The Annals of Boreas the Cat and Other Tales

By Deborah Edgerton

What Became of Brother Bernie?
A girl travels with her father in the late 1940s; learns about life and about herself.

The Pug and I: The Memoirs of Oliver Martin
Oliver Martin remembers the late 1960s and early 70s.

My African Adventure
The author travels to the Sudan in the summer of 1983.

The Transient Room
The author’s two-week stay at a women’s residence, and its results, in 1985.

The Annals of Boreas the Cat
A girl befriends a talking cat, and what she learns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781468548211

Deborah Edgerton

Deborah Edgerton was born in Los Angeles, California on August 30, 1956, and moved with her family to Colorado Springs, Colorado in 1965. She graduated from high school in 1974, and the University of Colorado in 1980, with a bachelor's degree in history. She joined Crossroads Africa in 1983, and helped build a school in the Sudan. She has lived in a number of places and worked at various jobs, including a Special Education teacher on the Navajo Reservation, graduating with a master's degree in that field. Currently, she resides in New Mexico.

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© 2012 Deborah Edgerton. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  07/09/2020

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4822-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-4821-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012901801

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For those with the courage to seek, the ability

to find, and the wisdom to learn.

Dwell a while and pass on, be copious, temperate, chaste,

magnetic. And what you effuse may then return as the

seasons return, and may be just as much as the seasons.*

—Walt Whitman—

Table of Contents

What Became of Brother Bernie?

The Pug and I: The Memoirs of Oliver Martin

My African Adventure

The Transient Room

The Annals of Boreas the Cat

Afterword

About the Author

Sources and Recommended Reading

And now, the other tales first and then the cat …

What Became of Brother Bernie?

Many years ago, my old man was buried. Which I call my father, sometimes, with affection and no disrespect intended, and, I doubt he’d mind in the least. You see, formalities and conventions—society’s mores and manners—meant little, and, he never gave them a second thought.

So his life ended, in 1950, in a small spot in Southern Missouri, but, this story doesn’t start there nor my involvement in it.

1

I was born on an August day—1934—in the City of Angels—Los Angeles, California—before it became the sprawling metropolis it is today. Why I remember that apple orchards and peach trees lined the rolling hills, and there were lots of eucalyptus. And those were good years and my family a happy three-some.

But … my father (then) was an adventurer at heart: compelled to read books and study maps more than work or seek employment. But this was the Depression and our house was his—passed down through his family—so homelessness was not a concern. But he failed to notice the conditions at home and not just the economic ones.

And so … the divorce didn’t surprise me: Mother loved another man. My father though was stunned and speechless; sad to see her go.

And she moved quickly, taking furniture and possessions that left the house barren. And I was invited along but declined: Dad would be alone. And that was all right at times, but living by himself another matter, one that could bring him to despair. And besides, I shared my old man’s nature—no doubt about it. So, when the house sold and my eighth grade ended, we packed up the ’41 Studebaker and left.

(But … I never regretted the divorce, after it was over that is. I put the past aside and looked forward to the future, which, with my father, could be almost anything. I was sad to leave home and sadder to leave school, but under the circumstances I had no choice.)

And we didn’t go far. Only to the desert beyond, to Apple Valley, a region I knew little about. (California, to me, was large towns and rolling hills and a coastline that ran north and south for miles.) And there two weeks, picking apples with migrant workers. But I didn’t know why; don’t think Dad did either:

Just do it babe; do it ’cause it needs to be done.

Yes maybe, I thought, but why us?

The work was hard and paid little—perhaps experience is more justified than money. Anyway, we cashed in our pickings and packed up the car; drove from California into Nevada, to the town of Las Vegas.

And …

Las Vegas in ’48 was not what it is today, nothing in these United States is. But Dad found a cheap motel, but there was no television or swimming pool and nothing for me to do, and, a Gideon Bible sat on the desk but I was not a reader, so, I walked outside while he showered and shaved.

And it was dusk; the city lighting up, as were the streetlights on the two-lane highway we drove to get here. And the motel’s neon flashed on and off—on and off, on and off—advertising the name and there was vacancy; the orange sun had disappeared below the horizon, and, at that time of the evening, Nevada was warm and dry and comfortable.

But Dad was on his stomach—snoring—his head was hanging from the bed. And he didn’t hear me entered, indicating his fatigue. And the Bible on the floor; I picked it up. Straightened pages bent at the corners, before undressing and falling asleep.

But …

He wondered what Las Vegas offered and asked the waitress in the diner the next day, who didn’t have much of an answer.

You know babe, we might just stay; I’d like to do some gambling.

But you’ve never played cards, let alone gamble!

And then … down the strip as it’s called, for a motel with a kitchenette at a reasonable rate. And he chose the El Rancho Motel and paid a month’s rent before moving in. There was no pool or television but a Bible sat on the desk. So when Dad left for poker or blackjack, I roamed about town.

And then …

Is thata Help Wanted sign in the window? Shorty’s Diner needed two waitresses and a dishwasher and I was thirteen: too young to waitress, I felt, but not to wash dishes, and, a short husky fat man came from the kitchen, handed me pencil and paper. I wrote: Christina Warren, El Rancho Motel, age 15, dishwasher. He studied it. Can you work the dinner shift? I told him I could, but, with no social security card, he paid me under the table—weekly in cash.

And …

A brown brick building, office in front and fourteen pink doors on one side … I entered Room 6, put bread in the toaster for something to eat but Dad never showed. But I started walking at 4:15 to be at the diner by five, and, a short squatty woman from Room 14 was standing in front of her door, and, her lipstick was red and her glasses had butterfly rims.

And …

Harley Simmons waited. He operated the joint (he called it) owned it as well. But no one was there: The dinner patrons had not yet arrived. And swinging doors led back to the kitchen—Coffee was made and a waitress was rolling silverware in cloth napkins. And I was given an