
They told me that they were Tommy's Mommy and Daddy from two doors down--but I still wasn't convinced. And they didn't seem like they were the type to take "NO!" for an answer.
Somehow, I knew that Debbie and I were about to get kidnapped--and I wondered what it would feel like to be cut up and thrown in the river!
I was pretty certain that having this happen would be even more uncomfortable than getting a shot or having my temperature taken the way it was taken in the hospital when I was in there for a hernia operation.
The man was getting out of the car--maybe, I could outrun him.
I began to run south just as fast as my little legs would carry me--screaming all the way!
Debbie jumped out of my arms just as the man caught up with us.
I began to trust him and his wife a little more when I noticed he grabbed Debbie before she could run out of the highway and get run over.
Even so, I was very quiet all the way back home.
WOW! What was going on at my place!?!
I'd never seen so many people there at one time! Maybe, we were going to have a huge cook-out. There were people all over the place!
Someone told me to go in the kitchen and let my mother know I was home--and I was surprised to find her crying.
Little did I know of what I'd put her through--she never told me what all had been going through her mind that day until many years later! It had seemed to her as if the earth had just swallowed me up. Had I met with some sort of disaster in the tall grass? Had I fallen in the creek and drowned?
She hugged me to her and tearfully asked me why I'd run away.
So that was what was bothering her. She thought I'd gotten mad at her about something and had taken Debbie and left.
"I didn't run away!" I assured her. "I just went to take the cat for a walk!"
Grandpa--who now lived with us part of the time--was observing everything, and he calmly asked me, "If you decide to go somewhere after this, don't you think you'd better ask your mother first?"
I was told that all of these people had come there especially to look for me. So there wasn't going to be a cook-out after all. But that didn't matter, because I was just glad that Debbie and I had made it back intact instead of being kidnapped, cut up in pieces, and thrown in a river!
MAYBE, I SHOULD HAVE BEEN A LAWYER. . .
One time, my folks were both gone, and Grandpa and Aunt Kate were taking care of me.
The two of them were sitting at the dining room table visiting, and I was playing here and there in the house.
I decided to go outside and bring Debbie in to play.
First, I decided she would play the piano (must have thought she was Debbie the Pianomam!), so I put her on the keys and let her walk around. I found her to be very talented.
Then, I decided that we would go in and visit with Grandpa and Aunt Kate (the latter who shared this story with me years later and told me how funny she thought what I said was).
I sat down in a dining room chair with Debbie on my lap and let her front paws rest on the table.
Grandpa calmly asked me, "Do you think your mother would like it if she knew you had your cat's feet on the table?"
"Grandpa! Those aren't her feet! They're her hands!"
A HOLE IN THE HEAD
Early one morning, Mommy woke me out of a sound sleep and walked me down to the basement. She told me that I'd gone to sleep chewing gum and now had it stuck in my hair. Therefore, she was going to have to wash it out with turpentine. The removal of the gum with turpentine wasn't exactly fun. The fumes were uncomfortably-strong; it felt sting-y on my head; and it still felt like my hair was being pulled to have the gum removed. Not something I ever wanted to go through again--and I didn't understand why Mommy didn't just cut it out, because having my hair cut didn't hurt. Also, I might be lucky enough to end up with a "hole in my head" just like Daddy's!
I would learn years later that Daddy was developing a bald-spot--and this wouldn't have been his first-choice when it came to hairstyles.
However, I actually thought that he had the barber cut it for him especially that way. I loved it and called it his "hole in his head."
One afternoon, Grandpa baby-sat me. When he was younger, he'd worn a lot of hats--besides being a husband and father--three of those being farmer, lumberjack, and barber.
Grandma (who had passed away almost a decade before I was born) had barbered right along with him, and Uncle Finley had taken it up as a profession.
So he thought it was rather cute when I told him I wanted to cut his hair.
Using my round-edged "kindergarten scissors," I proceeded to give him a hole in the head. I thought he looked very stylish. Mommy thought differently.
"Why did you let her do that to you?" she asked him.
"Oh, because she wanted to so badly."
I wasn't read the riot-act or anything like that--just told that I was too young to be cutting people's hair and to wait until I was a little older.
Even so, that area of his beautiful, wavy, silver hair never grew completely back before he passed away in August of 1959, something my mom was pretty sad about, but no use crying over spilt milk.
Sometime around the time that I gave Grandpa his hole, I ended up with one of my own.
Daddy and Gene Carter (a family friend) were talking about how to mend some fence.
Debbie and I were sitting in the back seat of our old DeSoto, and I was chewing gum.
For some reason, I decided to play a little game with the gum where I stuck it in my hair and removed it.
The first time I did this, I simply sat the gum on top of my head and then lifted it off. I felt pretty proud of myself.
The next time I did this, I pushed on it a little to make it more of a challenge to remove--and was even more proud of myself when I successfully removed it.
I made it more challenging by pushing down on it some more--and was STILL able to remove it! HEY! I was GOOD!!!
By now, I was feeling very confident that I could really smash it into my hair and still remove it.
So I stuck it on top of my head, patted it in with my hand a little, and then did a headstand on the seat to grind it in further!
When I went to pull it out, I found I couldn't--and I began to smell and feel turpentine in my mind.
Maybe, Daddy or Gene might have a better idea. One thing for sure, the gum certainly couldn't stay in my hair.
Debbie and I emerged from the car and approached the men. "I think I got my gum stuck in my hair," I informed them.
They began to talk about how to get it out, and Daddy suggested combing it out--which almost made me tell them about the turpentine method. But I decided to wait a little longer to see what would happen next.
"Combing it out would hurt the little girl," Gene reminded him. "We don't want to hurt the little girl." Daddy agreed there--and finally wondered if the only thing left to do would be to use some scissors to cut it out!
Good choice! I thought to myself. That was the conclusion I wanted them to come to. In fact, I was about to suggest it to them, if they couldn't figure it out on their own.
So they used my kindergarten scissors and cut all the gum out--and, much to my joy, leaving me with a hole in my head!!! I felt so stylish!!!
Soon it was time to eat with Mommy--that is, to pick up some drinks and sandwiches to share with her on her meal break, which happened around seven each evening.
We decided to go to Bert T. Owens (which, at that time, I thought was Birdie Owens) to get some Cokes and roast beef sandwiches.
There were a couple of old ladies in there sitting at the school desks that were used for inside-dining chairs who were eating ice cream.
I pointed to my head and told them that Daddy had given me a hole in my head just like his! I was so proud about that!!!
"That's very nice, dearie!" one of them told me, while they both smiled sweetly--though they were probably wondering what kind of sicko my dad was!
When my mom saw my hair, she screeched, "Ray! What on earth!?!"
I told her that I had a hole in my head just like Daddy's--but she wasn't amused. I had no idea why.
* * * * * * *
Happiness for this brat was having a living doll of a cat to get into mischief with. I'm sure that I could have gotten into an equal amount of mischief, even without Debbie hanging around. Somehow, though, it was at least twice the fun with Debbie.
She was a wonderful buddy to me for many years, finally simply walking away sometime during the summer when I was between fourth and fifth grade. Cats (when they live outdoors and can) will do that many times when they feel their number is about to be called, because they want their humans to remember them as they were.
There are so many other stories I can tell about Debbie and me, but I will just share two more.
BIRDS, BEES, AND CATS
We will fast-forward a few years to the spring that I was in fourth grade and witnessed the birthing process for the first time when Debbie had a litter of kittens. She'd had kitten before, but I'd not been there to watch the actual birthing process. Now my cousins--who now lived in Indiana in the barn (now that Aunt Ruby and Phil had long been settled into their own home on the west edge of Markleville)--and I, along with my folks, were watching this miracle take place, in a box placed right against the south side of the garage.
I was rather amazed that the kittens were coming--or so it looked like to me--from the same place where Debbie peed from.
A few years before, I'd been told that babies came out of an opening in the Mommy's body that the doctor knew how to get into. Up until that time, I imagined that the doctor had some sort of special key or screwdriver that he used to unscrew/unlock a pregnant woman's belly-button--after which her tummy would open up like a glove compartment so that he could reach in and get the baby out.
So I was very shocked to find out that human Mommies gave birth in just about the very same way that Debbie did.
GUEST OF HONOR
My folks tell me to this day what a wonderful daughter I've been, saying that I never gave them a bit of trouble.
Let me explain that they were talking about things like smoking, getting drunk, doing drugs, sleeping around, shoplifting, vandalizing, etc.
And they were talking about how I would call in each night, even when I was living away from home in a college dorm, and, later, an apartment.
This HAS to be what they were talking about, because, as you've come to find out, I could be a handful!
Jesse Simmerman was my bus driver. He was a jolly, rolly-polly guy who--although he had a clean-shaven face and close-cropped red hair--reminded me a lot of Santa Claus.
And, if anyone on his bus needed put in his/her place, he would usually get their attention by hollering, "HEY!" -- which I found to be pretty funny.
I remember being in first-grade and sitting on the bus with some older guy, and we were both cutting up. He'd make some kind of nonsense sound such as "Blaaaaaa!" or quack like a duck, give a Bronx cheer, etc., and I would imitate him.
I can't remember which guy it was--though it might have been Tony (more on him when we finally go on our dinner date that keeps getting put off, and I write a review of one of the best restaurants in Indiana, where we plan to go). I'll have to ask him some time.
We were in the front, right-hand seat of the bus, and Jesse turned around and hollered, "HEY, you guys!"
And I giggled and said I wasn't a guy; I was a girl!
Then, there was that nice day when we were a mile or so from home, and I was feeling independent, trying to get off at the VanMetre place.
"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm going to get out here and walk home!"
"Oh no you're not!"
Jesse shut the door to the bus and started heading north again.
When we got to where he let out the Huffman and Mullikin kids, I was able to fly down the steps and out the door.
It was a lovely fall day, and I was feeling very independent and energetic. I wanted to go on a long walk home just like a grown-up.
Jesse directed some older kids to go after me and get me back on the bus. I was really mad by that time and started throwing a major tantrum.
There were other incidents, too. Jesse was a sweet, easygoing guy, but there was just some behavior that didn't belong on his school bus.
So he decided to make my folks aware that I wasn't exactly being a great bus rider a good deal of the time--little things like dancing in the aisles in time to the music on the radio and otherwise running from seat-to-seat visiting everybody.
When Jesse hollered "HEY!" at me, it all seemed like a big game to me.
He didn't want to embarrass my family, so he decided to let off as many kids as possible before pulling into my folks' driveway.
We were taking a new route home, and I was getting to see where more of my busload of friends lived. This was so exciting to me! It was like a big party!
By now, I was scampering all over the bus, and Jesse was hollering "HEY!"
Finally, the bus was almost empty, and I was skipping up and down the aisle of the bus kicking litter under the seats while making up a little song as I went along:
"Sweeping up the school bus--Tra-La-La!. . ."
Jesse and I became Sonny and Cher (even before we knew there was a Sonny and Cher) with me singing my little song, and Jesse adding "Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey-Hey. . ." to it.
Then--lo and behold--I couldn't believe my eyes! Jesse was actually pulling into our driveway! He told me to go get my folks (my dad was the only one home by that time), and so I did.
Was Jesse going to come in and visit for awhile?
What a lucky, little girl I was!
Later on, I would find out from Daddy the reason for Jesse's visit. I was disappointed, but I cleaned up my act--just a little--after that!
Anyway, at that time, I wanted Debbie to be a part of this big occasion.
This would be a story to laugh at when we all looked back on it years later.
Here was Jesse giving Daddy the bad news that his little girl needed to behave better or else other arrangements to get me to and from school would have to be made.
And here I came swishing back over with Debbie in my arms wondering why he was staying in the bus instead of getting out and at least sitting on the porch, if not coming in the house.
"Jesse! Come on in and have some cookies!" I exclaimed enthusiastically.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
One final thing, if you want to find out who else has posted in this write-off, follow this URL to super-duper click-on site:
http://www.bluehawq.com/writeoffs/mysillypetentries.html
Also, be sure to visit the hostess-with-the-mostess of this write-off, Bluehawq.
By going to her profile page, you can find out how to become a member of Bluehawq's Nest, which is 4-F: free, friendly, fun, & fabulous!!!
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AinsleyJo
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Member: Ainsley Jo Phillips
Location: Anderson, Indiana
Reviews written: 270
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I'm hosting a write-off: http://www.epinions.com/content_5362983044
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