Plums on a Tree

I eat dried plums. Shrek is re-bonding with me after a day of medication. I'll see how his attitude is after he has his anti-kitten-evil liquid today.

I don't need chocolate with dried plums in my life.

The dog is weary, and misses spending time with me. I am consumed by kittenhood, and caffeine. Unusual for her, Georgia takes refuge on my bed. She never does that, but I suppose she has come to worship being spayed, after our experiences recently. 3 o'clock kitten break is over, and it's time to sleep again.

The kitten chow is gone. I caught Max munching on it yesterday, the last mouthfuls out of the bag. I suppose he thinks as he is doing the cats' job, he should get the cats' food. The apartment is full now of sleeping cats and kittens and one lone dog.

I catch myself mowing the lawn, and wonder where the winter has gone, although a good breeze yesterday reminded me of March.

I ran into Selma* yesterday, at Angels of Assisi. She has taken in 3500 cats in her life, and spayed, neutered, and rehomed them all. But, as with everything else, expansion, globalization, commercialization, has changed her life. She is desperate for foster parents, but the 'big' organizations can advertise, and have enticed all her fosters away.

I wish I had run into her a month ago. This is my last batch. The unicorn meat eating cats are just too disconcerted by the smallness of the apartment, the bigness of the adventure in the New Adventurers, and my lack of control over all the chaos.

Hurricanes of pollen float over the land, and despite my allergies, I am ecstatic with it. This is Spring. My heart goes out to Selma, and everyone like her...especially the volunteers and employees at the local pound. Having to euthanize kittens in Springtime is a horrible way to live. Please spay and neuter your pets, gentle readers.

This is all so light and dark as Spring. Because life means death, and death means life. Where there is one there is the other. We have found no place where this is not true. The raw, wet wind whips over many hills before it gets to my door. There is no death, only in our dreams.

My hands are chapped and rough always at this time of year. My mother would have insisted on the first, spring, mani/pedi now, with lovely colors, but I am busy without her, raking leaves, and turning the pond back into a pool. I bleach my hands and pour the kittens food, change the litter boxes, clean the water dish. I make sure everyone in the house has lots and lots of fresh, clean water.

I dump the old dirt out of the pots onto the ground, and dry the pots for new. I dream of the new plants that will go into the ground this year. I am one for hostas and perennials. Impatiens for sure, by the back door with the hydrangea, and the evergreen bush. And somewhere, for my mother, a geranium. Scarlet red, with yellow and green leaves.

Thursday is the day I talk to a neurologist about my head. It seems to be the loci of all my existence now. I have finally found an anti-Evil pill to help me, and these head lumps and head aches appear. Places that feel frozen on my scalp have emerged. I feel sure it is something benign, but prepare for something else, just in case. I am not occupied by death, but by my life.

And the consumption of fiber. Dried plums, prunes, have just loads of it, as common knowledge goes. For some insane reason, they fill me up now, as bananas do not, anymore. It has to do with the anti-Evil pill...I thought that fruit sugar, is fruit sugar, but it is not.

My all time favorite is stewed plums. My grandfather made these standing over the stove in the early, North Carolina morning, the only time in the day it was bearable to have the stove on. He got them from Uncle Mortimer's pasture, braving the cows and the innumerable children swarming over the trees, like bees. Flash forward several decades to the immaculate dining room at The Homestead, where a colleague and I were staying for work. Simply acres of space with table laden with white linen and china, spotless cutlery, and sparkling glass. Clean, friendly waiters whipped from table to table, carrying pitchers of orange juice, and hot coffee.

There are too many foods at their famous breakfast to list here, but The Homestead is the only place besides my grandfather's house where I have seen stewed plums, floating in vats of their brine.

This morning, I sip coffee, water, and eat my dried plums. The kittens, exhausted, are sleeping. So is the dog and the unicorn meat eating cats. I think it's time to lie down for a bit more.