Up and down our street, neighbors were carrying goodies on trays, in plastic containers, in baking pans and tote bags. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t done this before, but this block party had special meaning.
It was the first time we had all rallied together since the Altadena fires. The many emails and texts that held us together through the past months had morphed into a summer evening of blending, hugging and exchanging stories.
We were the lucky ones. All of us had homes that were still standing, but in different states of repair. And all of us had stories, bonded by common experiences, yet each a play of its own making.
The man who pounded on his sleeping next-door neighbor’s door to tell her to get her car out of her garage before the power went out. The people who ran up and down the block, knocking on doors to make sure their neighbors knew they had to evacuate immediately.
We listened to each other intently. We exchanged the names of handymen and women and other home service providers. We acknowledged each other’s pain while still finding stories that made us laugh. And as a hush fell over the serenely shaded back yard where we gathered, out of the silence came stories of our pets.
I confessed feeling almost grateful that my sensitive Lark kitty, who died suddenly just a few months before the fires, had not had to go through the stress of the last months.
Neighbors Beth and Steve, our hosts and the heart of our block, have two dogs, and recently took in a tiny kitten known as either Monster or Love Bug, depending on the hour and her activities. Her parents showed off scratches that their little darling had bestowed upon them, and cautioned me, should I ever want another cat, an older and less rambunctious one might be a better fit.
Beth disappeared for a bit while I contemplated her advice.
When she reappeared, she was holding the most adorable, black-and-white tiny kitty with big expressive eyes and just enough attitude.
I was smitten.
I didn’t dare hold her because I was afraid I’d make a run for it across the yard and down the street to my house (no one would look for her there, right?). We could cuddle up on my bed and tell each other our life stories. If she woke me at 4 a.m., which her mother says is her wont, it wouldn’t be a problem because I’d still be up from the night before, meandering about the house, which is my wont.
“What do you think about coming to live with me?” I mentally asked Monster. Her eyes opened wide, relaying her answer.
She loved her parents and her home. Maybe Love Bug is the best name for her after all.
Email patriciabunin@sbcglobal.net. Follow her on Patriciabunin.com