Calla and the mummified cat.

I was at the Brookings Summer Arts Festival this past weekend when I stopped at one of my favourite booths: Eileen Binkley Art.

I have been shopping at her booth for YEARS, but this time, I was with my mom. Mom said, "Oh, she used to be our neighbor! Her mom gave you your first haircut!"

How about that.

Eileen overheard Mom, and she said, "Are you Calla or Darrah?" (Darrah is my sister.) I responded I was Calla, the older of the two. 

Eileen said, "Do you remember when I came over to your house and you showed me your cat?"

I said, "Oh no."

I knew exactly where she was going with this.

From the time I was 3 until I was 13, we lived on an acreage with all sorts of outbuildings - including a big red barn. We didn't have any actual farm animals, so the barn went unoccupied. 

So I claimed the barn as my own.

I spent hours playing in the barn on my own and with various friends and cousins. I was a weird country kid with a huge imagination and only three TV channels, so the world was my oyster.

In one room of the barn, part of the wall was busted open to reveal a "secret" shelf that was ripe for storing riches. I was perhaps six years old when I discovered this hidden cubby hole and eagerly secreted away my outdoor treasures. I gingerly placed my prize finds inside, such as robins' eggs, giant pheasant feathers, crayfish claws (after my mom nixed indoor storage when the stink of my claw collection reached the main level of the house), and cool giant rocks.

Oh yeah, and a mummified cat.

I don't remember where I found the cat, but I knew immediately I had found something special. By first grade, I was already reading books about witchcraft and Egyptian mummies, so how amazing was it I found my very own sacred cat? I had never seen anything like it in real life, as things don't tend to mummify in the Midwest. 

The cat secured a place of honor in my little hiding place in the barn. I treated it with the utmost respect, carefully taking it in and out to examine its perfect skeleton. And, of course, showing it off to nearly everyone I met.

I showed that cat to every hapless individual who had the poor judgement to follow the precocious six-year-old into the abandoned barn. Adult, child, didn't matter - but only if I thought you were awesome enough. I thought my cat mummy was the coolest freaking thing in the world, so obviously, everyone else I thought was cool enough would too. Six-year-olds don't know how to read social cues, so I'm sure I assumed my dead cat was a hit... when in reality, my unfortunate guest was likely backing away slowly and making a mental note never to come over to my house ever again.

Now is the time when I reassure you, as I did Eileen, that I did not turn out to be a serial killer. I merely saw this cat as a marvel of nature. I was relieved that the poor thing had not been eaten or mangled (an unfortunate reality of life on the farm), and I mourned for its lost life. I treated it with great reverence, and I have a vague memory of asking my parents to please bury it when they found out about my less-than-savory collection in the barn. 

I was just an oddball farm kid with an interest in the macabre and not much else to do.

But damn, did I traumatize some people in the meantime.

Today, you will not be surprised to learn I am a true crime aficionado and a cat lady. All of the cats at my house are alive and not mummies. I promise when they die, I will not mummify them. That would be weird.

So the next time you get concerned that your child is spending too much time inside, consider this: would you rather have them hanging out in old barns with mummified cats?

Think about it.