Tag Archives: Carl Sandberg

Little Cat Feet

Gandalf and I stepped out into the deep grey mist; he blended in beautifully and while the fog wasn’t so dense he disappeared at the end of his leash, his edges did blur a bit. This is the least-foggy place I have lived but my Pavlovian response to seeing it remains intact; without fail, the phrase “the fog comes on little cat feet” pops into my brain. And then I think of third grade and Mrs. Hembree and choral readings and how we presented that poem. She had us say “little cat feet” in high squeaky voices and when I am old and demented that is probably what I will mumble over and over, so kids, don’t be worried.

I was fortunate to attend elementary school in southern California when education was cutting edge and for almost three years Mrs. Harriette Hembree was chief goddess in my life. Lest you think I had to repeat a year twice, she moved up each grade with her students and third, fourth and fifth years (until we moved) were splendiferous. She woke up my brain and my mind and became the yardstick by which I measured other teachers, both my own and my kids‘.IMG_0323

When we moved far away (both geographically and through a time warp) the remainder of fifth grade was spent in a quonset hut where we shared our space with the sixth graders. The teaching was not memorable; punishment for dinking off in class was to be made to copy a page out of the dictionary (I think Russell D. had his own edition of Webster’s by the end of the year) but everything else was; we were loaded into the “cattle car” to be taken to the mess hall for lunch (while singing Love Potion Number 9 at the top of our lungs) and our playground was a field of boulders, some as big as VW bugs. We made forts and running paths through and over them and completed (most of the time) magnificent leaps from rock to rock. Later that year we moved to the new school with a cafeteria and conventional playground; I always missed the rocks.

But I digress.

By the time Gandalf and I circled back home the mountains were still socked in but if you look at the top of the photo below you can see just the barest hint of blue sky; the fog layer was moving on. Carl Sandberg pegged it.

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The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on. 

 

 

Connie Scott Productions