We named the barn cats after
Mother’s friends; we got the names
off her envelopes. One day a long
black cat streaked by me, she had
a long black neck naked from a
mange treatment. She had a bird
in her mouth. “Fernwood!” I shouted
“Fernwood Scrimshaw! Drop that bird!
Fernwood, you bad cat!” But the cat
scaled a tree. Defeated, I turned to see
a strange car by the Little House gate
and Mother with an astonished looking
woman beside her. “Jackie,” said Mom,
“Come meet Mrs. Fernwood Scrimshaw.”
This article appears in November 12-18, 2026.
