Frollick-tober and Go-vember

When I was a kid and we had a super awesome Apple II GS, we used the big giant 8" floppy disk to play Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?. It came with a world almanac - like, a book made of paper. Paper! And you had to look up which countries used rupees to determine where that wily Carmen had gone to and nab her on behalf of Interpol. There was no currency exchanged (unless you count trading cookies for hugs) and no embassies had to be applied to, but I did make some tracks the last couple of months.

I was spotted at Mountain Day in early October way up in the hills of Georgia at my alma mater, Berry College. The local cuisine included fried chicken, Dillon-baked chocolate chip cookies and homemade barbecue. Accomplices included several below-three-foot individuals, included those pictured below. Clearly the hat is an attempt at a disguise - but you can't hide that cuteness.

I was then seen heading west into the mountains of North Carolina for the Valle Crucis Fair. It was the kind of crowd you could blend into. Unless, of course, your party included more than one 6-foot-plus man, two toddlers in matching orange coats and a set of twins dressed as pink and blue fuzzy bears. So much for incognito. Traces of the local flora might've been found in my wake since I romped through the hills taking photos.

And then I headed to the eastern part of North Carolina, back to Wilmington, a place I was known to frequent. Spotted at all my old haunts - Grace Street, Deluxe, Wrightsville Beach - I might've been easy to track down. Except, in this case, I actually did pull off a disguise - Shirley Manson for my friend Scott's 40th birthday party.

This old house used to be my house.

This Stupid Girl is Only Happy When it Rains

Still on my tail? You could've found it right where you might most - or least - expect it depending on how well you know me. You might expect that any good Athenian would be found cheering on the hairy dawgs on any given Saturday in October. But the truth is, it was only my second tailgate. With a morning mimosa and a blissfully sunny day in the company of some glamorous cohorts, I relaxed and could've been easily nabbed lolling in the quad beside Memorial Hall.

The incomparable Joneser and Schubert

I didn't stay put long. Back on the road and down (way, way down) I-16 to Savannah. I was on a mission. Transferring some goods at the behest of a client. And while I wasn't to be found on gadding about town, I did manage a clandestine meeting with a good friend who might've been willing to divulge my whereabouts in a little diner on Skidaway Island.

The goods

I was closing in on the end of the great Frollick-tober/Go-vember caper. And what better way to end it than where I started - in the mountains of northwest Georgia with my small accomplices? This time, we were at my sister's house for Thanksgiving. I spoke the language of the natives - giggles. You might've spied me stuffing with stuffing and turkey and sweet potato casserole and deviled eggs. And lest you think I was working alone, I was definitely working under the orders of a tiny dictator - he calls the shots.

Little Napolean

I think she knows the authorities are closing in.

Now I'm relegated back to the couch and my newly acquired Twilight DVD collection (thanks, Target Black Friday Doorbuster!). Me and my tiny henchman and array of colorful accomplices are resting up. But don't worry - this ringleader will be at it again before long, deck the halls and fa-la-la-la and ho ho ho. Christmas capers coming soon.

Kudzu: A Profile

It's almost been nine years since Mom and I found three little fuzzballs in the garage being nursed by our resident feral cat. By then, experience had taught us that kittens untamed grow up to be wild untouchable things. So we became the surrogates to three little kittens, whom I named Nigel, Mischief and Isabella.

From the beginning, runty Isabella favored me. On stumbly legs, gamboling towards me with a tiny mew and bright blue eyes. Those eyes soon turned a clear, cool green. And when I decided to keep one of the kittens to take to grad school with me, it wasn't as though I had any choosing to do. The choosing had already been done.

Much to my chagrin, I soon found out that Isabella wasn't so much an Isabella. I lamented that I wouldn't have a sweet little girl cat. But a few tears shed, and I realized that I couldn't go on calling him Isabella. Mom, me and my boyfriend at the time tossed around names as we drove home from the vet's office. Looking out the window, he said, "What about Kudzu?" It stuck.

I wasn't even 22 yet. And green. Lord help me, I was green. I remember sitting in my very first apartment at Abbot's Run in Wilmington, NC, with nothing but my belongings and this little scrap of fur and ears and a long, long tail. It was with him and Peter Jennings that I weathered September 11 so far away from home in a strange new city where I knew no one. And my first disastrous creative writing workshop. And the rest of the roller coaster that was grad school - making a place for myself and making friends, through boyfriends, breakups, soul-crushing defeat and loneliness, my first real job and too much growing up to even cover.

In my second apartment, a giant Italiante revival style house built in 1818, he would sit on the wide windowsill in the kitchen facing the street below and wait for me to get home from work. I would sometimes overhear the ghost tours that went by my house during the summer and fall, the tour guide sharing some tale that featured a cat in the window, and I wondered if Kudzu ever scared the breath out of some unsuspecting soul.

Kudzu rode back and forth from North Carolina to Georgia when I'd go - 385 miles one way. He'd sit in the slanted back window when I drove the Corolla and rode shotgun when I bought the Rav. Perched on the gray upholstered seat, lifting his face up to the air conditioning when it was hot.

And when I decided after almost six years on the Carolina coast that it felt like the right time to go back home to Georgia, he was the one thing that seemed to hold steady in a revolving world. He sat in my lap as we crossed the 17th Street bridge, and I wailed like my heart was breaking. He seemed to know that it was all going to work out just fine.

Because Kudzu has always had that look of infinite wisdom about him. In my ordinary, non-superhero life, he's my Alfred, always calm and cool and reliable. His almost royal bearing, front paws pressed together, head held aloft. But lest you think he's got some sort of pedigree, check out the snaggly tooth hanging out on the left side.

Besides Isabella, he's gone by many (many) other monikers, including 'Zu, 'Zu-bug, 'Zubilee 'Zu, Buddy B and Bebo, although I have no idea where the "b's" originated.

And suddenly, my time with this constant companion, whatever his name may have been, is coming to an end. After three month's worth of doctor's visits - an ultrasound, two bone marrow aspirates, an infectious disease panel, antibody assessment, countless CBCs and two blood transfusions later - there is no answer for the chronic anemia.

It's hard to be at peace when losing something so dear. But I have prayed for peace and for acceptance. Over the weekend, I had a dream that Kudzu was sitting in a little woven basket, all his fur regrown, looking quite robust and healthy. And a voice kept saying, "He's ready to go."

There's no way to predict how long he has. We thought he was a goner last week. Every day is a blessing that I try not to take for granted as I wait for the story to come full circle, for the unexpected little fuzzball from the garage to make an exit as unpredictable as his entrance.

The hours are waning between me and my beloved Kudzu. And while the sorrow is palpable, the peace is, too. The peace that the Heavenly Father has a place for him, where he'll wait for me - maybe on the sill of a giant sunny window.

In Memory of Denise Gess (1952-2009)

Denise was a visiting professor during my MFA tenure in Wilmington. We had our disagreements (like whether or not Sophie's Choice lived up to its reputation), but we also agreed on other things - the novella is an amazing form and Francine Prose is amazing in it. I've kept this e-mail from her for more than 7 years. It's her response to me after I complained of harsh criticism from another professor, who referred to my writing as a donut: pretty on the outside, empty on the inside.

"[He] wants you to get fierce. If he tells you you have a donut, show him it's a jelly donut, not a donut with a hole. Beautiful, shimmery on the outside and thick, rich, oozing with flavor, color, substance on the inside. He wants you to dig in and prove him wrong. So get to work; you can do it!!!!!"

I just found out from a friend that Denise passed away over the weekend after a battle with cancer. I thought of this e-mail in an instant and the picture of us at The Pilot House where we dined the night before she left; the rickety antique table she gave me when she departed; the odd fluorescent-lit room where she taught Forms of Fiction to a class with a left-of-center dynamic; and Firestorm at Peshtigo, the book she worked on during her visiting semester. I expect 7 years from now, 17 years from now, if I hear Denise Gess, I will still think "donut" first.

May she rest in peace.