Mattie Greaves sat across from Mr. Sawyer Day, the owner of a small and all but forgotten funeral home in Seattle, Washington and together they were quietly discussing  a suitable coffin for Mattie’s husband Tabor.

” My husband is a practical man ” Mattie told Mr. Day ” and he wouldn’t like anything with those fancy gold handles and he certainly wouldn’t approve of things like this ” Mattie was pointing at a catalog opened to a  glossy page of coffins painted blue and gold and even black with ducks and eagles flying around their edges.

” I understand ” Mr. Day said ” and I have several models for you to consider that are more traditional. I’m sure we can find one here that your husband would approve of. “

Mr. Day is almost 65 and he had taken over Morning Ridge Funeral Home from his Mother’s family right after he had turned 30. He had started working there right after he turned 16 so that means that for over 50 years Mr. Sawyer Day had heard and seen it all.

So when Mattie Greaves asked if the traditional model she was looking at came with a comfortable pillow Mr. Day didn’t even look up. ” From what I understand it does, however in the past some of our families have brought in their own blankets and pillows. “

” My husband is very fond of candy as well. ” Mattie whispered. ” Now his doctor told  him he needs to give up sweets but you know, he’s along in years and he’s been through so much. I ask you Mr. Day how could I take away his salt water taffy?”

” My Mother was the same way, she was fond of her Cuban Cigars. Not only did she refuse to give them up we could never figure out how she got her hands on them to begin with. In the end, we just let it go.”

” So of course I can…”

” Of course you can Mrs. Greaves, whatever you think would have made your husband happy.”

After going through a few more books Mattie decided on a solid oak model with bronze handles and a lovely cream colored liner. She passed on the flowers.

” He’s allergic ” she told Mr. Day.

Mr. Day and Mattie went through numbers and she was about to pull out her check book when Mr. Day said, ” We’re almost finished Mrs. Greaves all we have to do is discuss your choice of a grave liners..

Mattie dropped her checkbook on the table and looked at Mr. Day for almost two minutes before her face turned a little red and tears welled up in her eyes., ” Oh my, that sounds so final.”

” Mrs. Greaves, I’m very sorry.  I don’t mean to rush you. If you need more time to go over…”

” No Mr Day…you’ve been very kind and patient with me. It’s my fault. I’m the one who has been doing the rushing. I should have explained…my husband just needs a coffin until the one he normally uses arrives from back home.”

” That daughter of yours- she’s a quiet one, isn’t she? ” The 6th Grade teacher at Old Creek Elementary School said to Mr. and Mrs. Erbin at the last Parent- Teacher Conference” I don’t think I’ve heard her say more then four words in the entire time she’s been a student here. “

Mr and Mrs. Erbin looked at each other and before Mr. Erbin could open his mouth to reply Mrs. Erbin snapped, ” And whose side of the family do you think that problem came from? “

” Like I was the one responsible for wiring her brain.” Mr. Erbin pushed his face staight into his Wife’s face and they glared at each other.

” Really Mr. Erbin- nobody in this room had the sole responsibility for-” Mrs. Snodgrass wasn’t sure if she was repeating what she heard correctly so she said with a little hesitation ” for wiring Cynbel’s brain.”

Mrs. Erbin shrugged and looked up at the ceiling and smirked, and that one little gesture seemed to push Mr. Erbin straight into Angersville Population 1 where he became the Mayor upon arrival.

” We both had a hand in our daughters development Mrs. Snodgrass. We studied and observed, we took classes and tests we asked questions and attended more lectures until we were positive, confident that we could raise a healthy, intellectually superior child. And do you know what we have here?”

Mrs. Snodgrass was too polite to say what they had here.

” Cynbel eats bugs, she only takes a breath once every six hours and one of her eyes is permmantly shut. I’m sure that you’re  aware she won’t the touch the food on her plate unless it’s moving. Do you know what it’s like to have to sit next to your child and jiggle her plate so she’ll eat? “

” Go ahead and tell her who came up with that nifty little idea.” Mrs Erbin muttered.

” It worked, didn’t it? “

Mrs Snodgrass looked at both of the Erbin’s and shook her head- just a little.” Mr Erbin…we have the means to help your daughter -”

Mr. Erbin shouted, ” Our daughter is beyond help Mrs. Snodgrass because our daughter is like a science experiment gone horribly wrong. You must be able to see that.”

Mrs Erbin looked liked she was going to pick something up and hit her husband with it.” Anybody with eyes in their head can see that you insensitive fool. Go ahead and tell her whose project it was. “

When I was a little girl we lived across the street from the Canefields in Honokaa, Hawaii.

Besides having the perks you get for growing up in a tropical paradise I lived in  place where I was taught to recognize and name Spirits and Ghosts, I learned how to protect myself from demons and curses and I also learned how to grow my own food, take care of trauma injuries and I leaarned how to tell a story.

Ghost Stories.

So tonight, out here on Anita’s Owl Creek Bridge I thought I’d share some stories about my childhood home- the only problem I had was where to start.

And I finally decided on

The Cane Field Cats.

Every morning my after my Grandmother would get my Aunts and Uncles set off to work and the older kids set off to school she and I would get ready for the Canfield Cats.

Every morning we would feed the cats a mixture of fresh fish and shrimp and rice.

My Grandmother would turn the mixture over and over with her hands and then she’d put the food in pie pans and I would take it out to the little place under the coconut tree my Grandfather made special for the cats.

I’d put the pans down and run back to the lowest step and my Grandmother would stand on the top step and she’d call the cats down and as they’d all walk towards us they used to look up at me and meow.

” Tell them hello” my Grandmother would say.

I would say hello and then I’d look back up at her and she said, ” Don’t let anybody touch them Anita”

That wasn’t hard- nobody wanted to touch my Cane Field Cats, they wouldn’t lean over to pet them or talk to them the way I did.

My older cousins would look grim when they saw the Cats and my Aunts and Uncles and my Mom would just look at me and they’d say, ” they’re not pets you know.”

As time went on the cats spent more and more time with me- they’d take off for the Fields at night but during the day they’d follow me around.

They would sit next to me when I was playing outside, or they’d crawl under my bed at nap time and when I’d go out on the porch to practice my singing they’d sun themselves on the steps and watch.

My cousins used to call the cats ” Anita’s Shadow “.

Here’ the funny thing about ” Anita’s Shadow “-

My dad was a shutterbug- he loved to take pictures and I was a very unwilling model ( I was about four at the time ) and the only way he could get pictures of me was to sneak up and take them when I wasn’t looking.

So you would think that in at least one of those pictures- in a corner or off to the side or under my feet or sitting next to me or near me ( because they were Always there ) would be at least one picture of those Cane Field Cats.

There are no pictures of those cats- and when I asked about it years later my Dad got that same grim look on his face that everyone had when they saw those cats around the yard and he said  ” ask your Mother “

Thinking my Mom knew where I could find a picture I went and asked her about the Cane Field Cats and she pulled out an album, turned a page to pictures of me and she said, ” they’re there Anita…they’re in every single picture.”

” There are no cats in those pictures Mom.” I said without looking down.

” That’s the problem Anita, you’re looking for Cats.”

One of these days I’ll look at those pictures again-

Maybe.

 

There’s something buried in the Gardener’s Shed and why would someone bury something that wasn’t dead yet?

The thing in the shed isn’t buried very deep, so if you were to crawl over the dead fall in front of the door and were able to push your way through he matted cobwebs and you didn’t mind the smell of rotting leaves and small unburied creatures you’d find  there under the window a slightly raised mound of earth.

Were you to look at the raised mound long enough and the light somehow managed to find it’s way through the little panes of glass covered with dust and dirt you’d think someone was lying there on their side with one arm cradling their cheek and the other laying comfortably on their side.

Wouldn’t you?

If you brought a flashlight and the beam was bright you might think you could see something wrong with the entire left side of the sleeping figure’s face. You might think that maybe that the face was gone, smashed in by something like that shovel in the corner.

Isn’t that right?

They might wonder what you were doing back there in a rotting shed behind the Manor House in the dead of Night, they might see you take the shovel and try to smooth and pound that little raised mound of Earth flat.

That’s what they’d see wouldn’t they?

So I must ask you again, why would you bury something that is not dead yet?

Go ahead you can tell me.

Just keep your hands were I can see them.