Looking Ahead: CHRISTMAS BOOKS for 2017

Iced Holly at Christmas: a new (possible) book if someone would write it.

              In the far-off days before the ease and cheapness of buying books on Amazon—which I now do after I received a gift card for the same amount as my age at the last birthday––I bought, or was presented with, several Christmas-themed books. The seven smallish volumes adorned the coffee table last year and included one I’d found at Dollar General, Agatha Christie’s Star Over Bethlehem. A trade paperback of “Poems and Holiday Stories,” it’s not at all the expected mystery genre. The first poem and the first short stories are all the holiday fare I could discern. Available at Amazon from $4.29 and (way) more.

Politically Correct Holiday Stories—For an Enlightened Yuletide Season by James Finn Garner, 1995, is a ninety-nine-page hardback volume of humor. Retold stories are “’Twas the Night Before Solstice,” “Frosty the Persun (sic) of Snow,” “The Nutcracker,” “Rudolph the Nasally Empowered Reindeer,” and “A Christmas Carol.” Amazon’s prices vary from used (.01) to Kindle ($2.99) to audio/cassette (.49).

A gift from friend Linda in 2007 is an unpaginated hardback with dustcover, Christmas Wishes: inspiring sentiments for the festive season, edited by Tom Burns, 2004. Black and white photos of polar bears and other animals in the snow accompany each sentiment. Examples from the first, the middle and the last follow. “The perfect Christmas is a frozen land full of warmth.” “There’s nothing sadder in this world than to wake up on Christmas morning and not be a child.” “May peace be your gift at Christmas and your blessing all year through!”

The Christmas Box by Richard Paul Evans, 1993, has become to some a classic. Unlike most generic Christmas stories, Evans manages to bypass triviality, imbedding these pages with humble truth and emotion. One-hundred-twenty-five-pages, hardback, dustcover—I have no idea where or when or how I came by this book. Amazon shows over 350 reviews. And since I Googled Amazon, an ad for the book appeared on Facebook--$10-something as the price.

“Creative Questions to Illuminate the Holidays” is the subtitle of Bret Nicholaus and Paul Lowrie’s book, The Christmas Conversation Piece. Hardback, red-spined, the small book contains 302 questions to use for prompts—either written or spoken. The first one is: “In your opinion, what would the ultimate winter wonderland look like?” The 100^th one is: “If you were going to create and market a holiday cologne or perfume, what would you choose for the fragrance?” The 200^th question is: “You have two options for where you can spend Christmas: a ski resort in the mountains or a tropical resort on a Caribbean island. Which would you choose?”

The 300^th one is: “If snow could somehow fall and accumulate in a warm climate, would you enjoy it more?” As with the other books, I have no annotation about where this little book came from. On Amazon, it can be bought for $.01 plus s&h up to $8.99 on Kindle.

John Grisham’s 2001 novel, Skipping Christmas, offers “a hilarious look at the chaos and frenzy that have become part of our holiday tradition,” according to the book jacket. Amazon’s prices range from $1.65 to $14.00. It later appeared on my FB page advertised at $5.68.

Last but not least, is the Hallmark Book’s, The Joy of A PEANUTS CHRISTMAS: 50 years of Holiday Comics.  Hooray, there’s an inscription: “To Billy, March 22, 2003, from Susie Leird, (friend from Benton’s First Christian Church), whose birthday was the same as Billy’s. If you don’t have this book, it’s available at Amazon for one cent!!! Hie thee to Amazon pronto! It’s not too late to begin stocking up now for Christmas, 2017.

Happy New Year. We hope.

A December hodge-podge

Finally, lights on the mantel - 2016

                  How can anyone concentrate on only one thing at a time during December? I know how: when an assignment was due by December 11—a Sunday, no less. But I persevered, and the piece was sent through the ether to Arizona for publication nearer Christmas.

                 How about I mimic the big boys-and-girls and “clean out” the notes in my journal? May I, please?

                On December 4, our Aunt Mary Dirth Scott would have turned 100. Alas, she died a month before that auspicious date. That leaves one daughter-in-law and two sons-in-law living out of Mom’s seven siblings/ spouses. On Dad’s side, no sibling or spouse survives—only their children.

                A month to the day before Christmas, our cousin Jerry, 68, a graduate of the Arkansas School for the Blind, died. He is the eighth male cousin to die on both sides of our families.

                But there are celebrations for the living. Among them, (thank-you-Lord) is my second son, Eric, who turned 54 earlier this month. And a brother-in-law whose birthday was 11^th, and a brother (next oldest to me) whose age will turn over one more number on December 19. And then there’s Jesus’s birthday celebrated on the 25^th.

                December is another prime month for baking goodies. Here is an easy-sounding recipe purloined from Siouxpage’s blog:

              “BROWNIES: *4 giant milk chocolate candy bars (5.29 oz. per); * one family-size brownie mix that fills a 9 x 13 pan. Line pan with parchment paper. Spray w oil. Line bottom of pan with bars being sure every inch of the pan bottom is filled. Make brownie mix as directed, pour over candy. Bake as per the mix. Cut into small squares.”

                Elise R., who owns the Crescent and Basin Park Hotels, also owns War Eagle Mill, but is selling the latter. I met Elise at Dairy Hollow (below the hill from the front of the Crescent) in October.

                WORLD: Every year, 9 million Chinese students compete for 7 million university seats. In 2015, the number of Chinese high school students—more than a quarter who are ‘parachute’ kids (coming alone) --rose from 1200 to 52,000. –from F. Shyong, L.A.Times.

                Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Here is another teacher (besides me) who took her entire class to the principal’s office. This one was in Helena-West Helena, according to E. Besson, AD-G. Mine was a 7^th grade group of boys whom I trotted from the music room behind the stage at Bauxite all the way through the auditorium, and to Mr. ‘Tick’ Bass’s office. The boys behaved better after that.                                                                                                        

                BEST NEWS I’VE READ ALL DAY: “The president cannot literally press a button on his desk and start WWIII. There is no ‘nuclear button.’ – A. Wellerstein, historian of nuclear weapons at the Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken, NJ, appearing in Sunday’s AD-G.

                Thank goodness! Now that the Electoral College has spoken . . . we’ll have to take it one day at a time.

                 

 Daughter Annamarie's pumpkin snowman, 2016

In thrall of/ to Nature

             After an earlier chide from the gas company about my using waaaay more gas for heating than my “efficient” neighbors, I received another letter giving me a “GREAT” and two smiley faces. I had used 80% less gas this month, only two CCF. “Efficient” neighbors averaged ten CCF and “All neighbors” used 19. My rank—out of 100 neighbors—was #6. ( How were they to know I was gone for two weeks during that period? Ha! Joke’s on them). Their suggestions for energy saving: check air filters each month, seal air leaks, be smart about dish washing—only full loads, use air-dry setting, avoid special cycles like ‘rinse only.’

Happy 54^th birthday on December 3 to my second son Eric, a soon-to-retire career highway department employee, who lives in Hot Springs with wife Lisa and daughter Lainee. His son James lives in England AR. Color me proud, proud, proud.

Here are some unusual (to me) facts about weather gathered in one place from my readings over the last few years. Perhaps you will find them interesting, too.

* In January, 2010, the United Kingdom was the coldest in thirty years. The lowest temperature was minus 8.1 degrees Fahrenheit. Norway was the coldest in two decades at minus 44 degrees, F.  [Understatement: “It’s cold. It’s just cold.” ––John Lewis, National Weather Service meteorologist, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, hereafter known as AD-G) article by K. Heard.]

* The “Acqua Alta” phenomenon denotes exceptionally high tides that often flood most of Venice in the winter.

* The 2010 earthquake in Haiti at 7.1 on the Richter scale was the worst in 200 years. [Joe Downey, New York fire battalion chief, describes the earthquake in Haiti as of “a magnitude at least 100 times worse than Katrina. Leonard Pitts, in an AD-G column January 16, 2010, said, “Sometimes, the earth is cruel.”]

* “I’m not going to miss the sight and sound of rain and thunder in February to sit inside a church building and wish I were outside.” – Pat Laster, on a Sunday morning after retirement as the church music director.

* Any time the earth moves under one’s feet, it’s scary.” – Scott Ausbrooks, on Guy’s [Arkansas] several earthquake swarm, October 2010. About 100 earthquakes have been recorded since that September in Faulkner Co (AR)—all near the community of Guy.]

            * Any earthquake less than 43 miles deep is considered shallow.” – Ibid [Unfathomable! That is the distance from Benton to Arkadelphia!]

* “We took on Mother Nature. She threw everything at us but the kitchen sink, from timber, to boats that were sunk, to tree branches,” said George Pavlou, acting regional administrator for the Environmental Protection Agency. “We prevailed in the end.” --AD-G, October 12 2009. [ I doubt that! Perhaps temporarily.]

            * In mid-January 2011, every state but Florida had snow on the ground––even Hawaii.

            * Two phenomena caused the extremes of weather during winter 2011: La Nina and a large high pressure system over Greenland.

            * On February 28, 2011, I actually felt the 4.7 magnitude earthquake, one of the Greenbrier-Guy swarm. First, my recliner shivered, then the strangest sound began, centered in the dining room. By the time I arose, the sound was dying, and I could see the gentle shaking of the dishes in the china cabinets.

            *April 2011 was the deadliest tornado outbreak since March 1932 that killed 332.

            *The Mississippi River crested at 59.2 feet in Arkansas City on April 21, 1927 and in Helena, 60.2 feet on February 21, 1937.

            * Sand boils . . . can cause cavities to form in levees, especially if the pressure on both sides is not the same. Sand boils with sediment seeping is NOT good. Clear seepage is okay.

            *One definition of tornado: “indifferent destruction of the wind.” – S. McCrummen

            I am in complete thrall to/of Nature. We are forecast to be hit with frigid temps from a polar vortex very, very soon. So glad that good neighbors/ friends lit the pilot lights here.

IT'S ADVENT ALREADY!

WHAT WAS MARY TO THINK? WHAT WOULD YOU THINK

“If I had been the Virgin Mary I would have said ‘No.’” – Margaret “Stevie” Smith (1902-1971)

 

No!

Get out of my dreams!

I am betrothed

but he has not forced

himself on me nor asked

me to lie with him.

What would he think

if I told him an angel

came in a dream

and asked me to make

a baby without him?

Oh, no. My parents would send

me away and the neighbors

might flog me. Oh, no, I don’t

even know how this “holy spirit”

 thing would get inside me.

Besides, I’m a sinner; I think

unholy things and sometimes

act on them. I wish, oh how I wish

I knew why

this angel chose me.

I dare not tell Mother.

I’ll visit Aunt Elizabeth

and see what she makes of it:

What does” highly favored” mean?

“Oh, child, if you have the same dream

tonight, be sure and respond willingly.

God has something good in mind.”

So I screwed up my courage

and prayed to Jehovah for guidance.

Sure enough, the angel came back.

“For you are highly favored by God

and you are on earth most blest.

 “Fear not, for God is with you

And you shall bear a child.

His name shall be called Jesus,

God’s offspring from on high.

And he shall reign forever.”

But I'm not yet a wife!

The angel had an answer:

“The power of the Most High

will come upon you soon.

Your child will be God’s child.”

Again, I wondered at his words,

remembered Aunt Elizabeth’s

advice and answered.

I am your lowly handmaid.

So be it, I am ready,

according to your word.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 [--Parts of this poem are adapted from Gracia Grindal’s hymn “To A Maid Engaged to Joseph"]

c 2016 PL

Before Christmas sets in, one more "thanksgiving" list

                A poet friend in Mountain Home has shared on Facebook all during this month a daily “Gratitude” event/ situation/ epiphany.

I wrote a poem some time ago about being thankful for things beginning with each letter of the alphabet. Let me do the same thing for today’s world/ nation/ state/ county/ community/ home.

A – America, of course, the first word that comes to mind. Even with the recent “-phobias” planted and reaped by the presidential campaign, Americans must act out of a love for country and all who dwell therein.
B – Bees, for without them, experts say, our food supply may dwindle into nothing we’ve even thought about.
C – Coffee and all things related to growing, picking, packing and shipping. I think I need it daily.
D – Dictionaries, one of which I turn to a page per letter skimming until I find something I’m thankful for. I’m thankful to BBF Dot for giving me the one I’m using now.
E – Environment: air, water, earth, climate. May we be thankful enough to guard it wisely.
F – Flowers, easy to grow, pleasing to the eye and to the environment, examples of dying only to live again in another time.
G – Good Samaritans who see needs and attends to them with no thought of recompense.
H – Hope—sometimes the only thing that seems to be left in certain situations of illness, death, destruction, obstruction.
I – Introspection, looking inward, naming emotions, wondering about things.
J – Jocularity—joking; full of fun – A phrase often used by our choir director, as in “Too much jocularity!” when we get off task.
K – kinfolk or kinfolks—cherished family, relatives, special friends--especially during Thanksgiving.
L – Linemen who keep our electricity flowing during stints of bad weather.
M – Microwaves, which save time and effort. I parch raw peanuts in mine, one layer deep, using a Pampered Chef baker (dish) for four minutes and 15 seconds.
N – Nature, in all its meanings, especially the physical universe and its forces.
O – Oxygen, especially bottled oxygen for those with breathing issues, like JaJo and Bill.
P – Police officers, including a grandson. Oh, Lord, keep watch over them during these tumultuous days.
Q – Quests: may we always be on one or another.
R – Renewal—in all ways possible: personal, national, natural resources, recycling.
S – Seasons of the year: spring, summer, fall, winter, each with its own story and glory.
T – Traditions, such as Thanksgiving get-togethers and the first day of Christmas sales.U – Unity—something to strive toward in matters of importance
V – Vision to see beyond our own narrow interests to those of the larger community.
W -- Writers, poets and philosophers who share their experiences with the rest of us.
X – X-rays. They might discover problems that can be treated.
Y – Yesterdays and the thoughts thereof that sometimes force us into something better.
Z – Zinnias, those colorful annuals that defy death until the deadliest freeze.

Happy Thanksgiving. Giving thanks happily. Thanks for giving happily.

               

What if?

   Let’s relax a little from all the turmoil and emotions surrounding both the election and memories of Veterans Day.

What if . . . President-Elect Trump, after the first week in office, decided he really didn’t want the job, the position, the restrictions of the office, the constrictions of expectations, to have to live in the White House EVERY day, so he resigned? Vice-President Pence became Mr. President and what if he soon nominated Mr. Trump to the Supreme Court?

Okay, I thought that up while waiting for the sandman. Don’t expect any more prognostications like this from me. So, I go looking for other “what ifs.” I e-mail my California brother if he has any; he’ll get back to me, he says. And he did: “[Once] while sitting in a darkened concert hall listening to the philharmonic playing a Brahms symphony, I noticed in the violins what looked like Mom.  My mind began to wonder ‘what if’ instead of marriage and family for her, she had pursued a creative career?” I’ve lately wondered about too.

Robert Byrne’s The 2,548 Best Things Anybody Ever Said fit the bill, when I add “What if” to the quotes he gives. Here are a few:

(What) “[i]f I had been present at creation [?] I would have given some useful hints.” –Alfonso the Wise (1221-1284)

(What if) “[m]an is a god in ruins[?]” – Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

(What) [i]f I had been the Virgin Mary [?] I would have said ‘No.’” – Margaret “Stevie” Smith (1902-1971)

(What if) “[l]iving with a saint is more grueling than being one[?]” –Robert Neville

(What if), “[u]nder certain circumstances, profanity provided a relief denied even to prayer[?]”—Mark Twain (1835—1910)

(What if) “[life is like an overlong drama through which we sit being nagged by the vague memories of having read the reviews[?]” – John Updike

(What if) “[t]here is more to life than increasing its speed[?]” – Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)

(What if) [d]eath is nature’s way of saying ‘Howdy’” [?] – Unknown

(What if) “[f]or three days after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow, but phone calls taper off[?]” – Johnny Carson

(What if) “[t]he writing of more than 75 poems in any fiscal year should be punishable by a fine of $500[?]” – Ed Sanders

(What if) “[t]he human mind treat[ed] a new idea the way the body treats a strange protein; it rejects it[?]” –Biologist P. B. Medawar (1915—1985)

(What if) [w]it is educated insolence[?]”— Aristotle (384—322 B. C.)

(What if) “[l]ike all self-made men, he worships his creator[?]” – Unknown

(What if) “[a] vegetarian is a person who won’t eat anything that can have children[?]” – David Brenner

(What if) “[t]he reason husbands and wives do not understand each other is because they belong to different sexes[?]” – Dorothy Dix (1870 – 1951)

(What if) “[t]he reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy[?]”—Sam Levenson (1911 – 1980)

(What if) “[l]ove is a grave mental disease[?]” – Plato (427? – 348? B.C.)

(What if) “[a]n archeologist is the best husband a woman can have[?] [T]he older she gets, the more interested he is in her.” – Agatha Christie (1891-1976), who was married to one

(What if) “[i]t is better to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life[?]” – Irish proverb)

OKAY, that’s enough levity for one reading. But there’s more where these came from.

c 2016 by PL d.b.a. lovepat press 

Veterans Day week's celebrations

                Only poetry sufficed for me as we celebrated Veteran’s Day again. I pulled down an anthology of poems for men, The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart, that my son had given me for Christmas sixteen years ago. Section three was titled “War.”

                I read through all those poems and decided on “Naming of Parts” from LESSONS OF THE WAR by Henry Reed. The poem seems to be saying, “Look, fellows, even though it’s spring and we’d rather be anyplace else but here, we have our instructions. We have our duties. We are preparing for war.”

NAMING OF PARTS – Henry Reed             

“Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday, / We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning, / We shall have what to do after firing. But today, / Today we have naming of parts. Japonica/ Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens, / And today we have naming of parts. //

                “This is the lower sling swivel. And this/ Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see, / When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel, / Which in your case you have not got. The branches/ Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures, / Which in our case we have not got. //

                “This is the safety-catch, which is always released/ With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me/ See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy/ If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms/ Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see/ Any of them using their finger. //

                “And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this/ Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it/ Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this/ Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards/ The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers: They call it easing the Spring. //

                “They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly Way/ If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt, / And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of/ balance. / Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom/ Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and/ forwards/ For today we have naming of parts. ///

                Henry Reed was born in February 1914 and died December 1986. He was a British poet, translator, radio dramatist and journalist. He was called up to the Army in 1941, spending most of the war as a Japanese translator. Although he had studied French and Italian at university and taught himself Greek at school, Reed did not take to Japanese, perhaps because he had learned an almost entirely military vocabulary.            

Reed's most famous poetry is Lessons of the War, a collection of poems that are witty parodies of British army basic training during World War II, which suffered from a lack of equipment at that time.

Once again in the mountains –no, in the valleys, she said

Mailbox at 505, the Usonian house that's now part of the campus

                Last week was my bi-annual trip/ trek to Eureka Springs for two reasons: one, a poetry sub-group meeting and a chance to continue work on my latest book, a memoir, “When I Had Another Name” or “Edging Past Eighty.”

                The Wednesday night dinner--a gourmet meal--included lentil soup, curly endive salad, mashed potatoes, ham slices, baked Brussel sprouts and a sweet potato-squash-mushroom galette. Dessert was pear torte.

                Five writers and one Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow board member partook of the food and—uncharacteristically for me, at least—sat around the table until 8:00 discussing subjects de jour.

                Elise was the board member. She owns both Basin Park and Crescent hotels. She sponsored one of the scholarships that Alia, from Richmond, Virginia, received and who was in residence. Elise’s the one who told us the geographical history of Eureka Springs. It used to be an ocean, she said. When the water receded, it took the soluble rocks with it leaving terrain characterized by barren, rocky ground, caves, sinkholes, underground rivers, and the absence of surface streams.

            The other writers’ homes spanned the width of the country: from San Francisco through Cincinnati, and to New York. I was the lone Arkansan. But I added my two-cents worth to the conversations, believe me (to quote a man-too-much-in-the-news). Being the eldest of the group didn’t stop me. The next-eldest told us she was the same age as Hillary.

                Thursday was spent in my suite revising the latest submission from the writers group at home––the third section of the memoir that takes me through junior high school. I also read some from the book I brought with me, Hemingway vs. Fitzgerald. And I napped.

                Thursday night was the monthly meeting of Poetluck—a potluck meal followed by readings from the Colony residents first, then from the local and area attendees. One unusual “pot” was purple sweet potatoes brought by a couple who live on Bohannon Mountain in Marshall and who grew them on their acreage. I read “Ash Wednesday” from Hiding Myself Into Safety. Later, someone asked me if I were a preacher.

                Friday noon, friend Vicki picked me up. In her VW, we crawled through the busyness of downtown out to Hwy 62 to La Familia. We had a great, needed catch-up meeting over lunch.

By Friday night, Anne Marie from near St. Louis, had joined the group. Baked chicken with roasted cut fennel bulbs, green salad, rice, and a medley of veggies comprised the meal. Dessert was tea cookies. We sat around the table afterwards, discussing various topics until 8:30!

Saturday morning, a Facebook friend, Dan, from a town nearby, dropped by for a first-ever, face-to-face visit. And eventually coffee in 505, since I didn’t have sense enough to figure out how to program the high-falutin’ coffee machine in the Main House. Dan writes a column in the Eureka Springs Independent, so I asked him to autograph my copy. We had a great time. First time I’d ever hugged a man whom I’d never seen before!

At 80, how many more ops to hug handsome men will I have? Huh? Huh?

               

               

               

"Do You Cook?" someone asked

This is an example of "not much" when asked about my cooking

One early-autumn day, you open the canned-goods-door of the cupboard and spy a package of taco seasoning. Aha, you think, I haven’t had Mexican food in ages. Reading the back of the packet, you see that it calls for a pound of ground beef. Hmm, you wonder, what’s in the freezer? You used to have turkey, salmon and Angus burgers. Let’s see.

                Aha! You pull out one burger—four ounces. Need 3 more for a pound. You scrabble, search for and find two salmon burgers (not as tasty on a bun as you’d hoped), but no turkey meat. That left four more ounces to make a pound.

                Another look in the pantry and you decide the can of chili-with-beans is just the ticket. So you pull out the medium-sized Teflon-coated skillet and a grease screen to cover the three frozen patties. You turn the heat to 5-6.

                After you’re sure the meat is fully cooked, you take two wooden paddles an inch-and-a-half wide, and tear the meat into chunks as small as possible. You decide that the bite-sized texture will be as tasty as that of ground meat.

                You drain the meat on paper towels--not a lot since salmon has no fat to speak of—then return meat to the skillet. You add the cup of water and the taco mix.

                Then, to the ongoing grocery list, you add “taco shells.”

                You stir the concoction and let it simmer for five minutes. Add the chili and simmer until it heats.

Done. Aroma is strongly Mexican. Or Tex-Mex. You’re not up on the difference and don’t care. Or that taco shells aren’t available. You ponder: AHA! Scoops! Frito Pie! You haven’t had Frito pie since you lived in Arkadelphia more than a decade ago.

You line a wide bowl with chips, add some meat, some salad mix, the last of the sour cream and a few grape tomatoes, sprinkle chili powder, Greek seasoning on top and take it to the table.

Not as scrumptious as anticipated, but you eat the WHOLE thing!

You wonder if this experience would answer whoever asked the question, “Do you cook?” Your reply was, “No, not much.” This experience, you think, is in the “not much” category.

Quite a bit of meat mixture remained, so you pour the contents from the skillet into a clear casserole dish to cool.

The following night, you decide to turn the taco mixture into soup. You open a can of tomatoes and stir them into the dish. You add some hamburger seasoning and onion flakes. Remembering the several large soup mugs in the cupboard over the stove, you pull one down. You spoon enough of the new “food” into it, cover it with a saucer and zap it until it steams. But it isn’t soupy enough, you decide. What to thin it with? AHA! Bloody Mary mix! You think it adds just the right spark. Fritos serve as your “crackers.”

The next night, you add a can of corn and a can of black-eyed peas. After that, who knows what you’ll do to it.

No telling.

Rabies shot, a former teacher and a vet: what we learned

Greye in the backyard, last year

                The three characters in this tale are Greye, the 10-year-old (guesstimated) domestic longhair; this blogger, and Doctor R.

                Greye hadn’t been to the vet since his last rabies shot--good for three years. He’s the only cat who’s stuck with me (and I with him) all these years.  Many others have come up and then disappeared, even though I had them “fixed,” fed, watered, and litter-boxed—some for several years. No matter.) Even though Greye’s not a lap cat, he begs for a hairbrushing under his chin, at the sides of his face and down his back. Which I will do—at least once a day. The only sound he ever makes is a quiet, but sometimes persistent “meow.”

                Today was different. I retrieved him from his carpeted lookout at the attic window, carried him firmly down the stairs and placed him in my jury-rigged pet carrier: a molded blue plastic storage box (towel on the bottom) covered by a plastic screen that comes with some litter boxes. This one fit perfectly over the rim of said box. A short bungee cord fastened low on the narrower ends secured the lid—and feline.

                Oh, my goodness, you’d a thought I was strangling him; or that he was preparing to attack me. His growls were feral, primal, low in his throat, loud. I ignored them. At the vet’s, the receptionist, hearing one howl, sent us scurrying into an exam room. “Shut the door,” she said.

                Greye settled down somewhat. I began the daily paper’s cryptoquote, anticipating a wait at some point.

                Pretty soon, in came the doctor, whom I’d never seen, since Dr. P. --being a former neighbor-- was my vet-of-choice. But today was Dr. P’s day off. Dr. R and I shook hands, and I handed Greye up to the table. A 12-year-old-looking assistant came in and held the cat, so I sat down. First, his rabies shot. Then his ears, eyes, mouth, teeth got a look-see, followed by a dose of de-wormer.

When the girl took Greye out to be weighed, Dr. R. asked me about, well, about me. I told him I had taught music at this-and-that school in Benton, and when I mentioned Eastside Junior High, he looked pensive, and said, no, it wasn’t me who was there when he went through Eastside. “Let’s see, who was the music teacher?” He looked at the wall, as if pulling information from way back in his memory. “Oh, it was Mrs. Paulus!”

                “That’s me!” I said. “I’ve had as many name changes as Michael Jackson had face lifts,” I said.

                “I remember that name,” he went on, “because I’d never heard a name like that before.”

                “Mr. Weed (Mike, former principal at ESJH) still calls me “Ms. Paulus,” I said.

                Now, for what I learned. “Are fleas a problem?” the doctor asked after the aide brought Greye back and he’d noted his weight.

                “He does scratch quite a bit; do the Advantage treatment, please.”

                The doctor ran his hands down Greye’s back and laid a bit of cat hair on the table. “Let me show you something that’ll tell us whether he does or not.” He laid a paper towel over the hair, sprayed it with water (?) and said, “Let that soak in a minute or two.” He proclaimed Greye extremely healthy and said whatever I was feeding him was fine.

                Then he lifted the paper towel and turned it over. He pointed out teeny red pricks here and there among the hair. “That’s flea poop,” he said. While the aide applied the Advantage Multi, the doctor and I said our goodbyes and he left the room.

                We all learned something and had a grand time doing it.

                Well, except for Greye.

Greye, left, several years ago

New computer advantage: ask Cortana anything

 All right, Cortana, what to add to cottage cheese for a complete meal? Of course, all Cortana does is—in the blink of an eye—sent me to websites with “cottage cheese” in the title. I clicked on the first one. It’s always the best, right? Wrong. I clicked on the X and lost the list, so I asked her if she could go back to the last question. She couldn’t. Ha-ha-ha-hah. So I had to re-enter the question. This time, I clicked on the third entry, a cutesy blog that at least gave me some sensible choices. I chose one: crumbled graham crackers & a bit of pumpkin spice?

Let’s try that. I had a glass canister of graham crackers at one end of my row of snacks lining the counter. Pumpkin pie spice I found easily in the shelves of spices that I rarely use. Crumble, crumble, shake, shake, stir, stir.

As our present choir director said after he heard our choir sing (before he was hired, I believe), “Not bad!” (We’ve never, ever let him live that down, even though he meant it in a good way.)

This concoction wasn’t half bad! Just a hint of sweetness from the crackers and, of course, the “autumn” flavor of the spice added a nice touch. Thank you, Cortana.

And just WHO is Cortana? I asked Cortana that question. Well, I put her/it in the Microsoft Edge Search and cut-and-pasted the answers, which even I didn’t know. Cortana is rather like Siri, the voice that directs you in GPS machines.

Cortana is an intelligent personal assistant created by Microsoft for Windows 10, Windows 10 Mobile, Windows Phone 8.1, Microsoft Band, Xbox One, iOS and Android.

Cortana is NOT a she. But it can do these things: translate languages, keep you moving with current traffic info, track a flight, text from your PC (Good news to me, I think.). It can track your teams and scores, set quiet hours, screen your calls and messages. You can tell Cortana who may break through your set quiet hours.

She/It will play your music, remind you about things based on time, send reminders based on your location, remind you of things when people contact you.

Cortana is good at math; it can find facts for you, convert weights, measurements, and currencies, contact a business quickly and help manage your calendar.

Just think, until I had to buy a new PC, in which Windows 10 was pre-installed, I would have been ignorant of this new ‘bot’ that supposedly can make my life easier.

But what it can’t do is write in information on the Master copy of National Poetry Day in Arkansas Celebration winners’ list. Nor can it design and create a template for certificates for said event.

I thought I’d ask Cortana a question I’ve been lightly pondering after using up the bag of salad greens: Is spinach dip considered a green vegetable? She/It evaded the question by giving me a list of spinach information and recipes for making spinach dip.

So I asked another: Are pickles considered a green vegetable? She/It did find an answer: Cucumbers have relatively little nutritional value, and with the salt or sugar added, probably not. Drat!

But thank you anyway, Cortana.

Fleas that neither bite nor jump—but are apt to take over your house

While sisters take a boat ride, a storm forms

           Think of “On Top of Old Smoky” and sing along: “There’s fleas in my cupboard/ and fleas in the drawer. / There’s fleas in the bathroom/ a dozen or more.”

            I could go on and on about all the places in this house where wonderful bargains rest; bargains from various flea markets, antique stores, second-hand and consignment shops. Oh, and thrift stores.

            One year, my sisters and I spent a week headquartered in Horseshoe Bend, and those of us who were not flea marketers became so. Ash Flat, Highland, Hardy, Salem, Mountain Home, Viola, Gepp (pronounced Jeep)—no place that even looked like a resale business escaped our perusal.

            We four eventually honed in on each other’s search/ missions: Bev looked for large art deco vases for silk flower arrangements and hammered-aluminum pieces for her elder daughter who lived out of state. Carolyn searched for Fostoria crystal—American pattern—especially the lid to a mustard jar. She also kept her eyes peeled for bunko gifts.

I looked for frosted glass and Avon Cape Cod pieces to add to my collection. Barb wanted Tom and Jerry sports-motif glasses for her son and cream pitchers for herself. Not just any cream pitchers, mind you, but thick ironstone ones shaped like the one our mother had for as long as we could remember, but which she had already given to her youngest son. (Sons should inherit things, too, even while parents live.)

Each sister also developed a certain style of shopping. Bev walked ahead, eagle-eyeing right and left; Carolyn and Barb took a little more time, and I lagged behind, looking carefully at each object, especially books. It got to be a joke. At one large house crammed with everything a dozen neighbors could have emptied there, the other girls wouldn’t let me go upstairs. “You don’t even want to see it!” they said, guiding me to the register. I held a dirty Hires Root Beer bottle and a frosted glass candlestick.

Another year during a stay in Hot Springs, we began our flea search at Central City and ended up at the Hot Springs Flea Market, where three trips were still not enough to see everything.

So, what fleas are in my cupboard? Two stained-glass-motif drinking glasses, two faceted, frosted-glass mugs, a crystal fruit dish with berry-shaped feet, a Fostoria footed glass—larger than a juice but smaller than a tea; and a frosted-glass candy dish.

Fleas in the drawer include a sterling silver child’s spoon and a William Rogers butter knife and sugar shell.

In the bathroom are pink vases, candleholders, soaps and an old, ivory plate with pink roses.

No, the fleas in my house do not bite or jump. But the items not only bring me pleasure—both for their beauty and for the bargains they represent—but also evoke (elicit) memories of childhood when we girls played “playhouse” for hours with broken, castoff pieces from Grandma’s kitchen and attic.

 And today, alas, it seems time to begin thinning out all those fleas while I can. Or else, when the time comes, my children will have to do it.

Barb and the boat driver taking us to shore quickly 

Elephants, fleas and good memories (with emphasis on the final syllable

Barb, Carolyn, Bev, Pat on one of our annual sisters' trips

               You remember “Golden Girls,” right? And how Sophia often said, “Picture it: Sicily, 1925.” Well, one year--two-ought-ought-three, to be exact—we four Couch sisters, two of whom were 50-something and two who were in our 60s, settled into a time-share condo shared by the out-of-state sister.

                No husbands, brothers, children or grandchildren allowed. Or parents. One husband always got knots in his knickers every year when this trip was planned. “It’s just not right for you to go off without me,” he whined to his wife, but she pulled her five-foot-five frame up to his chin, locked her wide eyes onto his and said, “I’m going!” Sixty-somethings with strong sisterly ties can do this.

                Before the trip, the host sis had sent the rest of us an email: “Let’s do a white elephant exchange. Bring the grossest, most ridiculous, silliest thing you can find. Wrap it in brown paper.”

                When we were ready to exchange, the brown blobs were arranged on the coffee table. The eldest got to go first. That was moi. I selected what turned out to be a nine-inch tall, cone-shaped candle of the art deco style (I suppose), where various brown shades of wax were mixed together, shaped, then while still warm, sliced downward all around the candle. Like fondue pots, this candle had enjoyed limited popularity. Barb said she’d hidden it in the cupboard over her fridge for many years, just waiting for the perfect . . . uh, event.

                Next to draw was the youngest sis, wife of the Pulaski County judge (at that time). She chose my elephant—heavy and round. (Aren’t elephants always heavy and round?) Like a child, I could hardly contain my glee. Her new hobby was flower arranging, and when she peeled the paper back, she found a brown glazed clay pot with an unfinished neck, strings of unglazed clay fired onto the bottom, willy- nilly. I would imagine that art student got an F for his work.

                Let me digress to tell why I had the ugly, deformed piece. While living in Arkadelphia, I tried to walk Feaster Trail daily after taking Billy to school. One spring when the wildflowers were in bloom, I was drawn to the Mill Creek bank on the southwestern edge of Henderson State University’s campus. I noticed what appeared to be an art studio dump—pieces begun but broken, perhaps abandoned after grades were posted. I picked out several things to decorate my own flower garden. They didn’t have to be whole, just interesting. At home, I laid the round pot on its side so it couldn’t catch and hold water. It was truly the grossest elephant I had. We shall see what Sis does with it.

                Barb unwrapped a low-slung rabbit with grapes on its head and ears like Dumbo’s. “A bunko prize,” Teacher-sis explained. It elicited much amusement. Then she had to take the final elephant. From a lunch bag, she drew out a small, pink, unopened square package and held it out for all to see. Such raucous, tears-inducing laughter you’ve never heard from four women who were thankful they’d out-grown the need for that “gross, ridiculous, silly” feminine hygiene product.

                Next time: fleas.