Pussy Willow

The word for today is PUSSY WILLOW. Actually, it is two words that refer to one object, a shrub that has a soft, silky, sexless flower called a catkin.

I've been thinking about PUSSY WILLOWS because they remind me of my grandmother, and I think about my grandmother almost every day. I've been thinking about PUSSY WILLOWS because I've been wearing a pair of earrings that I bought for myself a few years ago (in remembrance of her) that are small freshwater pearls set in oxidized bronze. The jewelry designer offers a much better definition than any I found in the dictionary: "The PUSSY WILLOW'S soft, silky buds find their name catkin from the Dutch diminutive of cat, in reference to its resemblance to a kitten's tail. The tree is a deciduous North American variety." (Michael Michaud)

PUSSY WILLOWS are soft to the touch, like fur. When I was a toddler I lived in one of New York City's boroughs, both my parents were city kids. My knowledge of nature consisted of grass, leaves, sand and the ocean, and common flowers like daisies and black eyed Susans. I'd never seen a PUSSY WILLOW growing outside. I remember rubbing them in a hypnotic fashion after finding them in a vase at my grandmother's house. For all I knew they could have been stuck on sticks in factories.

My grandmother introduced me to the sensual world. She gave me bubble baths, patted me down with baby powder and gave me back rubs before tucking me in at night. When I was in my 20s, she liked to hold my hand as we rode in a taxi cab or walked down the street. At the time that humiliated me. Now, as a single middle-aged woman, I understand, and honor, her need for touch. She taught me how to squeeze and hug.

I also remember going clothes shopping with my parents and my sister every year before school started. There was a store in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, Natan Borland's my father tells me, where they sold discount clothes. Even though I lived in a neighboring borough, Williamsburg seemed like another world to me. I've spent too much time this evening trying to research the neighborhood, before it became a site for artists and hipsters and real estate moguls. As a child, I saw imposing factory buildings, gated store fronts, and graffitti. I heard people speaking languages that I did not understand, Yiddish and Spanish. We found the doorway for Natan Borland's, maybe we had to walk up to a second floor entry, but once inside there were rows and rows of dresses and coats. I would look for the children's coats with the fake fur collars and "pet" them, then I'd find the thickest velvet dress that I could stroke. I didn't want leave when my mother said it was time to move to another rack of clothing.

Outside the building everything was dark and hard. I don't remember any sunshine in Williamsburg. My father's uncle owned a pastrami delicatessen in the neighborhood and maybe we went there for lunch. Maybe my father just pointed it out to us. I thought about the warehouses where racks of meat were smoked and spiced, and aged. We drove out of the neighborhood. My sister and I would wear the clothes we'd bought back on our sunny block, where our apartment had a terrace with geranium flower boxes and there were private houses with front lawns. I remember the light, thin feel of the geranium petals and the slightly thicker and waxier texture of a blade of grass.

When I moved to Maine I saw PUSSY WILLOWS in the "raw" for the first time. They grew on bushes near the bay. They grew on bushes near the beach roses, which are my favorite flower. The pussy willows did not have a scent, but the beach roses smelled fresh and light, and because my senses were developed inside, they reminded me of the scent of a lovely bath soap.

As many of you know, I live with my wunderdog, Rosie, and two aging kitties. They are all my PUSSY WILLOWS. They are soft to the touch, always there. I am never embarrassed to pet them. They are here waiting for me every day.

Yesterday, at TJ Maxx, I saw a hideous toy bunny rabbit, pasted with hundreds of pussy willows to make up its coat. It wasn't soft to the touch, it wasn't appealing to me in any way. I felt sad and angry that a factory worker had to paste those beautiful PUSSY WILLOWS on the rabbit shape.

Right now, my cat Charlotte, who is at least 18 years old, has jumped on the chair as I type on the keyboard. She rubs her soft face against the outside of my hand. In a minute, I will get up and pet my silky, spaniel Rosie, who is cuddled up on the couch. These creatures, who come from nature, have learned to live inside with me. I am so glad to have found them.

I couldn't quite bring myself to post the Tom Jones version of "What's New Pussycat," though I'm sure my sister and I listened to him sing it on television. We spent lots of weekend nights with my grandmother watching variety shows on tv with all kinds of schmaltzy music. Mike Myers does a great version of this tune, with just the right touch of kitsch. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kH7p1Ftp3QI&feature=related