Memories of Growing Up in Marysville
Editor’s note: This is the 89th of a series about growing up in Marysville during the late 1930s and the 1940s written by Bill Boyd. Each article is a snapshot of the people, businesses and activities during that era as seen through the eyes of a young boy.
Boyd was born in Marysville in 1932, grad...
Editor’s note: This is the 89th of a series about growing up in Marysville during the late 1930s and the 1940s written by Bill Boyd. Each article is a snapshot of the people, businesses and activities during that era as seen through the eyes of a young boy.
Boyd was born in Marysville in 1932, graduated from Marysville High School in 1950, and lived the greater part of his life here.
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A cat tale
I have never been a cat person. I don’t dislike cats, but I have no real fondness for them either. As far as pets go, I have always leaned more toward dogs. I think that is because when I was little, I had a dog named Nicki. It was part cocker spaniel and part something else. I don’t know what. It was a great dog, and I liked it a lot.
In addition, during the thirties, dogs had pretty much a free run of the town. So there were always dogs to play with that came in and out of our yard. I seldom even saw a cat. Maybe that was because there were so many dogs around that they made life miserable for a cat.
It is not surprising, therefore, that many years later, we bought a dog for our two children, Dave and Jenny. It was a wire-haired fox terrier named Betsy. She was a great dog, and everyone in the family loved her. Nevertheless, our daughter still wanted a cat.
We had always resisted, but one pleasant summer day, it must have been sometime in the late sixties, I was sitting on our patio with my brother-in-law, Jack Griffith, when suddenly our daughter appeared with one of her neighborhood friends, a girl named Julie Wittenbrook. They were each carrying a kitten. The Wittenbrooks’ cat had recently delivered a litter of kittens, and these were the last two that remained. They were handsome, longhaired kittens, and Jenny pleaded for us to let her keep one of them.
It was hard to turn her down, because she wanted one so much. Besides, we had several cats in our neighborhood. I had seen them come and go over the years. Some of them ran away, some were chased out of the neighborhood by a really tough cat that lived across the street from us, and some of the others either died of natural causes or maybe were hit by a car. So I figured the average lifespan of a cat in our neighborhood was only about a year or so at most. Surely I could live with a cat that long. So our daughter was allowed to keep the cat.
Both kittens had already been named … one was called Sonny, and the other was Cher. Our daughter opted for Cher. And thus began my 21-year relationship with a cat. That’s right, our daughter grew up, finished high school, went off to college, graduated, and went to work, and I was still living with that cat. And over the years, I must admit that I became really fond of it. I never thought it would happen, but it did.
I have a lot of memories of that cat over those 21 years, but one of them is more vivid than all the rest. It happened when our daughter was a Brownie. It was during the Union County Fair, and her Brownie group had decided for all the girls to put their pets on display in one of the buildings on the fairgrounds. On the appointed day, Jenny put on her Brownie uniform and picked up the cat, and we were off to the fairgrounds.
The Brownies had been assigned some space in one of the buildings. Tables had been set up to provide a place for the girls to display their pets. Some of the girls were there before us, and they were brushing and combing their dogs, cats and hamsters. One little girl had set up her tank of goldfish.
While all this was going on, I walked to the end of the room and found that it opened into another even larger room. Tall wooden screens, maybe seven feet tall, had been set up in the wide doorway to provide privacy for each group. I peeked around the screen, and there was some ladies’ organization getting ready to start a meeting. There must have been 50 or 60 women sitting in chairs, and one lady was at a lectern in front. They were obviously about ready to start the proceedings.
I walked back to our table, and just as I got there something really spooked our cat. I don’t know if it was another cat, or maybe a dog, or it might even have been a hamster. In any case, Cher was scared to death. She leaped off the table and ran toward the other room. I was in hot pursuit, for if that cat got loose in the fairgrounds I might never get it back. In my haste, I hit the tall wooden screen that separated the two rooms, and it fell to the floor in the adjacent room with an extremely loud crash.
All of those 50 or 60 ladies gave me a look of scorn. I had obviously interrupted the start of their proceedings. I hoped they started the meeting with a roll call and not with a prayer, because if they started with a prayer, they certainly didn’t make it to the “Amen.”
As Cher ran terrified through the crowd, one of the women grabbed her and picked her up. She carried her to me and smiled as she handed her over. I think she was a cat lover. And I think she was the only cat lover in that room, for the rest of them just gave me nasty looks.
There are a lot of other stories I could tell you about my 21-year relationship with Cher. She became one of my very favorite animals. It took a while, but it was worth the wait. Today, a lot of years later, I really miss that cat.
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(Those wishing to contact Bill Boyd can email him at bill@davidwboyd.com)