Story Hour
Popcorn Kittens
Written by Gene B. Williams
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At the end of summer, both the land and the animals begin to prepare for winter. In the field, the tall grass was just beginning to turn brown. Other plants were changing in colors, with reds, yellows, purples and blues mixed in with the greens and browns. Grandma loved to pick her wildflowers. Grandpa would sit on the porch, sneeze, complain about the goldenrod. When Grandma gave him “that look,” he’d do his best to not sneeze, then would make a nice comment about the small jar of wildflowers on the table. Then Grandma would smile and stir a spoon of honey into his tea or coffee.
“It’s a well known fact, Herbert,” she would say, “that local honey cures local allergies. Now … drink that down.”
I knew that Grandpa didn’t like either tea or coffee sweet. On a biscuit or roll, fine, but not in a drink. Still, he would sit there silently while Grandma clanked the edge of the cup with that teaspoon to dissolve the honey that never did stop him from sneezing when the goldenrod bloomed with those tall yellow flowers.
He took another sip, gave off another sneeze, and whispered to himself, “Darned goldenrod.” He whispered but Grandma still heard.
She had what some call selective hearing. Talk to her about her upcoming doctor’s appointment and if she responded at all it might be with, “You didn’t tell me you weren’t feeling well. Maybe I should mix you an herb remedy. I have some dried xanthium and horn root, and ….”
“No, Grandma, I’m fine. You have an appointment with Dr. Schmidt this afternoon.”
“Actor named Smith?” she might respond. “I didn’t know we were talking about movies. I thought you wanted me to make some tea for you.”
Then Grandpa would sneeze again, whisper “Darned goldenrod,” and Grandma would hear perfectly and say, “It’s those cats. Everyone knows that cat allergies are the worst of all.” Then she would point at Rosie.
Rosie was the only farm cat with a name. She ignored Grandma. In fact, she ignored everyone except Grandpa. Just trying to pet her meant risk. If you were lucky, she would run before you got close enough to those sharp claws and teeth. Yet she would crawl into Grandpa’s lap, turn her head upside down and purr herself to sleep.
The rest of the cats had no names, at least none that worked. When it was time for them to eat “regular cat foot,” or the bowl of scraps Grandpa or Grandma would provide, all that was needed was to go outside and holler, “Cat cat cat cat cat cat cat,” and they would come running from wherever they were.
Of course, Rosie was always there first. She was the queen and the others stepped aside no matter what.
This day she was in her usual place on Grandpa’s lap. From that spot she could glare defiantly at Grandma and also watch out over the field. At all times, she’d flip her tail if anyone but Grandpa came near. She was doing just that as she watched her kittens in the field.
She’d had a new brood in late May. At nearly six months old, they were becoming quite independent and were stretching their limits on the farm. Consciously or not on Rosie’s part, they’d be ready to survive the cold winter that was coming. Her eyes closed as she pretended to ignore them.
Suddenly one of the kittens shot up into the air, did a crazy flip, and disappeared again into the tall grasses and other plants. A few feet away, another kitten did the same thing, and in another part of the field, up popped a third kitten. As the sun drifted low, all five kittens were popping up into the air out there in the tall grass, to disappear, only to pop up again.
Grandma took off her glasses and wiped them on her apron, as though that might explain what was going on. “Might be a snake,” she offered.
“Can’t be,” said Grandpa. “It would have to be twenty feet long.”
Pop pop pop went the kittens.
“Maybe it’s that old tom?”
“Can’t be,” said Grandpa. “Too far apart – and Rosie would know.”
Pop pop pop.
Grandma wrinkled her nose. She’d feed the cats, even showed favor to Rosie, but there was still an interesting wall between Grandma and Rosie. Grandma would go out with special treats just for Rosie – who didn’t need it because the other cats let her have first pickings anyway. Rosie would turn her back on Grandma and lift that tail. Maybe Rosie thought she was a skunk.
Now Grandpa had crossed that subtle line. The very idea that Rosie might know something Grandma didn’t! Worse, Rosie might know something Grandma didn’t while sitting on Grandpa’s lap!
Pop pop pop in the field.
It was a show that had all of us laughing, but I just had to know why – and the sun was going down.
Pop pop pop.
“Grandpa, something is going on out there.”
He petted Rosie and said, “There’s no explaining cats.”
“Grandpa, something is going on out there.”
Pop pop pop. It was like watching some weird kettle of furry popcorn going off.
Finally, Grandpa set Rosie down on the porch steps and came with me to investigate. Her tail swished on the top step, irritated that her rest was being disturbed.
As we walked into the grasses the mystery was solved. A grasshopper jumped and landed on Grandpa’s leg. Right behind it was a kitten. The grasshopper jumped away from his leg, and the kitten was after it.
Even with the dimming sunlight, we could see what the game was. Grasshoppers were trying to settle in with those tall grasses and wildflowers, and the kittens made it into a game. Grasshoppers can fly, but not nearly as well as birds.
Grandpa shook his head, muttered, “Cats!” then sneezed again.
Up on the porch Grandma got up from her chair and said, “Grandpa, you get out of those weeds. I’ll make you a nice tea. Those cats have you all stuffed up.”
He put his hand on my head, said, “Silly cats,” paused for a moment then with a smile said, “…and silly Grandmas.”
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