Subject: RE: catspaw's birthday is Tuesday, June 8th
From:
Date: 07 Jun 99 - 04:58 PM
I'd gone to the village of Gato del Lodo to find the old man who still knew the stories. Sitting in the back of the cantina in a white shirt and straw hat, he looked and sounded liked a dessicated Alfonso Bedoya, but his eyes were clear. I brought two of strong local drinks to the table.
"So, you want to hear the Catspaw story. It was a long time ago, he was an old man when I knew him and I was a little boy. But I remember the story."
"It happended in the fiftieth year of his life.The opossums were oppressed, senor. They couldn't sing their songs, or gather with their friends. Catspaw hated that, he couldn't see it happen. He could come and go, cross borders, tell his stories, he was a musician...he was free."
"The Catspaw thought maybe when he crossed the border he could take out a possum or two in his tiple. You know, kind of smuggle them. Well, it didn't work too well. They made the tiple sound dull and bad, jammed down in the sound hole, and Catspaw spent half his time re-stringing and tuning. Much as he loved the possums and their freedom, he hated it when his tiple sounded bad. He needed another plan."
"So he had a talk with the opossums and taught them to sing. You see? He made them act like little marsupial flutes. He would hang that possum tail around his neck, blow into the little ass, and the possum would sing a note. I think you would too, senor. Squeeze a foot and blow, another note; two feet another note; cover an ear another. Like that. Sometimes he could get a hole octave out of one screaming possum. Sometimes the possum wouldn't have too much talent. He would be used as a drum."
"Now the whole village came together to help Catspaw and his possums. Some people gave voice lessons, some taught the possums to stay still and be covered in mud so they would look like flutes. Some people painted possums."
"One time, Catspaw crossed the border with a whole family of possums around his neck, from a big bull possum to a little baby. They all held perfectly still while he blew in their little asses like one big, heavy pan pipe. Catspaw looked like a damned cross between Zamphir and Marlin Perkins."
"Catspaw helped a lot of possums, and he was known as a really talented flute player in his time. The tiple became a sideline."
"That's why we all wear these, here in the village."
The old man tugged at a cord around his neck and produced a little brown ocarina, worn smooth by the years he had carried it next to his heart. " It's a possum, you see? It is the first instrument we give to children here. We wear it to remember. It's good to laugh, to make music, to stay in touch, and to help your friends."
"Catspaw was an old, old man the last time he went on the road, and we don't really know the end of the story. But I tell you this, senor. Late at night you can hear the sound of on ocarina over the hills. That's the Catspaw, blowing it long, sweet, and low."
Many happy returns of the day to Senor Gato. Dave
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