What would you tell this young person? It’s an interesting conundrum, but one hopes the day comes when “race” or skin color or ethnicity aren’t used for good or ill to define a person. I call myself American, though I am happy to have Scottish, Dutch, French, Welsh, English, and Irish roots. I call this young person an American, too. Much simpler that way, and it’s true. All the forebears give us their genetic and cultural heritage. That we can celebrate, but they all ended up in America for a reason.
FLASH!! Ker-BOOOOM! Crackle!
I swore I’d just been struck by lightning, the 20 megaton blast of thunder followed so soon after the flash that lit the sky!
“Whatever Ye Gods have in mind for me tonight, it will be fast and dramatic. That one was too close,” I thought. Then I noticed two scaredy cats at my feet. (“At least I’m not the only one scared ‘snotless’ here,” I told myself. “That was dang close!”) [I cleaned that quote way up!]
Andy ran when I leaned over to pick him up. He chose a spot under the table, dark and secure by his reckoning, safe from the storm. Dougy let me pick him up to soothe him with petting and words. He wasn’t so eager to get down this time! I felt a bit calmer myself, thanks to the blood pressure-lowering benefits of petting a cat.
We may or may not have been in danger inside the house, but we each found a way to feel we were safe. Any port in a storm, so to speak. When I went to bed, I had two cats join me, and they slept a little closer to me than usual. Honestly, I felt better because of that, too!