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PATRICIA TAKES A STAND

This morning, I let Mr. Gray out and he went straight across the street onto a neighbor-man’s porch. The guy who lives there promptly chased him off. I had been wanting to talk to that family for sometime. (They — as well as others in this neighborhood — think Mr. Gray belongs to me.)

So, I went across the street and introduced myself. Then, I explained the situation with Mr. Gray. (People around really don’t appreciate the fact that this cat roams and does pretty much what he wants to do. They thought I was responsible for him. )

I had been trying to take care of the little cat, but I also treated him as the “owners” had been doing, too. That’s why he still roamed. (Now, I talked to the across-the-street man, I am angry with my other neighbors — Mr. Gray’s supposed “care-takers”– all over again.)

I have decided to treat him as if he were really MY cat. So, now, I keep him in the house. If and when and if the “owners” approach me about the little animal, I am afraid I will not be very pleasant. I plan to tell

them what the other neighbors think about roaming cats and that I do not appreciate being thought of as irresponsible because I am taking care of their cat.

Most of the people around here take care of and are responsible for their animals. (I keep my own cats indoors, always.) The guy I talked to this morning said the little cat was seen down by a major highway at the car dealership. If I had any remaining fears about keeping Mr. Gray in, that story did it. I am afraid he is going to get hit or someone might poison him to stop him visiting their business. (I don’t like to think that of anyone, but some people just don’t want stray animals on their property.)

Anyway, Mr. Gray, the vagabond, is having a hissy fit inside. He wants out. However, in time, he in time will calm down and accept the fact that he is IN.

Patricia (Sept. ’06) adds, “My husband and I are diligently going to try to find a home for Mr. Gray. I will keep you posted.”

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MISSION IN DOMINICAN REPUBLIC,

A Second Letter

Editor’s Note: The following letter was received from Patience, via the Mission Diocese courier, dated June18^th, 2006. It is the second of four from her during her two months in the mission field. The Dominican Republic is the eastern half of a rather large island that lies just east of Cuba — basically between Cuba and Puerto Rico. Los Guayuyos is deeply inside a mountainous region that covers the southwestern side of the country.

Dear Everyone:

Life is good in Los Guayuyos, Dominican Republic. Today we celebrated the Feast of Corpus Christi by having a procession through the pueblo. Though we don’t have much here, the people are very creative. Our cross was two sticks put together, our incense container was a tin tomato can filled with coals from the fire. (It had holes in it for a string so the person who carried it could swing it.) We carried five small can-dles. We cut index cards and used them as candle protectors! We all sang, prayed the rosary, and then ended with a wonderful feast of rice and beans with a couple small pieces of pork.

After that, my house-mate and I rode our mules to another pueblo to see the missionaries there. This was about a one hour journey. Luckily, we arrived back right before the heavy afternoon rains began.

Our classes are packed! Besides about fifty children, we have fifteen teens and sixty adults. These learners come every day to be taught to read and write in Spanish — and to speak English.

Again, thank you for your support of our work here. We keep you in our morning and evening prayers.

With Love,

Patience

Patience (Sept. ’06) adds, “We are quite busy, but we go to bed each night very excited about the enthusiasm of the people.”

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Note:

I incorrectly listed “Linda” Bruns Christensen in our birthdays. Her REAL name is not “Linda” but Ellen!

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“DO” RAG

As I looked at the simple pattern, Frances’ question, “What did you want to be when you grew up?” stood in the shadows of a more practical stream of thoughts. Why was I thinking about that question as I worked out the notion of how I was going to engineer a simple sewing pattern?

I’m not a sew-er. I do very elaborate beading and occasional knitting projects, but I don’t enjoy sewing. But, I wanted to make myself a “do-rag”, which is a very simple headscarf for use beneath my motorcycle helmet to protect my hair and keep the helmet liner fresher. However, I could not find a pattern.

I owned one do-rag and considered deconstructing it to use as a pattern. Instead, I used my copy machine to copy, match and tape together a workable alternative. So, how is this simple-turned-complicated sewing project related to Frances’ question?

As I sewed the pieces of the do-rag together, the memories of the one- and- only home economics class for sewing that I took came looming back like a tragedy that won’t resolve itself.

My junior high school counselor declared that as a bright new 7^th Grader, I was more than ready to take Spanish as my first foreign language. (I was delighted! The teachers, whom I loved, thought I was smart!) But, I’m sitting here, after all these years, crying my eyes out at the memory of what happened. For, my mother told the counselor in an angry, controlling voice, “No, she will not take Spanish. I want her to take sewing and cooking!”

I was devastated; I went home and argued lamely about it. But I knew that Mother got what she wanted. I felt helpless about the course of my future and my education.

The cooking part of home economics (as they used to call it), was okay. Resigned as I was to not having a say over my life at that point, I was interested and encouraged as an excellent natural-born cook. Then along came sewing. I remember feeling like a prisoner, as I was taken in anger by my mother to purchase supplies I didn’t want, for a class I didn’t want to take.

The sewing was led by a student teacher. But, there was my regular teacher, too: a formidable, serious and tall woman who seemed very distant and ready to retire. Maybe I simply didn’t want to get sewing and the project suffered for my despair and apathy.

Even so, everything about the jumper itself, though was joyless. I remember its color and type of fabric after all these years. I also remember how ill- fitting and ugly it was.

We had our jumpers laid out at the end of the semester and my miserable creation received a D+. I was humiliated and broken-hearted. I burst into tears.

Today, though, I finished the do-rag in quick time. I sewed into it the joy of imperfection, as well as the satisfaction of not needing to meet a deadline or someone’s expectations. Each time I sew something, I recognized the pain and the sorrow of an opportunity that was lost to me.

Moments like that help me to gather up the broken pieces of my youth and heal them. If the broken pieces are not recognized and looked at, they can hurt over and over.

Linda ( Sept.’06)adds, “Those were the days of burning bras and feminist questions. I wanted to know: why I couldn’t take woodworking or metal shop instead! Later I did beat the system, though. I managed to become the first female to take a small engine repair, and an auto repair class in high school.”