What to do with a persnickety feline?

  On my latest “must-do” list, I accomplished two: resupplied meds and bought Fancy Feast canned tuna for Greye, the 14-year old who was born on this hill and is the only one of his litter still living. Oh, how I wish I'd kept a ledger of the cost of the cans of cat food I've thrown out to the other creatures who live on this acre. 

              A little history: Mid-October of last year, he brought the back half of a rabbit to the door wanting inside. Of course, that was not an option. I picked up the late animal and threw it as far south as my left arm could throw. And ever since then, Greye's refused the dry food that he'd been eating all these years: Nine Lives with added nutrition. I finally sacked up the remaining and gave to Roxie W. for her feline.

            Since then, I've had to try something else--many something-elses. At first, he gobbled up cat cannedsalmon. Then, sniffed at it. Later, he gobbled up tuna, then sniffed at it. Cod, whitefish, shrimp, salmon mixture, pate, shreds, gravy, every brand and style that was available. For a while, he scarfed down Fancy Feast's tuna grilled flaked. I bought all the stock the stores around here had. (They didn't restock after a week, boo.)

        Last Sunday morning, I was in the car by 8 a.m. for a quick trip to the close-by dollar store. Greye needed Fancy Feast Grilled Tuna or Flaked tuna. None on the shelves (I’d bought up the last cans last Monday. )Another walk back to the front door with an empty buggy drew questioning eyes from both clerks. “Gotta find something Greye will eat. ‘Bye.”

                On the road to the nearest other dollar store (same brand) about three miles south, I met zero vehicles that early on Sunday. This store didn’t have the food Greye liked, but I bought a box (12) cans of various Fancy Feast fish/ salmon pate, plus three packs of four each tuna push-ups. Plus, litter. Plus a host of other things for myself.

                Face covered with a scarf (I was the only one with such), I checked out. An older man was in line behind me, also with cat food. We chatted about the changing appetites of our pets.

                At home, I pulled down a small plastic bowl, put one can of Fancy Feast in it, stirred it, then added one serving of tuna push-up, rather like a thick gravy. I mixed it and set it down at Greye’s “table.” One look, one smell, and he turned away. Now, what do I do?

              Since then, he's snubbed all the different kinds of Fancy Feast, the shreds of Friskies. All he'll eat are Temptations treats.

             Tonight while making my supper of turkey and Colby cheese on rye, I  tore off  small piece of the cheese and threw it to where he was standing. He actually ate it. When I placed a Ritz-like cracker beside it, he didn't "bite."  Then I thought, 'Wonder if he'll eat part of this sandwich?' So I sliced off an inch slab, placed it in a plastic bowl, smothered it with a push-up pack of tuna-flavored gravy and showed him. 

            Aha! He appeared to be eating, but when I looked, he'd only licked the tuna gravy and left the sandwich. Tomorrow's another trip to the store. Early. With face covering.

           And by the way, I'm way too old to have such a recalcitrant "child" to tend. Anyone want an otherwise sweet old cat?

                 

           c 2020 PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA     

What can we do while sheltering at home?

                 For us without small grandchildren to homeschool, for us without (on purpose) TV, for those of us who prefer quiet to ‘white noise’, how have you spent your ‘shelter at home’ time? Some folks binge watch old or Netflix movies, clean out cabinets, file computer works and hard-copies that probably won’t be read until our descendants happen on them (when and if they go through our stuff ) after we’ve moved on.

                Others have used the time to catch up on reading. Since I ‘shelter at home’ most of the time anyway, nothing much is different other than the cancellation of various groups—Bryant Bunch Lunch, local poets’ meeting, church, Lucidity in Eureka Springs, Spring Celebration of Poets Roundtable of Arkansas, Girls of ’54 breakfast.

                Instead, on days without rain, I’ve worked in the yard trying to tame the spring-growing, ubiquitous privet, rake leaves from the flower beds, trim back the loropetalum, and move the houseplants to the front porch.

                Several folks from church (fifteen miles away in Tull) have checked on me, and a family going by the house who saw me outside wheeled in to see if I needed anything, and my retired-from AR-DOT son came over to mow and weed-eat. He and I stayed six feet apart during the entire morning, which was hard to do but we blew kisses to each other.

                I can tell more folks are on their computers or iPhones; my computer is much slower nowadays, it seems. I completed my MFA assignments on Tuesday before they were due on Sunday, so I began reading David Brook’s The Second Mountain. Greye-the-old-cat climbs up on my throw-covered lap for some close, quiet contact. Now, if I could find something he will eat longer than two days at a time.

                This past Sunday, I did vary my routine a bit. More than a bit, really. First, I slept (and dreamed) until nearly 10 a.m. I brought the local and state papers inside, cleared them of the advertisements, made coffee and checked email, Facebook, national news online.

                I looked through my CDs to find some choral music and found two discs of such. One was “Vivaldi” and the other was Faure’s “Requiem” both performed by my sister’s community chorus, NoVa Lights when she lived in northern Virginia. Then, instead of sitting at the table or on the loveseat, I sat on the sofa by the lamp table and began reading the Perspective section of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I actually read nearly every article, column and letter to the editor, which I usually do NOT do. And by four o’clock I had even begun the BIG PUZZLE, always a difficult one. But it was nap time, so I turned off the music player, set the alarm for 6:30, warmed the heating pad and neckpiece and enjoyed a shortened snooze. Monday, things got back to normal.

              Now that the daffodils have gone, irises are popping up everywhere. My roadside bed is full of early whites and a few blue-purple ones. Later, the nursery stock whites and maroons with dazzle with their large blooms. Azaleas are coming into their fullness and beauty. If we have to stay home, we can enjoy the blooms. And hope the bees flock to the flowers, too.

c2020, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

An update on—and happy birthday to -- Kid Billy

                 On Thursday, March 19, Kid Billy a.k.a. Billy Joe Paulus, turned the ripe old age of 30. Gee-whiz, it seems like only yesterday he was 8 months old and asleep on a woman’s shoulder in a foster home somewhere in rural Clark County--on a 72-hour hold from Human Services.

                Still asleep, he was moved from one shoulder to another—mine—placed in a newly-purchased car seat, and we traveled to Benton in Saline County. We were both unaware of what our future together would bring. 

Seventy-two hours? How about thirty years? His first five years were spent in Benton on West Sevier—across the street from Our Lady of Fatima School. At only $135 a month, the tuition was worth walking him across the street to (the late) Mrs. Debra Cloud’s classroom. He loved Mrs. Debra.

In September after the beginning of first grade, I took a job in Arkadelphia. Before I could secure a house there, I drove back and forth. The Fatima teacher and principal wanted to medicate him for ADHD. I actually asked the teacher (whose son was a problems my in middle school music class) if she wanted me to take him out of school that very day. She backed off and said no, so we were good for a time.

We found the perfect house in Arkadelphia on North 15^th Street with great neighbor-landlords. They had a son a little older than Billy named Jesse. And they had cats.

Sure enough, Dr. Kluck watched Billy for 10 minutes and pronounced him, yes, definitely afflicted with ADHD. He prescribed Ritalin.

But that was then and this is later.

 On the first day of March when he was 23, I watched him sing with both the Henderson Concert Choir and the Chamber Chorale. He stood stock-still for long periods. His hands held the music folder up so that his eyes could flit from score to director without obvious head movement. Focused? I’d say so!

After the concert, he introduced me to the friend who’d asked him to go in with some others and rent a house in town for next term. I wrote out his part of a down-payment (in addition to paying his on-campus apartment rent: what we do for love) on the spot.

                I still give thanks to Dr. Jim Buckner, who offered KB, from Benton High School, a band scholarship to HSU. Thanks also to the former choral director, Dr. Eaves, who accepted KB into the select choral group, and to Dr. Ryan Fox, the choral director, for being supportive friends and excellent—no, superior––choral men. KB was one of only two or three non-music majors in this group. Which made Grandmother extremely proud.

                Even today, two trumpets still lie somewhere in our residence, unused. But KB, after six years as a Reddie, who changed his major three times, and finally quit school, worked at Cracker Barrel in Arkadelphia, then in Bryant, and now in Hot Springs where he lives.

                This “fifth child” of mine is why I don’t volunteer. I think 30 years of raising a grandson, seeing him through low-salary times by paying his car payment and rent occasionally, should be considered my volunteer work.

As well as my passion. Happy birthday, Billy.       

Gifts for the senses and the mind

                Pulling an empty wagon from the burn pile last week, I discovered what I’d missed seeing

this wishy-washy, warm-cold season between winter and spring: both blue and white Johnny-Jump-Ups, or bluets.

                Returning from the mailbox one day, I noticed the irises beginning their ascent through their as-yet-unraked leaf cover. Behind them in concrete blocks that delineate the yard’s edge, spots of pink among the greens caught my eye: thrift was responding to the warmth of the past few days. Soon, pink would overtake the green. 

The jonquils and buttercups are blooming profusely, and on several days when at the mailbox, I would pick a few blossoms, twist off some japonica/ quince nearby, then, when inside, position them Into a water-filled vase. Now, when I sit at the dining table to read or eat, the fragrance assails my senses of sight and smell, and I sigh. Contented, thankful.

When I have time, I’ll purchase and plant a flat of dianthus or pansies along the south border of the old driveway in openings of long-in-place concrete blocks. 

.

I’d like to plant a wildflower garden in the former driveway section that’s closest to the road. This will be the third year I’ve worked toward this project. Trouble is, it’s full of moss, grasses and white-rock gravel.  Two years ago I planted  two rows of irises along the edges and around an oak stump. I’m thinking of digging up some of the daffodils that might be too thick in the north yard and replanting them in front of the irises. If I can dig out the gravel and replace it with soil. I think I can do that myself.

My second MFA online class, Poetry Workshop, has been so much more satisfying than the first class. Each week requires readings about the assigned poem, plus writing a poem. the next-to-last poem was a sonnet. In addition to reading and creating, we have to (workshop requires it) comment on each classmate’s poem. Though there are only seven in the class, the comments by some get to be a little much.

Last week (each Sunday at midnight is the deadline for getting work done), the assignment was a form of poetry so old that Psalm 118 is said to be written (in Hebrew) in that form, an abecedarian. Never heard of such! But I’d written acrostics, a similar pattern, so it wasn’t such a big deal. 

Happy remainder of March to you. 

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

               

In recognition of Leap Day, a four-year-old essay

            February 29, 2016, Leap Day, 9:39 a.m.

              I do not leap out of bed today, even though it’s been twelve hours since I hoisted—by sitting, then pushing myself up into a three-mattress (thanks to Daughter for an extra one) bed. With two sheets of yellowing foam between the top mattress and the mattress pad/cover, it’s even a higher climb/ shove/ push. But no matter, I get in bed and sleep well.

            By 10 a.m., it’s already past 50 degrees—warm enough to continue painting the old breakfast room paneling if I’m so of a mind. But I’m not. I’d rather be outside on this spring-like day. 

With coffee, cell phone, LG tablet, journal, pen and newspaper, I betake myself to the side sitting area that faces east. I must have chosen this spot instead of the usual porch swing, either because the neighbor’s dog was yipping or because the subdivision construction noise was too brutal. 

Picture it: A white molded plastic chair, Mom’s old yellow stepstool for my feet, and a side table—a metal stool-with-handles meant for an aged or disabled person to sit while showering––for a coffee mug and newspaper holder.

Behind me within touching distance is the abelia bush I planted ten years ago to replace the deep concrete-barrow Mom had planted flowers in. Eventually, the wheelbarrow had rusted further and listed till it was an eyesore. I hid it in the very back corner (southwest) under the canopy of honeysuckle, privet and the poor, poor bent-by-vines crape myrtle. An iron monger eventually took it off to the salvage yard along with other derelict pieces around the place.

Amid the abelia, japonica that somehow grew within that bee-loving plant bloomed, but those early blossoms will be gone by the time the abelia’s white trumpet-shaped flowers appear. At the foot of the bush, a clump of oxalis blooms pink and the strappy foliage of surprise lilies emerge. Those bulbs, originally from former neighbor and landlady Sally Sarah Dixon, formerly of Arkadelphia but now of Donaldson, must have been in the barrow bed and were buried in the dirt I dumped out.

Henbit carpets the early spring-like weather, while dead sprigs of Bermuda grass sprinkle the green with tan.

Above, yellow maple branches continue to swell in the balmy winter weather. They’ve seen only one snow this year, and though we know there’s likely more winter ahead, flora does what it’s programmed to do: if it’s warm and sunny, begin growing.

Here’s a poem:

 I look around this extra day and see

 the brown and withered stems and blooms of last

year’s mums. As if to nudge them from their space, 

the iris—nursery stock—demand their place

like siblings: “Mother, make him move—he’s in

my way!” A clump of daffodils shoots up,

the tulips, lilies—also nursery stock—

demand some room. New green of mums slips in

as does henbit. . . . “

Happy Leap Day, 2020.

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

  

What’s better than a siblings/spouses’ potluck lunch?

My Arkansas siblings, summer of 2016

What is so rare as the opportunity of preparing a “pot” for a gathering of one’s siblings for a Sunday lunch?

Let’s see, now. According to Sister Hostess, I’m to bring a vegetable. But before we break the phone connection, I blurt out (I’ve been accused of being blunt; is blurting similar?) “Oh, deviled eggs!” I knew she loved deviled eggs. “But eggs aren’t a vegetable!” I said. That was OK, she assured me.

I boiled the eggs the night before. But what about a vegetable? I DO have a head of cabbage in the fridge. Brother-in-law loves cabbage, so I take down from the back hall shelf (that’s half-filled with cookbooks) Irma Rombauer’s THE JOY OF COOKING, a wedding gift from 1960. I’ll have to be careful—b-i-l will NOT touch any food to his lips that has been cooked in wine.

The old book’s back is loose, the pages are yellow, and now and then I see a notation of a date and occasion for a certain recipe.

I don’t cook much now-a-days, (except this past Christmas) but as long as I breathe, children and grandchildren, do NOT snitch that book from my domicile. You may fight over it afterwards if you wish. Draw straws, perhaps. Or maybe no one will want it, preferring to zap frozen foods in the microwave, order out or eat out. OR, as I’ve begun doing, Googling recipes.

The index of this thick book is a work of art--if details can be construed as art. Under “cabbage,” (page 957) are 27 entries. I mark the index with a paring knife lying nearby and turn to “Boiled, p. 275.

Here is Irma Rombauer’s helpful introduction: “Lemon juice is good added to sauces for the cabbage family. The old way of cooking cabbage is to cut it in sections and boil it for hours. The new way is to shred it finely and barely cook it, allowing only 7 to 8 minutes.”

Decision: whether to cut in chunks (as I’d envisioned) or shred finely, which would take as long to do as it would take to boil the chunks. I opt for the chunks.

(I look away from typing this to see what comes next in the recipe and the accursed cursor moves to the end of the last sentence. I move it back. This happens THREE times! The next time, it moves up into the body of this piece. Grrrr! If it were a child, I’d send it to its room!)

I drop the wedged cabbage into one-half inch of boiling water, cover the pot and cook it for 10 minutes “until tender but crisp.” Drain it, the recipe continues. Arrange the cabbage into a 9 x 13 inch baking dish. Dress it with one stick of melted butter (1 tablespoon per cup of cabbage: I eyeball it) into which I shake some croutons (instead of bread crumbs), 3 shakes of dried parsley flakes (instead of a teaspoon of chopped), the juice from an eighth of a cut lemon and several dashes (to taste) of Greek seasoning (my addition instead of salt).

 I pour the above ingredients over the cabbage, then sprinkle a package of bleu cheese crumbles (my addition, not Irma’s) over the top.

‘Twas a hit with those who liked cabbage. The leftovers I gave to two of them, the hostess and the brother-in-law.

Other delicious foods included smoked pork, black-eyed peas, pasta salad, broccoli salad and homemade rolls from our mother’s recipe. This sibling also brought carrot cake and apple pie.

Now, I ask you, which smells up a kitchen more? Cabbage cooking/cooked or a bowl of vinegar sitting out to “take up” the aroma, ur, odor of cabbage?

I believe I’ll take the cabbage.

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press Benton AR USA

Venison, tuna, and salmon, oh my!

                Not that I want to join a recipe site, but when I attempt something new, I like to share.  Please allow me to tell you how I used the other half of a frozen stick of HOT WITH PEPPER venison sausage, a gift from my hunter son in Hot Springs

                The first half stick I used in a vegetable soup that was so seasoned with the sausage that no salt or pepper was needed. The second half, after thawing of course, I sliced into patties and fried, ala regular sausage.

                Too hot! Too hot! Someone suggested chili. So here’s my “Venison Sausage Chili” (using what’s on hand in the pantry.)

                In a plugged-in crock pot ( wedding gift in 1960) set on “low,” pour in a 15-ounce can of tomato sauce (I don’t remember why I bought this unusual type of tomato). Add a 15-ounce can of beef chili with beans, and a 14.5-ounce can diced tomatoes.

                Sprinkle liberally dried onion flakes (in lieu of an onion) and add eight patties of the sausage, cut into bite-sized pieces. If chili is too thick, add tomato juice. Cover and let “cook” or heat till suppertime.

                By suppertime, with only a taste, the heat tingled my tongue too much. Something else had to be added. Aha! Research said potatoes and dairy would lessen the heat. Luckily, I had a can of potatoes and a can of corn in the pantry. I dumped veggies and liquid into the mix, plus an unused packet of au gratin sauce.

                Now, it’s more of a soup than chili and it’s still hot, but with a cold drink at hand and cheddar cheese chunks added, it is manageable. And it’s lasted quite a while. Alas, I have one more stick of the hot sausage, but I found that Becky likes hot venison sausage. She’s already come by for it.

                Keeping to the subject of meat, I’ve lately read and studied Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to a Large Tuna in a Market” as part of a poetry workshop. Neruda is Chile’s most famous poet. I own his Book of Questions and may order his book of odes. Odes are praises to something or someone and when he saw a lone fish among the vegetables, it struck him oddly enough to write a poem about it. I envisioned a roundish, squatty fish, but no, it was a bullet tuna, long, narrow and dark. And dead. Then appearing as a clue in a crossword puzzle, a 3-letter “bluefin.” The answer? “Ahi” pronounced “ah-hee.”

                My aging cat, Greye, suddenly last fall, refused to eat the dry food he’s eaten all his longish life. One day, he brought the bottom half of a rabbit to the door apparently wanting to bring it inside. NO WAY! I threw the poor animal’s remains as far as I could. From that day to this, Greye will not eat dry food. Whether his mouth and gums were sore from eating the front half of a rabbit, I’ll never know and he’ll never tell, but I decided to try canned food. After several different fish combination cans, he’s settled on Friskies Salmon Dinner. Nothing else.

                Shall I write an ode to canned salmon?

c 2020, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA