ORLANDO GATITO

The Extremely Famous Cat

He was larger than life for someone so small and one of the finest non-human animals in my experience. His presence continues to permeate our lives, as we are often reminded of how his quiet, steady companionship bore witness to our becoming.

I have written elsewhere at some length about his life with us. At some point—when we have gotten to know each other better—I may be able to share more of his story. For now, I will just offer this.

By now, you have learned something about Joanie and Clay. It feels only right to complete the triangle with the story: the namesake of “The Orlando Gatito Society.” Our triangle was not just symbolic; it was substantive and very real.

Here is the short version of why he became such a huge factor in our lives.

The first week of July 2008 saw the convergence of several forces in my life. I had just closed on a small cottage in an historic neighborhood. Joanie and I had met months earlier at a coffee shop, Cafe Roche, and suddenly learned that it was closing. The owners, Orlando and Lina, had decided to move back to their original home in Seattle due to the effects of the recession. While their coffee shop had been opened for a little over a year, the care and warmth they imbued created a wonderful tight-knit community. The two of us decided that we could not let them go without a party that conveyed what the shop had meant to us. So we exchanged numbers and began planning outside the coffee shop.

Soon after, the Roches closed the shop on a Sunday afternoon for the private celebration. We prepared the food, decorated the tables, and poured the wine. Soon the little shop filled with loyal customers and friends. No one wanted to leave. A handful stayed behind, and we finally broke up around two a.m. As Joanie and I drove home we realized that our traditional meeting space was gone and we wondered what came next.

I think it dawned on us, separately, that our relationship changed after that night. We had not come close to a date, though Joanie later confessed that when we met at a wine bar to plan the event, the sun shining through the window illuminated my clear, Caribbean blue eyes and gleaming, white henley shirt, making her think, “Hmmmmm”—my tan from working in the vineyard didn’t hurt either ;-).

We met a couple of times at other coffee places. I had no idea if the attraction was mutual or just the residual goodwill from the party. I have never been good at the “courting thing” but finally found the temerity to ask her if she would like to “go out”. She suggested Thai food which was a complete mystery for me (which became obvious when I did not even know how to order). Despite displaying my culinary ignorance, several real dates followed. Romance? I began to think so and was delighted when she reciprocated.

All that is to say that suddenly and without warning, we became inseparable. We began making ordinary decisions together that carried symbols of permanence. We choose a dining room table together, the kind that promised long, candlelight meals and even longer conversations. We were no longer just visiting each other’s worlds, we were making one together.

As all of this was unfolding, I discovered poor little Orlando—no more than six weeks old—seemingly abandoned in a campus parking lot where I worked. I gathered him from beneath a car, dirty ears, feet, and nose and all, and carried him back to my office.

Knowing he must be hungry, I fetched an envelope of tuna from a campus convenience store. I sat in my office with little Orlando and called Joanie. She knew I had been thinking about adopting a cat for some time and convinced me that my meeting with this little orange orphan was a sign from the heavens (cats have always been an essential part of my life) and I eagerly agreed. At the day’s end I took him home, bought a litter box, and installed him in the guest room.

A few days later at the coffee shop I shared my story with Señor Roche and asked if I might name my newfound companion, Orlando, in honor of our short but very sweet little coffee klatch. He graciously agreed.

For sixteen years, he, Joanie, and I were a close-knit trio in that little bungalow.

“ORLY”

Circa 2009

So, you see, I could not start this website without him. Our triangle was complete—formed during a magical week in July 2008—and it remains the quiet foundation of all that followed.

Another defining moment of that year soon followed: my first grandchild, Mila, was born in November. Her arrival was marked by a small Japanese maple that her father and I planted in the flower bed by our front door. It remains there today, a symbol of growth and the changes that the seasons bring to our lives.

After the shop closed, Cafe Roche friends began meeting in our home occasionally and I began sending out a regular email to friends and family that I began affectionately calling the Orlando Gatito Society, I used the name to represent the sense of community, continuity, and joy that had grown around this small, orange catalyst.

Words matter. They try their best to portray ideas and feelings that we struggle to express. Sometimes, in a very long while, they emerge and become a kind of truth. The name Orlando stands for something precious to Joanie and me and to many of our friends and relatives who were fortunate enough to make his acquaintance. He was not overtly affectionate, but neither was he one of those standoffish, run-and-hide felines. He was not a lap cat, but if one of us was available, you might find him curled up close by. When he desired a good scratch, he made that clear with a stoic stance and precise eye contact. He roamed the neighborhood as a young explorer but returned soon when his chores were done. When challenged by would-be rivals, he resisted combat but rather stood his ground, rising above the callous yowling, ever the regal neighborhood prince.  

He left us on July 21st, 2024.  He has a little plot of his own in our small, private backyard, not far from some of his favorite leafy patches of sunlight. Out of respect, and reluctance, we have not yet replaced the presence of his absence but will when the time seems right and the spirit makes itself known. In the meantime, may his rest be peaceful, until he returns as the “king of the jungle” he was destined to become.

So now you have it—the magic of “Three”: Clay, Joanie, Orlando. The human mind is fueled by memory. Long may it live.

Clay

P.S. Readers of the Jomeokee Journal are considered honorary members of the Society! 😊

No One Is an Island

…entire of itself

If I am asking you to spend some of your precious time with me, I feel a need to share more about the life experiences that inform me.

Each of us at any stage of our life is an amalgamation. Someone has said that “memory is mind”. We have relationships. As we grow, we develop preferences. Information flows in relentlessly from many sources. Our personalities are formed and molded and recast continuously. If we are fortunate, there are more positive impacts than negative. At some point we stand naked and vulnerable to all who choose to encounter us. This can be frightening or exhilarating or simply boring and mundane.

If we are brave, we come accept and live within this reality. In the coming weeks, I shall “expose” some of the forces that memory tells me were among the most formative.  Eventually, I will reveal figures from music, literature, and family that feel essential parts of who I have become. I shall begin more “humbly”.

In the small mill town of my youth, I attended with regularity the church one block from our house. My mother’s father was a Methodist minister so that was our choice (instead of my father’s Baptist congregation one block in the opposite direction). In that church there was a regular looking guy and his lovely wife. In middle age they remained childless. He invited the young boys to join him on Saturday morning hikes in the surrounding woods. The woods were a part of a national forest so there were very few limitations on wandering once we left the town limits.

A Group of B.F. Poole’s “Junior Minute Men”

B.F. Poole (Benjamin Franklin to be exact) worked in the textile mill for eight hours, five days a week. While many of my friends’ parents chose to rest or play during their free hours Mr. Poole and his wife spent Sunday at the church, and he dedicated Saturday mornings to his young minions. None of us knew where he intended to go or what we might see—that was a delicious part of the outing. I wish I remembered more, but I can give you a few snatches. 

Usually, we followed the Seaboard Coastline railroad tracks for a mile or so to escape sidewalks and traffic on the country roads. It was exciting to cross Duncan Creek on the high bridge never worrying about a coming train (I am sure Mr. Poole had checked the schedules meticulously. He certainly felt the responsibility he had taken on, even as we felt free as birds). Once we were in a low, damp forest floor, he held up his hand to stop. He had seen something that might spell danger. In a moment he motioned us to follow and pointed to the ground. Distinct footprints, not human or resembling any usual animal, tracked across the damp floor. He squatted and told us to look closely so that we would remember— the hoof prints of a pack of several wild hogs. He told us that they raided gardens and damaged fences and did not take lightly any attempts to deter their wants and needs; they had sharp tusks.

Much later as an adult I was canoeing a black water river in eastern North Carolina with an outdoorsman friend, and we startled a pack of 30 or so on the bank. With a loud snort from their leader, they crashed wildly through the underbrush. I recalled Mr. Poole’s warning and teaching. 

Another time in early summer, we rode in cars to another branch of Duncan Creek, stopped and climbed down a slope to a sandy spot next to the water. He broke off a stout branch, sharpened it with his pocketknife, stuck it deeply into the sand, and proceeded to roughly vibrate it by rubbing another against it as if trying to start a fire with the friction. A minute or so later worms began to emerge from the ground around the spot. We were astounded to watch thirty-inch-long slimy worms emerge as if summoned like an Indian Cobra—we learned that they were called “nightcrawlers”. Big enough to entice a large mouth bass if you could somehow got them on the hook.

Exhausted by the hike in and as sweaty as the worms were creepy, Mr. Poole allowed us to strip down and swim in the creek. The first act of “skinny-dipping” in my life. I shall reveal nothing more.

Mr. Poole joined us in youth meetings and summer Bible-school and became more like a gracious uncle, a fine alternative to whatever home life we experienced. When not in the woods one would regularly encounter him on a bench downtown in front of a gas station, always there to talk or merely listen. For some of our older members he invited them home to learn the art of tying flies and crafting elegant bamboo rods.

I tried, in adulthood, to contact him but found that I was too late. I did not get to say thanks or tell him how grateful I was. That taught me his last lesson—do not put off the most important things in life. There in a small, insignificant village a local hero bestowed on a tiny band of budding teenagers a model of responsibility and care, a gift that we hardly realized. My fervent hope is that I was not the only one whose life bore a small portion of his character.

I do not remember any great sermons or revivals, but that little church nurtured us in the membership and community.

Amen.

Welcome to the Land of Jomeokee.

I look forward to chatting with you wherever you are and whoever you might be.

It’s as simple as this. My name is Clay, and I spent nearly forty superb years teaching, as they say, in “higher education.” I have always liked school and was fortunate to grow up in a world where education was affordable for almost anyone (in my case aided by the GI Bill). I now see clearly that converting a law degree into undergraduate teaching was the best path that I can imagine. The privilege of standing before small classes of fine, eager students and trying to open their minds to the magic of our creation and unlimited opportunity cannot be adequately communicated.

Teaching is a sacred trust, but even better is what one learns in the process. Since my mother exposed me to classical music, my first library card at six, two unbelievably fine teachers in a small textile town, being able to choose and afford a small liberal arts college degree, serving my country abroad, and earning degrees in business and law, I can now look back and appreciate the charmed journey. Because of it, I have never lost my curiosity or my interest in almost everything.

Now, my greatest hope is that I can somehow give some of that back in sharing the full range of my interests with others.

What to Expect Here

First, a weekly entry posted each Sunday on whatever happens to seem relevant and irregular entries in the topical sections listed under Guideposts.

Words that Sing is an especially important project of mine that I’ll be talking about more going forward, so stayed tuned!

Please fully read the About section of the blog. It gives a fuller picture of who we are and what we care about.

Lest I forget, I am compelled to reveal one of the things we are MOST passionate about: The Table. Food, wine, and entertaining with flowers and candlelight is an important ritual of presence for us. Around the table, we enjoy a slower pace where we can reflect on the day, allowing the conversation to flow as naturally as the wine. It is a quiet celebration of the everyday moments that make up our lives and a practice that nourishes our bodies and souls. We hope to share some of our dinners with you through pictures, words and occasionally a video or two.

What Led Me Here

Well, I thought you’d never ask.

Writing, whether through essay or email, has always been a place where I have felt most at home. An essential part of my life, even more so since retirement. Yes, practically speaking, I have more time to dedicate to the process, but it's also been therapeutic, giving me a space to sort the myriad of thoughts that flow in and out of my mind.

Writing has always been my way of getting to the heart of things, as I feel that the right words chosen carefully are the most direct path to understanding and authentic connection. Yet I also know the precision I crave is often elusive—a truth a friend captured beautifully when he quoted the words of a philosopher: “There are no words, but there are only words.”

There is no denying it; the writer’s garret gets a bit lonely at times, and my care for community and communication moves beyond the page. They are in the real world of interaction. These reflections, and my desire to combine writing with connecting to a wider audience, led me to the conclusion that a website would allow me to bring together the things I care about most these days: reflective writing, meaningful communication, and a sense of community.

My Morning Practice

For the last several months, my day begins with a quiet hour somewhere around 5 or 6. I have found a special piece of music that helps me begin in a good place. It is called “Hymn to a Blue Hour” by the American composer John Mackey. I have learned that blue hour is the period between dawn and the arrival of fuller light before sunrise. If you rise early and sit through it, you might experience a wholly new awakening. For me, it is a time to push away the distracting images of the rational brain and allow space for my mind to wander as it will. I have experienced magical moments and occasionally something that seems “profound.” Take this as you will, but I have truly benefitted from the “practice.”

Slowing Down

My days are less prone to profane thoughts and words. I have slowed everything down. I hardly ever fret at stop lights, and I follow all speed limits as the rest of the traffic roars over, under, around, and through the frantic need to get from here to there. I have, step by step, retreated from exposing myself to media outlets that constantly remind me how bad things are and how little control I have over the things that are being done to, and by, us.

I read more (preferring books purchased from small independent stores), listen (truly listen) to more music, watch less video, and spend time with friends around the table and the hearth. (A confession: I talk too much and listen not nearly enough—a personality trait that I am beginning to studiously work on.)

Looking Inward and Outward

It would serve us all well to look inside in order to better understand ourselves and our interactions with others and to look outside and spend more time in the natural world. The “philosopher” Yogi Berra famously said, “You can see a lot just by looking.”

Then, share some of your joy with others.

Please know—this is not “instruction.” I claim no truth. Just trying to open us all to higher possibilities. We have had enough shouting and gesturing, and somehow believing that our chosen way is better than theirs. We must, and we can do better.

A Parting Wish

Again, it delights me to welcome you to the land of Jomeokee (the small mountain at the top of the page). If it brings you even a small portion of the joy that it has given me, I have succeeded.

Come back again if you will, just to hear what might be going on.

In goodwill,
Clay