My Mother's Cat--A Story on my Birthday.

When my nineteen-year-old mother died, a few weeks after giving birth to me, I inherited her cat, Paprika. He was a gentle giant, with deep orange stripes and yellow eyes that gazed at me tolerantly as I dragged him around wherever I went. Paprika was ten years old when I came into this world. He had been held and loved by my mother for all ten years of his life, while I had never known her. So I considered him my link to her. Each time I hugged him tightly to my chest, I was warmed by the knowledge that she had done so, too.

"Did you love her a lot?" I would often ask Paprika, as we snuggled on my bed.

"Meow!" He would answer, rubbing my chin with his pink nose.

"Do you miss her?"

"Meow!" His large, yellow eyes gazed at me with a sad expression.

"I miss her too, even though I didn’t know her. But Grandma says she is in heaven, and she is watching over us from there. Since we are both her orphans, I know it makes her happy that we have each other," I would always say, for it was a most comforting thought to me.

"Meow!" Paprika would respond, climbing on my chest and purring.

I held him close, tears welling in my eyes. "And it makes me so very happy that we have each other." Paprika’s orange paw reached up and touched my face gently. I was convinced he understood me, and I knew I understood him.

At that time we lived in the country of my birth, Hungary, and I was being raised by my maternal grandparents because World War II had taken my young father away, too. As I grew, the war intensified, and soon we were forced to become wanderers in search of safer surroundings.

In the spring of 1944, when I was eight, Paprika and I snuggled in the back of the wooden wagon as we traveled around our country. During the numerous air raids of those terrible times, when we had to scramble to find safety in a cellar, closet or ditch, he was always in my arms, for I refused to go without him. How could I, when one of the first stories I was ever told as a child was that of my dying mother begging her parents to take care of her cat as well as her baby?

After the Christmas of 1944, when we were almost killed in a bombing of the city we were in, Grandfather decided that we would be safer in a rural area. Soon, we settled in a small house that had a cemetery as its neighbor. Here Grandfather, with the help of some neighbors, built a bunker away from the house, and on an early spring day in 1945, we spent the entire night in the bunker. Paprika was with me, of course, because once again, I refused to go without him.

Warplanes buzzed, tanks rumbled, and bombs whistled and exploded over our heads all night while I held on to Paprika, and my grandmother held on to the both of us, praying the entire time. Paprika never panicked in that bunker. He just stayed in my arms, comforting me with his presence.

Finally everything grew still, and Grandfather decided it was safe to go back to the house. Cautiously, we crept out into the light of early dawn and headed towards the house. The brush crackled under our feet as we walked. I shivered, holding on to Paprika tightly. Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes just ahead. Two men jumped out and pointed machine guns directly at us.

"Stoi!" one of the men shouted. We knew the word meant, "Stop!"

"Russians!" Grandfather whispered. "Stand very still, and keep quiet."

But Paprika had leapt out of my arms when the soldier shouted, so instead of listening to Grandfather, I darted between the soldiers and scooped her up again.

The tall, dark-haired young soldier approached me. I cringed, holding Paprika against my chest. The soldier reached out and petted him gently.

"I have a little girl about your age back in Russia, and she has a cat just like this one," he said, smiling at us. I looked up into a pair of kind brown eyes and my fear vanished. My grandparents sighed with relief! We found out that morning that the Soviet occupation of our country was in progress.

Many atrocities occurred in our country in the following months, but because the young soldier took a liking to my cat and me, we were spared. He visited often, bringing treats for Paprika and me. Then one day, a few months later, he had some sad news.

"I’ve been transferred to another area, malka (little one), so I won’t be able to come and visit anymore. But I have a gift for you," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a necklace. It was beautiful, and had a turquoise Russian Orthodox cross on it. He placed it around my neck.

"You wear this at all times, malka. God will protect you from harm. And you take good care of your kitty."

I hugged him tight, and then watched him leave, tears welling in my eyes.
In the trying weeks and months that followed, Paprika’s love made things easier for me to bear, for he rarely left my side. He was my comfort, my best friend.

By the fall of 1945, Grandfather, who had spoken up about the atrocities taking place in our country, had gone into hiding, to avoid being imprisoned as a dissident by the new communist government.

Grandmother and I prepared for a solemn Christmas that turned into my worst nightmare when I awoke on Christmas morning to find Paprika, curled up next to me, lifeless and cold. I picked up his lifeless body and holding it close to me, sobbed uncontrollably. He was nineteen years old, and I was nine.

"I will always love you, Paprika. I will never give my heart to another cat," I vowed through my tears. "Never, ever!"

"Paprika’s spirit is in heaven now, with your Mama, sweetheart," my grandmother said, trying to comfort me. But my heart was broken on that terrible Christmas Day in 1945.

Grandfather stayed hidden until the fall of 1947, when we were finally able to escape our communist country by hiding among some ethnic Germans, who were being deported into Austria. In Austria, we landed in a refugee camp where we lived for four years.

These were difficult times for me and I longed for Paprika often. I saw other people’s cats and knew it would be so comforting to feel a warm furry creature purring in my arms. But my loyalty to Paprika—mixed up in my mind with loyalty to my mother—never wavered. I had made a vow and I would keep it.

A ray of hope pierced this darkness when eventually we were accepted for immigration to the United States. In September 1951, we boarded an old Navy ship, on our way to America.

That year, we spent our first Christmas in the United States. The horrors of war, the four years of hardship in a refugee camp, were behind us now, and a life filled with fresh possibilities, lay ahead.

On that Christmas morning, I awoke to a tantalizing aroma wafting throughout the house. Grandmother was cooking her first American turkey. Grandfather, meanwhile, pointed to one of the presents under the Christmas tree that seemed alive, for it was hopping around to the tune of "Jingle Bells" playing on the radio. I rushed over, pulled off the orange bow, and took the lid off the box.

"Meow," cried the present, jumping straight into my lap and purring. It was a tiny, orange tabby kitten, and when I looked into its yellow eyes, the vow I had made in 1945 crumbled like dust and fell away. I was a new person in a new country. Holding the cat close, I let the sweetness of love fill my heart once again.

That Christmas Day, I do believe my mother smiled down at us from heaven approvingly, while Paprika’s spirit purred joyfully at her side.
-----

This story has been published in "Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul," ("Angel Cats," "A Dickens of a Cat." ) Copyright (c) 2004 by Renie Burghardt.


Unfortunately, the only picture we have of that era is the one above. All others were lost during the war.


I hope you enjoyed the story. My family is here to help me celebrate my birthday, and of course, Thanksgiving. I woke up to streamers and Happy Birthday signs and balloons decorating my bedroom. I feel like a kid of 72! :-)

Friends, I will be somewhat absent from the world of blogging this week, but will be back the weekend.

To all celebrating the holiday, Happy Thanksgiving. And to everyone, have a wonderful week!

I also want to thank my Russian cousin Elena, in Ballarat, Victoria, Australia, for the lovely birthday gift and card. It arrived yesterday, and was such a surprise. Thank you Elena and Vlad!


And thank you so much for reading.


Blessings from the woods!

Just Dabbling-And a Woo Hoo!

I decided to post something a little different this morning. A bit of dabbling. A story I have been playing around with. Not that I haven't posted stories before, but they were always non-fiction based on personal experience, and this is a piece of fiction. I rarely write fiction. So this is a short-short (short-shorts are 500 words or less) Paranormal Fantasy. The setting is from my own personal experience, but that's where it ends. This story is a work of the imagination, and maybe not that great, but it was an interesting exercise for me. I hope you enjoy it.


Kati and the Dolphins

Anni is fourteen and Kati is fifteen when both of their families receive the news they had been waiting for. They are going to America!

For Hungarian refugees who had been living in a refugee camp for the past four years, this is wonderful news. It is their chance at a new life. What is even more wonderful is that Kati and Anni, who are best friends, will be going to America together.

On September 7, 1951, they board the ship, with hundreds of other refugees. Then they stream to their assigned quarters, women and children separated from men and older boys. Kati and Anni will be sleeping next to each other in upper bunks, with their mothers below them.

When the ship pulls out to sea, they gather on the deck. It is a poignant
moment for the adults, who are sad about not seeing their homeland again.

“But we’re on our way to America, the land of the free and the brave,” Kati says. She and Anni embrace this new adventure with hope in their hearts.

Kati and Anni soon begin to explore the ship. They eat together in the massive dining hall, and play together in the huge recreation room on the ship. Meanwhile, both girls parents’ spend most of their time in bed,
suffering from seasickness.

By the second day on the ship, Kati and Anni have made a new friend. He is a young American who works in the galley and brings them treats on his breaks, telling them about life in America. Anni knows that Dave’s interest in them is due to Kati’s beautiful looks. She has long, curly black hair framing her oval face, and the blossoming body of a young woman, while her own body is still in limbo, like her braided locks. But both girls enjoy Dave’s attention.

On the third day of their voyage as Kati and Anni are sitting in the recreation room leafing through a book, Dave rushes in and motions to them.

“Come on girls. I want to show you something,”

They jump up and follow him to the deck.

“Look! Dolphins!” Dave says, pointing to the great Atlantic below them.

“Oh, They are beautiful!” Kati cries breathlessly. They enchant Anni, too. They count six dolphins carrying on playfully in the great waves.

“Listen! They are talking to us,” Kati says, leaning so far down on the
railing that she frightens Anni, who pulls at her friends jacket and cautions,” Be careful or you’ll fall in the water.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind that in the least,” Kati laughs. “They are calling me.
It would be wonderful to join them and ride the waves on their backs.”

“It would not be wonderful for you. You’re not a dolphin. You wouldn’t
survive down there,” Dave says earnestly. Kati gives him a strange look,
and then walks away from them.

After that, the dolphins begin to obsess Kati. She looks for them and talks
about them day and night, and Anni, not knowing how to handle her friends new obsession, grows more and more worried. Even when there are no dolphins out there, Kati claims she can hear them calling her. Her obsession begins to frighten Anni.

On the sixth day of their journey, Kati suddenly becomes very sick. Her
mother, thinking she is seasick, makes her stay in her bunk all day. Of
course, Anni keeps her company.

“Do you feel sick to your stomach?” she asks with concern.

“Maybe a little,” Kati replies. “I’ll be alright by tomorrow.”

That night, as Anni lies in her sleeping bunk across from Kati, thinking she is asleep, she suddenly hears her moaning. Then Kati whispers, “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

“Kati, who are you talking to?” Anni asks. But instead of a reply, she hears her friends soft, lilting laughter. Kati is in her bunk, but her laughter is floating above them, moving across the entire area, before disappearing into the night.


Anni sits up and calls to her loudly. “Kati! Kati! Are you alright?”

By this time both Kati’s and Anni’s mother are awake, and get out of their bunks to see what the problem is.

“Kati is gone,” Anni wails, tears streaming down her cheeks. “She went to join the dolphins.”

“What do you mean she is gone? She is lying right there, in her bunk,” her mother says, while Kati’s mother climbs up and shakes her daughter.

“Oh my God! She is dead! Oh my God!” She screams, waking everyone up. The ship’s doctor is summoned. But it is too late. They take Kati away.
The doctor says she had pneumonia, the kind that strikes like a blitz. Her
mother, blaming herself for Kati’s death, becomes so depressed that she
doesn't utter another word during the rest of the journey. Anni is pretty
depressed herself.

Two days before they arrive in New York Harbor, Anni is up on the deck, watching the waves lapping at the ship. Suddenly, several dolphins appear and begin carrying on with their usual antics. Anni does not call down to them like before. She just stands there and watches them in silence.. Then she hears something. “Wee, this is wonderful!” It’s Kati’s voice!

“You hear it too, don’t you?” a voice behind her remarks, startling Anni. It’s Dave. They stand there in silence, listening to the lilting laughter below, until the dolphins disappear.

“Ill never forget you, Kati,” Anni whispers sadly.

Their arrival in New York Harbor is a somber one. Kati’s parents have to think about burying their daughter in this new land. Anni’s heart aches for them. She wants to tell them that Kati’s spirit is happy among the dolphins, but she knows she cannot. So she give them both a tearful hug, and then walks away in silence, carrying the truth with her into eternity.

The End. :-)

The Woo Hoo is I just heard from my editor at Silver Boomer Books, and "Freckles to Wrinkles" is now published and my copy (and check!) will be arriving soon. My story in the book is called "Guard Duty," and it's a horse story. I was also invited to a big to do about the book in Abilene, Texas, but unfortunately, I can not attend it right now.

http://frecklestowrinkles.com/

Thank you for reading my somewhat simple attempts at writing a short short story. I need lots of practice.

Have a wonderful week!

The Uninvited Visitor-A Story

The small Ozark town where I live, is nestled in the beautiful Current River Valley. Sprinkled within and around its borders are numerous quaint little country churches, where families large and small, gather together for Sunday worship services.

A few years ago, on a lovely Spring morning, I attended one of these Sunday services at a friends’ church. Tall, spreading oaks surrounded this lovely small, white church. The windows had been opened to allow the breeze to enter, and to my delight, we sat in the third pew on the left, near one of the open windows.

A small congregation of about forty people settled down and soon joined forces in praising the Lord with a hymn. Directly in front of me sat a family of four: mother, father, grandmother, and a young boy, who was about five or six years old. He had hair the color of straw, and the voice of an angel, for he sang along quite loudly and sweetly, knowing all the words of the hymn.

The minister walked up to the pulpit to give the sermon. "Today," he began, but was quickly interrupted by a cheerful and loud sound that rang throughout the little church.
Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

"Well, it seems we have an uninvited visitor among us, this morning," the minister said, bemused but somewhat annoyed at the interruption.

Chirp! Chirp!

The sound rang out again and a murmur rose as the congregation glanced around, searching for the culprit. The little boy quickly turned to his left, then to his right. He looked directly behind him and then glanced up at us, his face intense. I couldn’t help but smile.

"As I was saying..." the minister began again.

Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! The uninvited visitor continued singing loudly.

Soon, everyone was looking to our side of the church. The uninvited visitor was somewhere in our vicinity. People glanced under the pews, feet poised to eradicate the noisy little bug.

Chirp! Chirp!

"There he is," whispered an elderly man directly in front of the boy, his foot thrusting forward. But just before his shoe could come down on the black chirper, the little boy dove under the pew noisily.

"Brian! What are you doing?" his father whispered loudly.

Despite his father’s reprimanding tone and his mother’s attempt to pull him back, the boy wriggled forward and captured the noisy critter.

During the commotion, the grandma, apparently aware of the workings of a the young boy, smiled tolerantly.

‘I got him!" Brian announced loudly, as he emerged with tightly cupped hands. "He is just doing what crickets do. I’ll take him outside and let him go. He shouldn’t be squashed just for doin’ what crickets do."

The boy hurried down the isle toward the back door, keeping his hands tightly cupped. As he reached it, someone opened the door for him and he disappeared.

By this time, everyone in the congregation was smiling and nodding. The minister waited until the boy came back inside and rejoined his family in the pew. Then, with one last smile directed at the lad, he returned to the service without anymore interruptions.

With a sparkle in her eye, the boy’s grandma leaned down and tousled his hair affectionately. "You’ve made the Lord smile this morning with your good deed, Brian."

Then, the boy with the straw-colored hair-obviously proud of his good deed- joined in the singing again, even more enthusiastically then before, while the uninvited visitor chirped gaily outside the small country church, where families gathered together for Sunday worship services.

First Published in-"The Rocking Chair Reader: Family Gatherings," by Adams Media, Copyright 2005.

Thank you for reading. Have a wonderful week!

You're Too Cute To Be A Boy! A Story.

As an only child, I often wished I had a brother or a sister. I envied friends who came from bigger families. I sometimes felt deprived and decided if I ever got married, I would have more than one child.

After I did marry I was soon the young mother of two boys, only eleven months apart. When Joey was almost four and Greg almost three, I was elated to learn that I was expecting a third child.

"I'm praying and hoping this baby will be a little sister that you guys can be big brothers to," I told the boys one day, as my pregnancy became more obvious.


One night, just before I tucked him in, Greg decided to help me in my petition for a girl.

"Dear God, Mom really wants a girl. Could you make sure that it is a girl? And I think it would be nice to have a sister. I hope you're listening, God," he prayed earnestly.

"I think a sister would be nice , too, God," Joey piped up from his corner of the room. "Besides, if it's another boy, this bedroom will get too crowded," he added.

I smiled as I tucked them in and kissed them good night. "Actually, another little brother would be a blessing, too" I added, just before turning off the lights, for it was true.

Andrea was born July 31, 1963, and she was an adorable little girl from day one. Her father and I were elated. Her big brothers stared at her with wonder and became her protectors from the day they first saw her. And as she grew, her big brothers were her idols, as were her three boy cousins. She wanted to be like them, dress like them, and play with Tonka trucks and Hot Wheels and any other boy-toys they played with. Her own toys remained untouched. Dolls were looked at with disdain, and she resisted wearing the cute dresses I bought her in favor of pants and T-shirts. Clearly, the cute little blond daughter I had prayed for was a big-time tomboy, through and through.

When she was almost three, I was determined my little tomboy was going to wear the cute Easter outfit and bonnet I had gotten her for Easter services. Her brothers, almost six and seven by this time, had handsome Easter suits to wear.

"I don't want to wear a dress and a bonnet" Andrea wailed, as I dressed her for church. "I want to wear a suit like Joey and Greg are wearing."

"You're a girl and will dress like a girl for church," I said firmly to my tearful, angelic looking tomboy.

"Well, when I grow up, then I'll be a boy," she retorted, tears rolling down her cheeks.

In the car on the way to church, Greg told Andrea, "God made you a girl, and it's too late to change his mind now, so you might as well get used to it."

"Yeah," Joey piped in. "Besides, you're too cute to be a boy. And we like you being a girl."

She smiled at Greg and Joey through her tears and stopped crying for a change. Her big brothers liked her being a girl!

Soon after that, I enrolled Andrea in dance school where she met other cute little girls. And at her very first recital, when she danced to "Alley Cat" and received a big hand and loud cheers from her brothers, who sat with us in the front row, her pride in being a girl was finally well established.

These days, Andrea is a mom to two beautiful girls and still the cherished sister of two big brothers, whose brotherly devotion is as strong as ever.
...

From "Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating Brothers and Sisters" copyright 2007.

I hope you enjoyed this little story. Thank you for reading. Have a blessed week, everyone!

I'm Confessing!

Okay, while my little camera is refusing to transfer pictures to my PC today again, I had to come up with an alternative subject to blog about. So, I decided to do some confessing, with a recent, perturbed looking, confessing type of picture of me to go along with it. Haha! I'm in a silly mood, so why not?

Ten days ago, I sold a short inspirational piece to, True Confession Magazine, for their, That’s Incredible Department. I even forget what the title of my piece was, and I can’t seem to find my record of it. But it will be published in January 2008, so I guess I will find out what it was when I see it in print. (Got to read that Organized Writer book, one of these days!)

I have written for the Confession market many times. I have had stories in various Departments like, How I know I’m in Love, The Life I Live, My Moment With God, Women Are Wonderful, The Experience of a Lifetime, etc. I have, in the past, even written full length confession stories. But I usually don’t like to tell people about my secret life as a confession writer. Not because the stories are risque, in any sense, but because people think of them that way. But to a freelance writer, they are just another paying market!

I remember when I sold my first, full length confession story, and debated whether I should tell my writer friends about it, at the monthly meeting I used to attend. This was ten years ago, when I was a youngster of 60, and most of the other members were my seniors by several years. Would they be shocked or happy for me, like they were when I sold something to Chicken Soup, or Good Old Days, or Angels on Earth, or Guideposts ?

So I went to the meeting with a copy of the contract from True Confession, and after everyone had a turn to read their latest piece of writing, I announced nonchalantly, "I have a surprise for all of you."

"Oh, did you make another sale?" one of the more enthusiastic members asked, excitedly. "What did you sell, an article?"

"Yes, I did make another sale, but it wasn't an article," I replied.

"Oh, was it a short story," someone else asked.

"No, it wasn't a short story either. At least not a traditional short story," I said, finally showing them my contract.

"Why, this is a contract for a confession story! It says here, it will be published in October, for a payment of, $195. Isn’t that wonderful, girls?" the enthusiastic one said, all a tither.

After more questioning, the girls wanted to know how they could try their hand at a confession story, too.

"Go to our local Country Mart and buy several Confession Magazines. Read them thoroughly, then try writing one of your own," I told them. "That’s what I did."

"Buy a Confession magazine?" our oldest, most timid member said, in a shocked tone of voice. "This is a small town, what if someone should see me?"

Everyone chuckled at her remark, but that’s exactly what they all ended up doing, after I reminded them that most of us have been around a long time; we should have plenty to confess!

A confession story can be about anything true to life, and although written in the first person, it is always fiction, and it's written anonymously. The Department pieces are short, inspirational non-fiction, and the writer gets a tagline with them. All the Confession magazines have monthly Department sections that pay rather well for these short, inspirational pieces. Check them out and you may be confessing too!

A Woo Hoo for Michele!

My wonderful writer friend Michele, has a most touching Quickie up at Common Ties
Congratulations, Michele! Loved your story, Moses or Man. Way to go, and Woo Hoo!
Please go read her story. You will be glad you did.

Thanks for the help in getting the hyperlinks right, Michele. I think I got it this time. :-)

Nice Surprises In My Email!

It was a beautiful day today, and I was out enjoying it with friends. When I got home it was early afternoon, and first I rushed to do my outdoor chores. Finally, I was able to come in, turn on my PC and check my email. And there it was. An email from a Sister Joanne, who informed me she served as archivist for the Sisters of the Humility of Mary. Wow, really?

Sister Joanne wrote that she had read my story in the September issue of Catholic Digest.

When I wrote the story, I had purposely left out the name of the city and school I was writing about. I did, however, name the order of the sisters who taught at that school-The Sisters of the Humility of Mary. And in the story I wrote about one of the good sisters at that school who changed the life of a young refugee girl; a mousy, haunted, shy girl, classified as a "displaced person," who longed to be like her carefree, American counterparts. And with the good sisters help, she graduated as the confident, young American girl she longed to be, in 1955. Of course, that young D.P. girl was me.

Sister Joanne correctly guessed the city and school I was writing about, and wanted to verify everything, including the good sisters name, so she could add it all to the archives. What a very nice surprise.

A couple of months ago, I had a nice email surprise as well. That one was from an old soldier named, Emmett, who lives in Texas. He had read a story of mine about coming to America on the U.S.S. General M. B. Stewart in September of 1951. And it seems that Emmett and I were shipmates. Well, not at the same time, but shipmates, nevertheless.

He told me he was on the U.S.S. General M.B. Stewart in 1945, as a young soldier on his way to the South Pacific. He said he imagined I looked more forward to my journey on that ship 6 years later, then he had. Of course, he was right. I was on my way to a new life in a new country, he was on his way to danger! But he made it back alive, and married his childhood sweetheart in 1951, the year I came to America with my family, with hope in all our hearts. Emmett and I continue to correspond as he tells me his war stories, and I tell him mine. A fair exchange with an old soldier; a shipmate of sorts.

Freelance writing may not bring great riches, but it has its rewards!