"Looking back."(Kevin Hughes) Well the New Year has announced itself and is already getting down to sorting out its first few days. Many people are hoping it is a good year. Some are hoping this is the year they finally keep a resolution. Others are using past success to try it again this year.

Still others are just getting over celebrating in a way that left them with little memory of just how the Year (or even themselves) ended up…or began. Most folks though, spend these first few days of the New Year looking forward to their Future.

Not me.

I am old now. Seven decades into a life filled with ordinary experiences. As if any experience with Life…is ordinary. There will be no monuments to my name, no stunning statuary, memorial boulevards, Biographies, Obituaries, or Documentaries. My name shall be remembered for a generation, maybe two, among my family. My friends, of course, will have moved along with me to whatever is next.

I have no idea what my Future holds. I didn’t when I was five years old…smiling at a small kitten that just wandered up our front steps and sat on my lap. I named her Friendly. And she was. Her and I had many happy times.

A neighbor lady down the street backed over poor friendly and in a fit of pique fueled by her own overwhelming shame and anger…knocked on our door, threw the crushed and broken carcass at my feet…and yelled:

“I told you not to let your cat wander. Now look at what you have done.”

I was twelve years old. I cried.

I got older…and I looked back at that incident.

Turns out, that the good times with Friendly, her soft paws as she padded across my chest, only to nestle in a position that let her purr directly into my ear, her tongue lightly scratching against my year, her tongue tickled, making me smile, almost forcing me to gently pet her until we both fell asleep. Even right now, I am smiling. Those memories stuck.

What about the Lady who wronged me. Well, that’s the thing I wanted to talk about. When you look back several decades time does give you perspective. I realized that long ago I had let that part of the story go. When I was younger, I thought she was just crazy. Crazy people aren’t responsible for their actions. I used that to forgive her after those first few years.

When I grew up and realized what Life is like for other people, and not just me…a reason (NOT an excuse) for her behavior started to form in my brain- and heart. I come from a large family, double digit siblings. A loving Mom and Dad who made home safe for all of us. I saw how much worry, work, and effort it took just to feed and care for us kids.

And my Dad worked…hard. My childhood started in the first year of the Fifties- old defined roles were still firmly in place. Women raised children, Mom’s stayed at Home. Men worked and provided for their family. Children mostly played without supervision. But you never missed supper, had a hard bedtime or curfew, and you did your chores.

I had the same childhood as millions of lucky boys and girls.

The woman who ran over my cat… had more children than we did. Way more. Her husband was unable to work. The older siblings did all they could to provide for the things that the rest of us took for granted. She was to put it as simply as one can: overwhelmed. In all Caps.

When did that woman even have a moments peace? Or time to just sit back and sip on a coffee? Where was any space (or time) for herself. There wasn’t any. Where did the dreams of her Wedding night go?

She took a Vow. So she stayed long after her husband became an invalid. Along with all of her children, she had to care for her husband too. If she were a Greek Warrior we would be hearing about her heroic deeds. How she kept succeeding in the face of almost certain failure.

Her kids were clean, well behaved, had friends, went to dances, church, and swam in the lake with us. They loved their Mom. They just accepted her actions more than her words. She might yell, snap at you, or hurt your feelings, but if you needed her…she was there for her children.

Any money you might give her…she immediately gave to her children. She hand made dressed for the girl’s Dances, suits for the boys. (And Where, I wonder all these decades later…did she find the time for that no small feat.)

I caught her on a bad day…that’s all. But the story doesn’t end there.

About a week after we buried Friendly in a cigar Box (remember those?) next to the shed in our backyard.

Authors Note: Ah, the way memory works in us older folks, as I started to finish the story, I got side tracked with the secret treasure hidden in cigar boxed under everyone of my friends beds, including my own, my brother’s too.

Inside you would find the things a boy from age six to about thirteen would find valuable. Baseball cards, a few coins, a small plastic Army Man, a shiny pebble, a watch strap with no watch. Old post cards, a stamp or two, a Silver dollar…almost always. Occasionally a candy bar, metal nut, screwdriver, pocket knife, small sign of some sort, marbles, a leaf. Who knows? Everyone’s treasure was different. The Treasure Chest however, was always the same…a cigar box.

Now…back to the story.

There was a knock on our door. It was that Lady. I hid behind my Mother who calmly stared her down. My Mother said in a very calm cool voice:

“Yes?”

The woman reached in the pocket of her coat, pulled out a beautiful puff ball of fur. Orange and white. A kitten. It barely fit in the palm of her hand.

She held it out to me, pushing it close to my chest.

“Here! Take better care of this one.”

It crawled right from her hand to mind, immediately curled up and went to sleep. I could feel it purring through my palm. My other hand instantly forming a cradle for it to snuggle into.

With that, she stormed off our porch and headed the six or seven houses up the street to her home. I looked up at my Mom. She was still watching that woman.

I heard my Mother whisper to herself.

“You’re forgiven.”

She was.

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