by Pedro Blas González (July 2025)
Tarpley sat in a back table on the left side of the dining car. The train traveled south, the early morning sun illuminated his typewriter. In front of him, Tarpley had his favorite portable typewriter, a blue 1961 Royal Aristocrat that he has owned for over four decades.
He looked out the window, entertained by the passing sights, the shapes and colors of the early-morning world that the train left behind with each turn of its wheels. Tarpley turned his head to look behind him, curious to witness how quickly the world faded away as the train moved forward.
Tarpley’s imagination wandered. His mind began to formulate humorous stories of what he considered possible realms that link tragedy and comedy with the banality and triviality that fills most people’s lives.
After living in a crowded city for many years, the farms, animals, ponds, and open fields that he saw outside the train windows made an impression on Tarpley. He remembered reading about the communistic dystopian nightmare world of George Orwell’s Animal Farm; the simple joys of farm and animal life in James Herriot’s All Creatures Great and Small.
So many unwritten stories, Tarpley thought, how many ways are there to convey being and elicit more than life in a story? Stories are a conduit for the idea that what we desire most is more life.
The farms the train passed made Tarpley imagine country cats. His mind’s eye collated images of cats in overalls, farmer cats behind the wheel of John Deere harvesters, Caterpillar Challenger tractors, cats milking cows in barns with wide open, massive double doors; cats feeding chickens and ducks. Tarpley smiled, as he often did when he caught himself being ridiculous, as some cat ladies long ago accused him of being, and indulging in his ridiculous tales of cats.
Looking out the train windows, he enjoyed his portrait of the working cats that his imagination painted; only Tarpley’s form of creation came with paper and ink on his trusty typewriters.
He began typing:
Farmer Beermat, a sunburned Red Tabby cat, inspected his chicken house. Opening the gate, the chickens were allowed to roam the chicken enclosure. Unique chickens that react well to cats. Mrs. Beermat, a lovely Calico beauty of about three years of age walked out of the kitchen door, the orange in her hair shining in the golden morning sun. She brought her hubby cat coffee. “Dear, have some coffee. You woke up so early,” Mrs. Beermat said, “It’s getting hot out here…”
“Let me guess … I’m interrupting something important,” Tarpley’s wife Margaret came and sat beside him. She placed a glass of ice water on the table. “You’re up early, Mr. Greathouse,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.
“Who needs all that sleep? The easy life is the pride and joy of hollow people,” Tarpley said, “besides, your snoring drowned the sound of the train. My typewriters are quieter.”
“You exaggerate. Can’t be that bad?”
“How do you know? Snoring means you’re sleeping and sleeping people don’t pay attention to their snoring.”
“Alright. You got me there, my ridiculous typewriter husband,” Margaret said, “have you had anything to eat this morning?”
“Only this coffee,” Tarpley motioned his head to the cup in the middle of the table.
The train passed through small towns, small enough for people to drop what they are doing to wave at passengers on the train.
Margaret looked at Tarpley typing. She smiled a mischievous smile at her husband.
“Tarpley, how much fun can a man have with typewriters and stories of ridiculous cats? Or is it ridiculous stories of cats?” she said.
“No, it’s ridiculous stories of cats, dear. The stories are ridiculous not the cats.”
“I see,” she said, “at this point, you need to publish a book of these whimsical, ridiculous tales. How many stories have you written?” Margaret asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. Hundreds? I try to enjoy myself whenever I can. I like pointing out little things. The upkeep of machines has taught me much about paying attention to detail.”
“The Carousel of Life, you mean?”
“Ah, you remember that story.”
“How can I forget? You had me arguing back and forth with the nervous cat woman who came around the shop even when her typewriter was in perfect working order. After a while, I thought I was part of a screwball comedy, something like ‘Margaret and the Cat Woman,’ I had to defend you and your cat stories.”
“Ha,” Tarpley let out a laugh, “maybe she came to the shop because she likes arguing.”
“It’s funny now…It wasn’t so funny then. That woman was a rabid dog.”
“Maybe she had rabies,” Tarpley joked.
“Have you seen her lately?”
“No, no. She never returned after our last bout. Margaret, you handled yourself with such grace. Dignity untold. I am so proud of you. So proud of you. Your sense of humor is enough to wake the dead.”
Margaret shook her head and laughed: “My sense of humor, according to you, could have gotten me killed. Anyhow, I’m going to get something to eat. You want something? Catnip, maybe,” she joked.
“I love how you have gotten funnier through the years. Who would have thought that skinny, shy girl would turn out to be so funny? Get me one of those chocolate donuts with custard inside. I saw them on the way here,” Tarpley said.
After several minutes, Margaret returned with an egg biscuit for herself and a chocolate donut for Tarpley. Tarpley stopped typing. “Delicious,” he said.
The two laughed at Margaret’s defense of Tarpley’s stories, after the cat woman took offense with a story he wrote about a thieving cat that attacked the nests of unsuspecting neighborhood birds.
The woman demanded an apology from Tarpley, saying that birds were neither unsuspecting nor innocent. Tarpley and Margaret laughed aloud, Margaret coming close to choking on her egg biscuit.
Tarpley stared out the window at the moving pastiche of colors and shapes that the train left behind. He watched the world passing him by like water through a sieve. Time is unforgiving, he thought, taking with it the meager nectar that is the stuff of life.
Tarpley resumed typing. A girl about seven years old walked by with a woman who looked to be in her thirties. The girl doubled back, short of entering the next car. She stood next to Margaret and Tarpley, asking: “Mister, what are you doing?”
“Hello … I’m writing a story. Do you like stories?”
“Yeah. I like stories. What is this pretty machine?” she asked, pointing to the Royal typewriter.
“It’s a typewriter. A machine that lets you make words that make stories, like ‘My cat is black and white. His name is Felix. Felix is a nice cat.” Tarpley said.
Margaret smiled.
“Oh, that’s cool, mister,” the girl said.
“Yes, I think that’s cool,” Tarpley agreed. The girl and the woman smiled at Tarpley.
“Ok. Bye, bye, mister,” the girl said, beginning to walk away.
“Bye, bye,” Tarpley waved his right hand.
“Tarpley, what is it about children and typewriters?” Margaret asked.
“What is more natural and healthy for young children than to have curiosity and pay attention to the world around them? Besides, children today have never seen a typewriter. To them, typewriters are some magical machine from another world.”
“I’m going to check out the dome car. Coming?” Margaret asked.
“Good idea. I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”
Tarpley continued writing about the Beermat cat farmers:
Two orange and beige kittens ran after ducks. The ducks jumped into a small pond.“Careful kitties. Don’t get too close to the water,” Mrs. Beermat Calico cat, standing outside the kitchen door, shouted at her offspring. Will Mrs. Beermat Calico cat teach her kittens to swim?
***
When Tarpley and Margaret arrived at the train station in St. Augustine, Florida, their son Bill picked them up and took them to his house. Their other son, Ryan, his wife and daughter were to meet up with them in Bill’s house later that day.
Tarpley and Margaret were excited to see their grandchildren. They had not seen them since the previous summer in Brooklyn. Tarpley told them about his recent trip to the k-12 school, where he spoke to the students about writing and typewriters. Tarpley’s two grandchildren listened intently to his stories.
The following night, Bill, his wife and son, Tarpley, Margaret and Ryan’s family went on several ghost tours of St. Augustine, a city established by Spanish explorers. The colorful walking tours make tourists believe that they have gone on a real adventure through the cobblestone streets of the oldest city in America.
Reminding his tour group that St. Augustine is the oldest town in America, one of the tour guides told them: “Remind those northeastern blue bloods who pride themselves on the Plymouth Mayflower that America was first Spanish—long before the British arrived.”
The ghost tours and related activities in St. Augustine play off the storied history of old Florida’s Spanish history; unique folklore mingled with real history.
Tarpley had much to tell Maria Fernandez, the Spanish teacher, the next time she visits his shop.
After returning from the ghost tours, Tarpley and Margaret sat on the couch in the living room. Their two sons and daughters-in-law sat across from them. The children went to bed.
“What did you think about the stories of the haunted Castillo de San Marcos, dad?” Bill asked.
“What a beautiful fort. It’s one of two forts in the world built with coquina, a rare type of limestone. I can’t believe it took me over fifty years to return. I enjoyed St. Augustine when I first visited it, and truly loved it this time. The story of the haunted lovers is intriguing.”
Bill added: “The story began after a secret cavity was discovered that contained two skeletons chained to a wall. The two lovers were Dolores, wife of Colonel Garcia Marti, and her lover, the Colonel’s assistant, Captain Manuel Abela. It is said that the Colonel smelled his wife’s perfume on Abela’s clothes. According to the legend, this explains the smell of perfume at the fort.”
“That’s an interesting story,” said Ryan, the university professor, “legend or not, anything is possible. Not least, the murder part. I thought it was interesting that one of our tour guides made a passing mention of Algernon Blackwood’s fantastic supernatural stories.”
“Yes, I caught that. The other guide pointed out Robert Louis Stevenson’s gothic tales,” Bill noticed.
“The ghost tours are definitely fun,” Margaret added, “though, I take them tongue-in-cheek. As legends become popular, the more people claim to witness them in some way or form. People like to take part in the sensational.”
“That’s true,” Bill added, “there are plenty stories of haunting in St. Augustine. Though, the fort takes center stage. Take the ‘shadow’ man, a ghostly figure who is seen walking around inside the fort. Others claim they see him crossing the moat. There are reports of temperature changes in the fort. Others say they have seen the headless corpse of the Seminole Chief, Osceola. I think the claim of hearing disembodied voices ranks up there in freakiness.”
“You know, as Catholics, we shouldn’t dabble in these things. Some apparitions can be demonic. That’s why I explained to the children beforehand that the ghost tours are just stories, the same kind they read in books.”
“Some ghosts are souls lost in purgatory, not realizing they have died,” Margaret added, “that’s why we need to pray for them.”
“I think you’re both right. The real danger is spiritualism – when people summon unknown spirits. That’s truly demonic,” Ryan said, “Saint Augustine has much to say about that topic in his theology and philosophy.”
“Did you see the look on your father’s face when the second ghost tour guide brought up stories of cats that haunt houses and cemeteries in the city?” Margaret asked, laughing, “Your father’s face turned ecstatic when he heard about ghostly cats.”
Tarpley chuckled. His sons let out a hearty and energetic laugh.
“Yep. That sure fuels his fire,” Margaret added.
“I’m all in for fun, “Tarpley responded, still chuckling.
“Can’t imagine what quirky tales will come out of that,” Bill said.
“Margaret, do you remember the encounter we had with that strange man in Venice, Italy?”
“Very strange,” Margaret was quick to add.
“You boys were sitting next to us on a bench in a little piazza,” Tarpley said to his sons. You were little. I remember the man’s name was Tom. The man told us he had seen gypsies walking around, holding dead babies to elicit sympathy and money from tourists.”
“How disgusting,” one of the daughters-in-law said.
“Strange stuff, no doubt,” said Margaret.
“Not long into the conversation,” Tarpley continued, “I told the man we had to leave. Things were getting too heavy. The man told us about magic and black cats. The medieval cat, the man said, was a creature used in black magic.”
“Sinister conversation, eh,” Ryan said.
“I don’t know what that man was driving at, “Tarpley said.
“I think he was just trying to scare the children,” Margaret added.
***
Tarpley and Margaret enjoyed themselves visiting the sites around St. Augustine. Bill took them to cattle ranches outside the city. Tarpley was interested in seeing the descendents of the Andalusian cattle that the Spanish explorer Ponce de Leon introduced to Florida in 1521.
Florida cracker cattle are small and hardy. They took the name cracker from the cracking sound of the whip the cowboys used. These cows have long life spans and tolerate heat well. The Andalusian cattle of Florida eventually became the longhorn of Texas.
Tarpley loved the outing to the cattle ranches. His grandchildren, Bill’s son and Ryan daughter, were delighted to be out in the open, watching cowboys herding cattle. Tarpley and Margaret took great joy from watching the children running around in the sunshine.
Tarpley saw many cats on the ranches they visited. He was told that cats help control the Norwegian and roof rats that are attracted to cattle feed on the ranches. Several ranchers said that the cats on their ranches perform heroically, given that Norwegian rats can weigh over one pound. When Margaret heard this, she chuckled and turned to her two sons, and said in a low voice: “Tarpley just got material to write about heroic cats.”
“Well, well…heroic cats,” Tarpley said in the car on the ride back to Bill’s house. Margaret let out a laugh.
Later that night, Margaret and Tarpley sat on the couch, reflecting on their happy trip to St. Augustine, and being with their sons and grandchildren.
“Tarpley, I’m going to bed,” Margaret said, “we’re taking an early-morning train to New York tomorrow morning.”
“I’m coming in a few minutes. I want to finish something.”
Tarpley went to his typewriter that was on the kitchen table. He began to write:
Quixote Manx cat watched the weathercock on top of the barn roof turning slowly in the hot, stagnant breeze. Standing next to him on the dusty ground was his trusty compañero, Sancho, a chubby American Shorthair cat. The two adventurous feline compadres stared at the weather vane. Quixote Manx looked to Sancho American Shorthair and said: “The battle is long, Sancho. That rooster is ours. No rooster has a comb large enough to match our wit, bravery, and heroism. The ranch must be protected at all cost.” Behind them, three Norwegian rats were eating cattle feed at a trough.
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Pedro Blas González is Professor of Philosophy in Florida. He earned his doctoral degree in Philosophy at DePaul University in 1995. Dr. González has published extensively on leading Spanish philosophers, such as Ortega y Gasset and Unamuno. His books have included Unamuno: A Lyrical Essay, Ortega’s ‘Revolt of the Masses’ and the Triumph of the New Man, Fragments: Essays in Subjectivity, Individuality and Autonomy and Human Existence as Radical Reality: Ortega’s Philosophy of Subjectivity. He also published a translation and introduction of José Ortega y Gasset’s last work to appear in English, “Medio siglo de Filosofia” (1951) in Philosophy Today Vol. 42 Issue 2 (Summer 1998). His most recent book is Philosophical Perspective on Cinema.
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