Date: June 2, 2021
Subject: Katrina Boots (1905-1997)
Source Material: Breadcrumb photo of obituary only, dated November 10, 1997.
Topic: Puss in Boots.
Classification: Literary Fairy Tale. Aarne-Thompson-Uther Index 545B. Subtype of ATU 545 “The Cat as Helper” under Supernatural Helpers under Tales of Magic.
Status: File closed. Insufficient.
Artifacts: None
Postmortem dictation. Transcript amended for style.
Once again, I found myself alone in a basement. This time it was a library basement, so comfortable as basements go, but no less creepy when the silence was disturbed by a nearly imperceptible click. The sound, maybe, of someone trying to close a door without making a sound. Maybe the sound of someone carefully and quietly placing their keys on top of a metal filing cabinet. Then nothing.
In front of me was the face of Katrina Boots, a name that had leapt at me from the database a week before. Next to her photograph was her obituary in a 25 year old newspaper that, like many small town records, is not available online.
“Is that the librarian coming to check on me?” I whispered to Katrina. No footsteps. Nobody calling out. I had that feeling I’ve had so many times since I started going into basements and attics and backrooms to look for dead people. Almost anytime I venture away from my computer to reach those places the internet does not, I feel like I’m not alone. It could simply be part of the work, probably is part of the work, an inevitable consequence for anyone who spends as much time as I do in lonely places reading obituaries.
It was time to go. As alluring as her name might have been, Katrina Boots was a dead-end. Sorry, I’m not a fan of puns, intended or otherwise. Let’s say instead she was a cul-de-sac and I was ready to head back out. Katrina Boots was not a fabled life and did not leave behind a fabled obituary for me to gather up and add to my collection of legends collapsed into 300 words. I took a picture of her obituary anyway because the failures help define the successes and having a record will ensure I don’t retread that ground in the future.
I didn’t see anyone as I moved down the narrow aisle of archival boxes toward the door, but I wasn’t really looking for anyone. I never do when I have the feeling of not being alone in an empty room. No glancing back over my shoulder or peering around corners. Eyes straight ahead, I focused on the door which was the color of avocado under the dismal lighting. One of the fluorescent bulbs started flickering on cue as I passed underneath. Dead people are my hobby. That doesn’t mean I want to meet one. Not that I believe in ghosts, I just like to hedge my bets and sometimes walk a little faster.
For me, Katrina Boots was disappointing, though she seemed like a fine person. She was a schoolteacher, in fact, for over 40 years. She was a mother, grandmother, wife, nonprofit volunteer, marcher on Washington in support of the Equal Rights Amendment in 1979, and runner of marathons well into her 70’s. Reading the summary of her 92 years, there was every reason to believe she was beloved and enjoyed a full and happy life.
Still, even though she did go by “Kat,” she never served as counselor to a powerful person. She was not the secret behind any famous or wealthy person’s success. She was nobody’s Svengali and certainly no one’s Puss in Boots. There was no echo of a fable in her life despite her improbable name and most telling of all, she didn’t die on a Wednesday.
The librarian asked if I found what I was looking for as I passed his desk.
“Yes and no,” I said.
He said something about that being typical of research and smiled like we were sharing a secret handshake. That was good. I can’t have too many librarians and all their unscanned newspapers and microfiche as friends. He seemed so encouraging that for a moment, half a second, I consider telling him about the work. But I know how that conversation would go.
“You know,” I might say, “I was looking for someone whose life was an echo of the Puss in Boots fairy tale and I thought, because of her name, Kat Boots … her name was Katrina though she went by Kat. Well, you can see why I had to take a closer look. I mean, I’ve found others, several. This time I struck out. Kat Boots was just Katrina Boots, a common enough surname. A nice person but not a fabled life that has somehow been made manifest in our world. And she didn’t die on a Wednesday. Would you believe, they always die on Wednesday? What’s up with that?”
Responses to this kind of oversharing range from polite acknowledgement that I’m speaking words to outright hostility because I’m clearly trying to fuck with them for my own amusement.
I thanked him for his help.
Though it’s a long drive, two hours from the town where Kat spent so many years grilling burgers for fundraisers, I decided to visit my old friend, the grave of Pete Phifer. My first find, Pete always reminds me it’s okay to chase a name. At the same time, he remains the fabled obituary I am most uncertain about. But even if I got it wrong with Pete, despite all the weirdness around him, he started it all, got the ball rolling.
fabled obituaries 