I could hear the phone ringing on the other side of the house. “I’ll get it,” my daughter yelled, much to my relief. And, I imagine, much to the relief of my crowd.

“She’s around here somewhere,” Celeste said to the caller. “It’s always easy to find her. I just look for all the animals.”

She opened the door. “I found her. She’s under the cats.”

I wondered if my caller was envisioning a mechanic with felines hoisted in the air like a car on a lift. Or perhaps a pair of flailing arms, struggling out from under a mountain of cats. The latter is actually not far wrong, and although three cats hardly constitute a mountain, none of my cats are of average size.

Lately, I’ve been spending more time than usual underneath cats. We recently added a third to our crew. More correctly, I finally gave in and agreed he was ours. Sully had been the neighborhood cat for a while, a large and longhaired black beauty with bright yellow eyes. He’d once lived in a tree house, but after it burned down, moved to our porch.

It didn’t take long to learn what made our porch more appealing than others. Ours had a little girl who would wrap him in warm towels while feeding him ham.

I tried not to get attached, and for a long time, I didn’t. For someone who can bond with an animal from only a picture the size of a stamp, it wasn’t easy for me. The cat had its charms.

Unfortunately, the ability to play well with others wasn’t one of those charms. I learned this after allowing him to weather a storm inside our house. Instead of accepting our hospitality with humility and grace, he viewed it as an opportunity to stage a coup, to violently overturn the current regime so he could foist his fluffy butt onto the throne. (The throne in this case being a carpeted cat platform in our back window.)

After the storm, out Sully went. And out Sully stayed, until the weather got cold.

(I suppose I should pause here to mention that during the time Sully was ousted and the time it got cold, I talked my editor, Rosalie, into taking him home. It was not a good match. Rosalie soon returned him to me–Sully appeared none the worse for the trip, but Rosalie brandished striped forearms and claimed of being a few pints short of blood.)

So Sully was back on my porch in his little PetSmart cat house, aiming those big eyes oh so effectively at me every chance that he could. Before long, he’d convinced me to clean out our little sunroom and give it to him. (After his failed coup, I suspect he spent his months in exile carefully planning his next move.)

With the advantage of the sunroom’s flimsy door, it was easy for Sully to gain frequent access to the rest of the house. Once in, he’d entertain us by batting rolls of masking tape and stray hair bands all over the floor. And although we were charmed, he still didn’t play nice. There was much hissing, spitting and swatting. Sometimes even involving the cats.

And then something unexpected happened. Sully fell in love.

With me.

I knew he’d always liked and trusted me more than others, but over the past few weeks, it became more than that. He started following me, being gentle with me, but most of all, not attacking my other cats because he could tell it upset me. (Animals are sensitive to such things, you know. Especially when such things include shrieking and an undignified dumping back out on the porch.)

We seem to be settling into something nice, but it still isn’t smooth. My original two cats, apparently wanting to make certain they maintain their rank, have taken to stalking me, immediately attaching themselves to any part of me that becomes horizontal. My dog, a lifelong lover of cats, goes along with the crowd. Cats, he understands, know the best places to sleep.

And these days, that best place is on me.

I’ve written a few times in the past about my favorite advice (including some sent in by readers), but it didn’t occur to me until last week that I hadn’t recognized what was likely the best advice I’ve ever been given. By recognized I don’t mean that I simply never put it in print, but that I’d never thought about or appreciated just how good that advice was.

I came to that realization through a small group I belong to at church. Our group meets on Wednesday nights, after dinner in the gym. For the past month or two, our topic has been on forgiveness. My friend Carolyn, one of the group’s leaders, thought I’d have much to share on the topic, since my ex and I have an oddly good relationship, in spite of all that happened between us.

Last week, the group’s conversation took a turn down one of those side alleys that often run off the main subject, and we got to talking about times when we’d felt let down or abandoned by friends. There were a few in the group who’d had to endure tough times on their own or with minimal support from their friends. But it hadn’t been that way for me.

It hadn’t been that way because of that one piece of advice.

I was (and still am) a sporadic member at St. Paul’s United Methodist. I’ve attended there, off and on, ever since my family first moved to Nitro in the late 60s. There were times, in my teens, when I practically lived at that church, then adulthood (or a reasonable semblance thereof) pulled me away until 1997, when my daughter was born.

Suddenly, the importance of church loomed large, and we started going again. Even so, I kept most of those there at arm’s length, perhaps afraid they’d try to pull me in and involve me in ways I wasn’t ready for. My schedule was tight and time precious. I guarded it jealously, unwilling to share.

Several years passed, and then there was Camille. My beautiful second daughter. When she was just four months old, we learned she was terminally ill. We were still reeling from the news when, the day after her diagnosis, the pastor of our church, Okey Harless, (now in Dunbar), stopped by. Along with his compassion and prayers, he shared his advice.

“People are going to want to do something to help. You’re going to be constantly hearing, ‘Is there anything I can do?’” Okey said. “Find something for them to do, even if it’s something really small. Just let them in.”

I remember thinking his advice seemed strange, that it was even sort of wrong for us, in our grief, to have to be thinking of others and coming up with ways they could help. But I trusted Okey. I let people in.

For a private, independent person, that wasn’t easy to do, but when a neighbor called asking if there was anything we needed, I impulsively answered, “Could you possibly get us some milk? I’m completely out and can’t get to the store.”

She seemed so grateful to have something she could actually do to help, and when she brought the milk, we talked for a bit. I welcomed the company, and enjoyed the opportunity to show off my so sick, but so healthy-looking little girl.

It gradually became easier to ask for, and accept, their assistance. My coworkers, neighbors, friends and relatives all pitched in. I didn’t carry the load by myself. It was spread over many. Many who grieved with us when her time came to go.

You would think, having been there, that it would be somehow easier to know what to say when a friend is going through a divorce, a parent’s long illness, a death. But it’s still just as awkward as ever. I want to help, to at least acknowledge what they’re going through, to not say the wrong thing. So I find myself saying those same words I heard time and again. Is there anything I can do?

Then I wait, and hope, they’ll tell me there is.

It might seem, from the list I’ve collected and am sharing below, that it’s darn near impossible to say the right thing to someone who is grieving, that it might actually be safer to say nothing at all. But trust me-even saying the wrong thing will always be better than saying nothing or avoiding the person until you feel that enough time has passed that it’s “safe” to be around them again without bringing it up.

If you think it’s too hard to find the right words, consider sharing the silence. Hold their hand, touch their arm, give a hug or a smile (making eye contact). Listen if they want to talk, but try not to give advice.

THINGS TO AVOID SAYING TO THOSE WHO ARE GRIEVING . . .

Don’t say, “Your loved one is in a better place now.” Even the most devout Christian isn’t usually comforted by that. They’re still feeling the “better place” is home with them.

Don’t ever, ever, ever say, “You can always have another child.”

Don’t say, “I know how you feel” unless you have lost a loved one of, well, the same rank (a mother if you lost your mother, a child if you lost your child). Instead, you can say, “I can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”

It may sound like a compliment to say, “You’re so strong. I couldn’t go on if it had been me,” but to the person grieving, you’re saying, “Wow. Her death didn’t affect you like losing a child would for me. I must love mine more.”

Try not to say, “What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” or the equally overused, “God never gives us any more than we can bear.” A more appropriate response would be to say, “I hope you can find the strength to bear your loss” or “to get through this time.”

Don’t ask, “So, how old was your grandma?” And then, when the mourner answers, “Ninety-two,” you follow it with, “Wow. She lived a long life. You should be thankful you had her so long.” That’s kind of saying, “Hey, she was old. How can I really feel bad for you? And you shouldn’t feel bad for yourself either. It was time.” Instead, you should say, “I doesn’t matter how hold they are. You always miss them when they’re gone.”
Never use the word “closure.” Don’t ask me why. Just don’t.

“Things happen for a reason” Yeah, sometimes they do, but while the grieving is fresh, you can’t think about that. Besides, sometimes they only happen for a reason if you can MAKE there be a reason (by starting a fundraising campaign, by enacting tougher drunk driving laws, etc.) and the newly grieving aren’t ready for that.

“God needed her more than we did.” It’s kind of presumptuous to be speaking for God, don’t you think? Plus it sort of discounts how much those left behind needed that person.

“You still have your memories.” Memories are one of the most painful things at this point.

THINGS TO AVOID SAYING TO A PERSON WHO HAS LOST AN INFANT OR SUFFERED A MISCARRIAGE . . .

“Be thankful you still have your other child.”

“You can always adopt.”

SUGGESTIONS FOR WHAT YOU CAN SAY TO THOSE WHO ARE GRIEVING . . .

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

“I have so many wonderful memories of her. Can you remember when she. . .” Don’t be afraid to talk about the person who died. It feels so good to know that others think about her, that she made an impact on someone else’s life. People die, but love never does. If you don’t talk about the person who died, it’s almost as though she never lived.

“I don’t know what to say, but I’ll be glad to listen.” Encourage them to talk, to share memories. I’ve learned that the more I told my story, the easier it became. When a new realization or memory would wash over me, the pain would be fresh again, but talking about it a few times made it lose its sting. I appreciated those who asked the questions that made that possible for me.

“What can I do to help?” (Then offer something, like “I have to stop by the store on my way home. Is there anything you need? How are you set for milk and cereal? Would you like me to get some thank you cards and stamps?”)

Have the courage to say the deceased person’s name. If you didn’t know the person who died, don’t be afraid to ask about her. What was she like? Did she look like her sister? What did she do?

A FEW OTHER TIPS . . .

The anniversary of the death can be particularly hard, especially the first one. If you can find some small way to acknowledge that day, it will mean a great deal. My friend Julie Blackwood is so good at this. In one of Camille’s last photos, she was holding her fingers in the position that means “I love you” in sign language. For the third anniversary of Camille’s death, Julie gave me a tiny pin of a hand in that same position. It didn’t make me cry. It didn’t even make me sad. It made me feel cared about.

Continue to extend invitations to the person who is grieving, but reassure them you won’t be hurt if they decline. Don’t decide for them that the occasion would be too difficult. Let them decide. If they do decline, respect their decision, but don’t stop inviting them. What might be too difficult to consider doing two months after a loss might be completely do-able a few more months down the road.

For the parent who lost a child, it can be hard to hear other parents who have more than one child complain about sibling rivalry, about how hard it is to get to parent-teacher conferences at two different schools, to soccer games scheduled at different fields, to get one girl to Brownies and the other to dance. And it’s even worse when you hear someone admire a person’s toddler and the parent jokingly says, “Here. Take her!” It stings. I catch myself wishing I could just blurt out, “OK!” or “I’d give anything to have that problem!” But, of course, I don’t. Occasionally, in the midst of complaining, one of the moms will remember my loss, and I can see the awkward realization wash over her. During one such moment, the mom stopped mid-sentence and said, “I’m so sorry. This kind of complaining must be hard to hear.” In that instant, my pain subsided. I never realized how important simply acknowledging a loss was until that moment, or how valuable-and appreciated-the right words can be.

My poor kid has been sick since Monday with strep. The doctor gave us a prescription for that awful pink liquid antibiotic. Celeste called me at work after taking her first dose. “So how was it?” I asked. “Holy crap!” she said. “That stuff was nasty!” I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. She never says stuff like that. Well, there was one other time when she was jumping on the bed and banged her head pretty hard. “Ow!” she said. “Man, if I cussed, I think I’d probably say ’shit.’”

Even when she feels terrible, she rarely loses her sense of humor. Last night, I was next to her in her bed and I reached over to touch her forehead. It was burning up. I said, “You are SO hot.” She smiled tiredly and said, “Thank you.”

I still love LOST, but this season is a little disappointing. It’s moving slow compared to Season 1, but I’m enjoying all the clues and misdirection. One of last week’s clues supports my theory that this is all going to be some kind of purgatory/Sixth Sense type of thing.

This past Wednesday’s episode showed Locke taking books off the shelf during his search of the hatch. One of those books (the only one they bothered to show the title of clearly) was Owl Creek Bridge. My husband immediately recognized the title and said he thought it was a major clue to the secret of LOST. In the book, the story’s main character, David Coulter, is being hanged for treason from the Owl Creek Bridge, but after the rope breaks and he falls into the water, he begins a journey back home. During this journey, he starts to experience some strange physiological events that ultimately end with a searing pain in his neck. It turns out that David had never escaped. He imagined the entire thing during the time between being pushed off the bridge and the noose finally breaking his neck.

In an earlier episode, when they came upon Desmond in the hatch, he was reading a book called The Third Policeman. When I looked up that book online, I found a review that said it was “a chilling fable of unending guilt,” which describes pretty much every character on LOST. They all have something in their past they feel guilty about.

A little Googling turned up that Owl Creek Bridge was also featured on an episode of the Twilight Zone in 1964 (Episode 142, Season 5). Strangely, the author of Owl Creek Bridge, Ambrose Bierce, disappeared while on a trip in Mexico and was never found. Kind of like Glenn Miller, whose plane went down over the English Channel and was never found. (When Hurley and Sayid are fiddling with the radio, the station they pick up is playing Glenn Miller.)

These are the kinds of twists and connections I adore, why I keep coming back even though the show frustrates me so badly at times.

“Trouble is a sieve through which we sift our acquaintenances. Those too big to pass through are our friends.”

–Arlene Francis, actor

My husband and I were sitting in our home office when my eight-year-old bounced in carrying a two-sided poster covered with paper flaps.

“Do you know what an idiom is?” Celeste asked, waggling the big orange sheet of construction paper she’d brought home from school.

“I think I do,” I said. “But I’m not totally sure.”

She seemed pleased to know something I didn’t, and read from her poster. “An idiom is a phrase which means something different than what each of its words taken one by one means.”

“‘That means’,” my husband said. “Not which.”

“Huh?” Celeste looked confused.

“Never mind,” Geoff said.

“I’m not sure I understand that definition,” I said, hoping to get back on track. “How about an example?”

She pointed to one of the flaps. On the front was printed, “Marty got cold feet.”

“What do you think that means?” she asked.

“That Marty needs socks?”

“Nope.” She lifted the flap, “It means Marty didn’t go through with something he was supposed to.”

“Let me try one,” Geoff said.

“OK,” said Celeste. “How about, ‘I’m in a lot of hot water.’”

“You’re taking a bath?”

“No.”

“A Jacuzzi?”

Celeste rolled her eyes. Well, not literally. I mean, they stayed in their sockets, but she waggled them around in a disparaging way.

“It means you’re in trouble,” said Celeste. “How about, ‘I have a bone to pick with you.’”

“There’s no meat left?” said Geoff.

Celeste shook her head. (Her head was still attached to her neck at the time. She wasn’t holding it in her hand and waving it or anything.)

“You’re a real pain in the neck.”

“Is that one of those idioms or are you making an observation?” I asked.

“Both,” said Celeste. “You guys are driving me up the wall.”

“So you’re losing your marbles?”

“You hit that nail on the head,” she said.

“Sounds like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed,” said Geoff. “With a chip on her shoulder.”

Celeste leaned close to my ear and whispered, “What’s the difference between an idiom and an idiot?”

“Hold your horses,” I said. “There’s no reason be calling names.”

“What horses?” she asked. “And how should I hold them?”

“I might be going out on a limb here,” Geoff said, “But I’m not sure any of us are playing with a full deck.”

“Put a sock in it,” I said.

He slipped off his sock. “I’m not sure why you’d want me to do this. . . “

Celeste giggled. This was right up her alley.

“Isn’t it about time for you to be hitting the hay?” I asked her. “Go on. Shake a leg.”

Which, of course, she did.

A few years back, I belonged to a small writing group that challenged its members to write a 10-minute play for our next meeting. None of us knew a thing about plays, but we thought, what the heck? It would be fun to try something new.

Too lazy to write something entirely from scratch, I pulled out an old short story I’d written and converted it into a play. By a strange coincidence, it landed in the hands of a Kanawha Players member, who decided it work work as one of their Briefs and Shorts.

So my play is going to be performed February 16 as part of their “Valentines Gone Bad” show! The show starts at 8 PM at the Charleston Ballet building, 822 Virginia St. E., Charleston, WV. Tickets $5.00 at the door. The play will be performed again on February 23 at the Museum in the Community in Teays Valley.

According to Kanawha Players’ website, “This Valentine celebration will have no cupids, though there may be some arrows. The evening’s short plays will feature a new playwright (Karin Fuller) and original music (Becky Kimmons) and will explore the downside of loving relationships. You’ll see rejection at its best and witness the power of evil candy. Find out what happens to the not so sweet and look out for for the Valentine’s Smack Down. Mature themes. This one is not a show for the kids.”

Mine isn’t the only play they’ll be doing that night. I think mine is actually pretty far into the program, but I’m not sure. I’m not even sure if the play is still titled “Opportunity Knocked” or “In Golden Pond,” since I retitled it somewhere along the way. It’s going to be so strange to see something I’ve written performed on a stage, even if the stage is such a small one.

I went to the Charleston Animal Shelter yesterday with my coworkers, April and Sue. April’s dog died on Saturday and she was having a tough time of it. She’s like me in that way. (So is Sue.) Our animals are such a part of us that losing one can really tear us apart.

Because April travels on weekends a lot, I talked her into getting a cat. At lunch, we headed to the shelter, determined to pick out a male kitten. Instead, she ended up with a two-year-old female cat. I guess it was just destined to be. Their eyes met and that was it. The cat she chose was one heck of a saleman. I don’t know how anyone could’ve resisted. She meowed, stuck her paws through the bars, rubbed back and forth and aimed this sad-eyed look at April that I thought looked suspiciously practiced. I tell ya, she had her act down.

After choosing the cat, we made the mistake of seeing the dogs. Man, did that ever tear at my heart. Those faces. Those eyes. There was one little dog, a mutt, wearing a bandana and sitting on this pillow. She was trembling all over. I bent to talk to her and she came over and put her nose through the wires. I touched her nose while I talked to her and she watched my eyes so close. Soon, she quit trembling. There was no information on her cage so I’m hoping she was just a lost dog that’ll get claimed. She looked so sad and confused to be there.

There were so many big dogs. I love big dogs, and have a major soft spot for German shepherds. There was one skinny girl, a shepherd mix, who looked so smart. You could see her intelligence. What I wouldn’t give to have been able to take her home.

Almost since birth, my daughter has been treating sleep like it’s a form of punishment. When she was an infant, I would often lie on the floor with my hand through the crib bars, touching her until she drifted off. When she finally did, I’d slowly crawl from the room, avoiding the squeaky floorboards (which I’d marked with masking tape, as if they were landmines).

She was never a child who fell asleep watching TV or while eating her dinner. (She views eating as a form of punishment, too, but so do many who have sampled my cooking.) Not once has Celeste announced, “I’m tired,” then headed to bed.

She doesn’t get crabby or unpleasant when she gets tired. She’s just as nice at midnight as noon. But I know she needs sleep, in spite of her passionate contention that she doesn’t.

“But I’m not even a little bit tired,” says Celeste.

“Maybe you’re not, but I am.”

“Don’t worry,” she says with a reassuring pat to my hand. “If I need something, I’ll wake you.”

In her eight and a half years, Celeste has become the master of bedtime postponement. Although she started with the typical and unimaginative glass of water request, she quickly expanded her repertoire to include pleas of hunger, painstakingly thorough dental hygiene, hair brushing, hair braiding, “forgotten” homework assignments, and plot points to her next screenplay that she just has to write down before she forgets them. (That’s another column.)

This girl of mine is one wily creature, and every time I manage to successfully sidestep or derail one of her bedtime maneuvers, I feel crafty and pleased with myself.

But Celeste finally found my weak spot. The hole in my armor. The loophole so large she can crawl through and dance.

She learned I can’t bring myself to shut off her light so long as she’s reading.

Part of our bedtime ritual used to include me reading to her. Later, it became her reading one page, then me reading the next, and eventually, it became her reading to me. Lately, though, it’s become her reading alone. And so long as she does, she knows that light can stay on, no matter how late. It’s the loophole I grew up with myself, and my husband as well.

The last few days, though, it isn’t a book she’s taken to bed, but a big dry erase board. She covers the board with multiplication problems that she makes up herself, then carefully answers each one.

“What’s that one with the star beside it?” Geoff asked as he was checking her answers.

“That’s the bonus problem,” said Celeste.

“And if you answer it right. . .?”

“I give myself ten extra points.”

Her recent interest in math makes me happy as I’m sort of math-phobic and have been afraid she’d inherit my fear. Luckily, it’s been Geoff’s enthusiasm for math she’s picked up on, and like him, she thinks math is fun.

The one equation she can’t fathom, however, is the number of hours of sleep she needs in order to function.