Cherished
“WINESBURG Barbara Abercrombie T he sign said, “Kittens for sale,” and I thought, why not? I’d just had lunch with my Aunt Helen, complete with cocktails, so I was feeling awfully good and not overly practical as I swayed into the dingy pet shop — though the word practical wasn’t really in my vocabulary. I was nineteen years old, had just dropped out of college to become an actress in New York, had very little money, and lived in a railroad apartment that had a front window held together by duct... tape.
I picked up one of the kittens — flea-bitten, ribs showing, coal black, and much too young to have been taken from its mother. It needed to be rescued. After two daiquiris on a hot September afternoon this seemed like a terrific idea. Why not? I paid the five dollars, took the kitten home, gave her a bath to get rid of the fleas, and came up with a name for her.
“Winesburg?” said one of my roommates as the kitten climbed our curtains.
“As in Ohio,” I said. My current boyfriend was in a Broadway play based on Sherwood Anderson’s book Winesburg, Ohio.MoreLess
I picked up one of the kittens — flea-bitten, ribs showing, coal black, and much too young to have been taken from its mother. It needed to be rescued. After two daiquiris on a hot September afternoon this seemed like a terrific idea. Why not? I paid the five dollars, took the kitten home, gave her a bath to get rid of the fleas, and came up with a name for her.
“Winesburg?” said one of my roommates as the kitten climbed our curtains.
“As in Ohio,” I said. My current boyfriend was in a Broadway play based on Sherwood Anderson’s book Winesburg, Ohio.MoreLess
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