Cold comfort foods

Whoever wrote the food blog on retro foods from the 1950s and 60s, is a either candidate for the moronic twitdom hall of fame, or not a very adventurous nosher. Clearly she hasn’t tried most of the food she was bashing. She is no Anthony Bourdain, with skills to survive the 50s and 60s suburban culinary era, she’s more like from the fish sticks eating school. 

Admittedly a few of the weird concoctions the unnamed author cited were short term fads and most people did not make, nor did they like hot mulled Dr. Pepper, etc., and to this day, thanks to my aunt, I hate sweet potatoes with orange juice, brown sugar, and marshmallows, but most of the fare tasted good. 

We get that the myopic food writer doesn’t like Miracle Whip, she’s probably in good company there, besides, most people avoided Miracle Whip and Cool Whip, for the real deal, but most of the salads she objects to don’t have lettuce…

Clearly she doesn’t understand what a salad is. She writes, “We’ve put quotation marks on the word salad because we don’t consider this a salad. Salad to us means greens…” Can I say say tuna salad, egg salad, potato salad, carrot salad, Waldorf salad, bread salad, tabouli salad? The word salad come from the Latin and means any cold vegetable with salt.

She seriously has it out for anything with Jello, like ambrosia. My granny made some seriously wikkid jello-based salads. Nor does she grok the long history of aspic—that dates back to the middle ages. But picking on stuffed celery was just plain ridiculous. 

And bashing green bean casserole, cornbread, for no real reason, other than looks, and sweet potato pie because it’s—get this—not pumpkin pie? Someone please tell her most canned pumpkin pie filling is made from various winter squashes, like Hubbard, and not even pumpkin? 

All these comfort foods are part and parcel of the traditional Thanksgiving ritual.  I bet she didn’t even eat pitted black olive puppets from her fingers when she was a child either. 

DELUGE

DELUGE

The deluge, an afterthought,
thunderous applause to a ferocious future 

where the weather is a tyrant 

that squeezes and swallows us, 

until there is nowhere left to go.

11/24/21

Terri Glass’ Write On ~ a Generative Poetry Gathering

RACING HEART

RACING HEART

I drove my friend into town, 

we passed two escaped horses, 

massive Clydesdales, a black and a gray, 

tasting their freedom as they galloped 

along the road back and forth, 

back and forth, blocking traffic, 

everyone chasing them, 

as my friend’s racing heart, 

pounded systole, diastole, 

as we headed toward

the emergency room.

11/23/21

I curse you, Robert Bly

It’s interesting when the real personality emerges from behind the hero’s carefully constructed persona or façade. I mentally spit on the thought of Robert Bly‘s grave whenever he is mentioned. He was a poet I admired until he let the social veil slip and attacked me in public. I had produced a big poetry reading event honoring a Calliopea Press art book for his Rilke sonnet translations at Sonoma State. Since I was a singularity, I worked like a dogsbody navigating the bureaucracy to rent the room, raising the speaker fee, setting up the stage, I did mike and sound check, placed chairs, was emcee, etc., and at the end, I politely asked him to autograph my hard-earned copy of the hand-letter-press book, with a gorgeous embossed imprint of a purple iris on the cream cover. I guess he was done with his Mr. Nice face. He ripped me a new one in public and refused to sign my copy. Not a clue as to why. Carol Denison, the broadside artist and pressowner, who witnessed the tirade, was equally mortified, and gave me her signed copy. I was completely humiliated and devastated, not to mention exhausted. I am not one to cry, but that evening he made me cry, and that is unforgivable. I have never been able to even read the book. I heard the book is worth a bomb. I need to sell it to exorcise the bad juju. To this day, I curse him. That night, I got to see the real Bly, mysogenist and ogre that he was, in his dandified cravat and knitted vest. Iron John, my ass.

ok, I confess this was from a fragment I never finished, so I posted it on the day of his death tho it was written in situ 7/21/22.

Remembering Pearlie May Timberlake

Pearlie May Timberlake was my best friend in school before the Jehovah’s Witnesses got a grip on her and eventually made her shun me. 

Pearlie May was born in Louisiana, a bayou girl, supposedly adopted by her blonde-haired blue-eyed mother, who was also from Louisiana. But things didn’t quite add up. For example, why did she retain her last name if she was adopted? There seems to be no record of her birth, or later marriage. 

From time to time I’ve searched for her on the internet but always come up empty. And now all searches revert to Justin Timberlake. Ugh. She was probably a bayou or a Cajun child, despite the apparent Englishness of her last name. 

Pearlie May’s younger brother, John Estes, resembled his fair mother, but Pearlie May’s beauty was incandescent, she was also a dark horse. Literally. She had skin the color of old honey and unruly hair that always needed tending to. She used frozen orange juice cans as curlers to achieve that smooth big hair look. 

Her mother used Pearlie as a house slave. It was almost as if she needed to break Pearlie’s self-resolve with threats and beatings from her stepfather who used a leather belt on Pearlie May more than once. She lived in dread fear of her punitive mother. 

Pearlie May’s stepfather, who was no better, was from Peru—I never even knew his name, but he was a classic Inca, he had many gold teeth, and wore a gold llama medallion around his neck. He spoke Quechua and Spanish, as well as English, and rarely spoke of Peru. But there were Peruvian artifacts in the house. I know nothing of how he even got to the United States, or how he met Pearlie May’s mother. I don’t even know her name, other than it once was Mrs. Estes.

Their young daughter, Lisa, was a little princess who could do no wrong. Pearlie was not only stuck with all the drudgeries of housework, she was also stuck with babysitting Lisa who somehow knew of her privileged position in the family hierarchy, used it to blackmail Pearlie May. 

Pearlie’s parents thought I was a bad influence on her, but really it was the other way around. She was a wild child, who was into alcohol and little white pills at the time. 

They were an odd couple, united by a cultic religion. They were banquet waiters at a fancy San Francisco hotel, so they were never around on weekends. We would crank up the stereo full blast and dance like no one was watching. No one was watching, of course, LOL. Except the neighbors Barbara and Mike Scott who didn’t care. 

They raised chinchillas for the fur trade in a little detached garage, who were very sensitive creatures and would easily die of fright. Apparently rock music wasn’t on their easy listening menu, nor was Man of La Mancha or Exodus and they all died of fright. I hated the little bastards, and was glad when they all died off from disease. Pearlie May got blamed for that too. 

I don’t know what happened to Mr. Estes, but Pearlie May’s mother was a long way from home. Her brilliant blue eyes were as cross-eyed as their Siamese cat and her Louisiana accent took some getting used to. Her son, John came to live with them one summer, and was promptly banished to the detached garage down the hill that once housed the chinchillas. John and Mr. Peru didn’t see eye to eye. 

I guess John’s father, who lived in LA, was done with him because he came back soon afterwards like a homing yo-yo. I was madly in love with him, it was the era of Summer of Love, and he was my first kiss, and everything else. Then I was done with him, he was too fickle, but that’s another story. John didn’t have a Louisiana accent, so he must’ve lived in LA most of his life, which suggests Mrs. Estes came to California with Pearlie May in tow.

Pearlie May was my constant friend since at least 7th grade. We had a deep history. I even went to a few meetings to placated the religious elders. That worked for a while, but I was recalcitrant and had no interest or intention in becoming a Jehovah’s Witness. 

I was devastated when she was finally forced to shun me for real or be excommunicated herself from the group. They were big on the sins of tainted flesh, and felt I was a bad influence on her, when reality, she was a bad influence on me. It became clear that I wasn’t worth saving. So the Jehovah’s Witnesses “outed” me, everyone had to pretend I was invisible, they’d turn their backs on me whenever they saw me. 

They also made her break off her relationship with Tino, we called him Rudolf Valentino because he was that gorgeous. I don’t know why she didn’t just rebel. The entire world was in the throes of rebellion, throwing off the shackles of the past. 

Anyway, the Jehovah’s Witnesses were getting ready to face the end of the world, so their sights were pretty well set. Pearlie May cried, begged me to join, saying she wanted me to be saved too, as I was her best friend. Who would she hang out with in the Promised Land? I wanted to be saved too so that I could see John as well. But it didn’t happen like that. The world didn’t end in 1974. 

She set her sights on a neighbor boy from the church, Abe Razonsky, who eventually became a minister. Last I heard she married him, and went off to do missionary work saving heathen souls in Africa or some dark place in the jungles of the mind. I wonder if she ever thinks of me, or did she also banish me from her mind as well?

FWIW, I did attempt to write a fictionalized account of Pearlie May for a playwriting class back in 2000, but I didn’t really know that much about her, despite our being best friends. What I do know is that it left a big hole in my psyche when we parted. She was somewhat fictionalized in these two pieces. I couldn’t bear to change her name though. Mating Games, Promised Land (monologue)

THE KISS —an ekphrastic poem after Gustav Klimt

THE KISS

     —an ekphrastic poem after Gustav Klimt

I stood on the steps outside the Secession Building 
in tears, because my friend was late.
We surreptitiously slipped into a darkened room,
were greeted by Klimpt’s Kiss, so golden, so tender,

filled with such lavish detail, I couldn’t take it all in.
His hands cradling her face, a beacon of hope.
The textures surrounding them, a lush carpet,

or a ceremonial kimono. For the bride, or for the dead?

Even the walls were flecked with pieces of the sun.
She is made of flowers and limpid pools of water,
he is the fecund geometry of the fields in winter.
His dark hands are rooted in rich earthen loam,
while her face has never been graced by sunlight.
They are an odd couple. Perhaps a mature Romeo and Juliet,

or Orpheus and Eurydice, that moment when 

he turns, and loses his love forever.

They can’t fathom that they are day and night. 

He kisses her so tenderly on the cheek, she swoons, 

they are cocooned in the euphoria of post-coital love. 

He wears a crown of vines, and she, a crown of flowers.

What you can’t see is that she is kneeling 

on a floral carpet, or the edge of a meadow, 

golden chains hobble her slender ankles.

From the look of it, there’s a baby on the way.
And the claustrophobia of dailiness has not taken root. 

I stand on the outside, looking in,
about to embark on a journey to Leningrad 

to meet a lover who loves me no less tenderly,
but already the weight of the golden gown 

is dragging me down to an Undine realm.

11/18/21

Terri Glass’s Write On ~ a Generative Poetry Gathering

Home again, jiggity-jig (Florida Journals)

Last night was the first night I slept in my own bed since Oct 21, I fell asleep at 7 PM, as soon as I got home, and then slept 12 hours—but not straight through. Woke up at 12:45 AM, after a furiously hard sleep, wondering where the hell I was, surprised that it was only a little after midnight. I also woke again at 4, which would’ve been the time I needed to wake up in order to check in on Justa, then I fell asleep again until 6, & struggled to stay asleep until 7 AM. But I sure racked up some missing hours. I think I’ve finally reset my circadian rhythm clock. TG!

I’ve been back in CA for a few days, but since I needed to work in Marin, I stayed there, rather than drive back and forth, thus not wasting both time and gas. Sticker shock on gas prices, BTW. It was $3.12, to $3.29 in Maimi. Anyway, I hit the ground running, working right away as soon as I got back to Marin, right off the plane, literally, and then I worked all weekend, and Monday, too. All this, sans Cuban coffee. 

Now I know how Cubans navigate the day, on strong Cuban coffee. They have these little tiny toy teacups they knock back throughout the day. Pure rocket fuel. Half sugar, half quad strength espresso. Which also explains why they all talk so fast!  They’re wired to the gills! No time for those rolled rrrs, or sibilant esses. And Ls are swallowed as well. I’ve learned to speak a passable Cuban Spanish, but my Mexican Spanish seems positively languid in comparison. 

I love how they make time for their cafecitos. At Publix, a girl comes through several times a day with a small carafe of coffee, and small plastic one oz. shot cups to give the checkers their cafecitos. Very sweet. The checkers knock them back in one gulp. Mainlining the stuff. Yet they always have the time to graciously take care of me, the awkward gringa in line.

I would’ve loved another outing or two, but I at least got to see Key Largo, and Miami Beach. A day and a half of touristing is not much but it’s better than nothing. We went to South Beach near the pier and all went swimmingly, except for the actual swimming. But getting home was a nightmare that took hours. We went down Calle Ocho but the Café Versailles was having a 50-year anniversary bash so every Cuban in Miami was out partying. They were dozens of cop cars everywhere. By the time we got to Coral Gables, I could care less, but the houses were pretty awesome. I noticed oak savannah. I wasn’t expecting that. Kirk wanted to barbecue and I just wanted to sleep so we settled for pizza and salad, totally doable. A good thing too as I nearly fell asleep in my salad plate.

I am grateful that my school meeting is via Zoom. I don’t think I’m up to driving down to Berkeley for a meeting. Can I zoom in my jammies? I might need a cafecito or two to make it through the day.

Florida Journals:

• • Home again, jiggity-jig (Florida Journals)
  • RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)
  • Re-entry is a bitch (Florida Journals)
  • Flying home (Florida Journals)
  • Inside-out & backwards interview (Florida Journals)
  • Key Largo snorkel tour (Florida Journals) (photo)
  • Maimi Beach (Florida Journals)
  • Disconnectivity happens
  • The color of blood (Florida Journals)
  • Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)
  • Fasciated bananas (photos, drawing) (Florida journ...
  • A new day beginnith (Florida journals)

• • Buddy the Cat (more cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Losing the plot (Florida journals)
  • Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Maimi Majordomo (Florida journals)
  • Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)
  • Florida Journals: caregiving for Justa
  • Airborne
  • Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
  • 2004 Florida journals
  • Confessions of an iPod Roadie
  • Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
  • Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)

The wind was blowing the whirligig, but Buddy couldn’t hear it.

RIP, Buddy the Cat, who at age 19, was nearly old enough to visit the local bar, that’s something like 133 in cat years. I tried to warn my friends that his time had probably come, as he was pissing on the hall floor. I was always stepping in it barefoot. No odor, renal failure, I knew the drill too well. My favorite cats, Cheetos and Jack, both orange bhoys, died of kidney failure. Poor little guy slept on the couch the last few days. No more midnight yowling. And of course, no one wants to hear that their pet is dying. At least he didn’t die on my watch. 

Whenever I was on the couch, Buddy the Cat liked to parallel park along my calf, snoozing hard, it’s a tough life being a cat. Whenever I went outside, he hovered nearby, like a constant shadow. He was deaf as a stump but responded to percussive sounds.

But he also kept me sane under impossible circumstances. He was my constant flame, my fan club, and my tormentor. He had a hellacious medianoche howl. He was able to reach a much louder velocity than what I was able to record on my iPad. He would throw his head back like a little wolf, and he kept me awake most nights with his yowling. So much so, that I needed to visit the bar. Drive me to drink, he did. He always shut up and made baby squeaks whenever he saw me coming, he knew he wasn’t supposed to howl. And he went running off whenever he saw me, he knew the score. So I had to sneak my iPad around corners in order to catch him in action. 

I only knew Buddy for three weeks, while catsitting. Not too sure how long that is in cat years. First, there was the cool cat whothehellareyou and whathaveyoudone with my master beloved, I’ll keep my distance and be terribly aloof—week. Then there was the OMG you are my entire universe wherehaveyoubeen allmylife week. And then the lovefest commenced. But I could see how he was beginning to falter, and I knew him well enough to recognize the signs of renal failure. I tried to tell my hosts when they returned, to say their goodbyes, but it was news no one wants to hear. 

A stone-deaf pale flame Siamese colored Persian with a lion haircut, he pretty much followed me everywhere once he realized I was not only the catsitter, I was the gravytrain, the head scratcher, the face washer, the ear massager, and master tail-butt itcher all rolled into one. A few nights after my friends returned home from their concert series, the yowling magically stopped. Even they were surprised. Something was up. Buddy’s card. Gonna miss that little guy, but not his particular rendition of the song of his people.

When I moved his bed outside to the back porch, he was a happy camper.

Re-entry is a bitch (Florida Journals)

Why is re-entry always so hard? I’m all thumbs & heels & plagued by dueling time zones. Maybe I should nail my shoes to the ground, or I might just float off again. 

What would astronaut Col. Chris Hadfield say, as he’s experienced the ultimate timeshift continuum, not to mention a profound lack of gravity—for reals, whereas I only flew three time zones across North America! But it feels like some of my personal molecules are still airborne. When Chris played Major Tom in space, he couldn’t get traction on the fretted downstroke of his guitar and he floated up with every stroke. The music lifted him, literally. An apt metaphor. Much better than my having my blouse on inside out for a videotaped interview and poetry reading. You can edit out people’s ahems, but you can’t edit out the fact that my shirt is still on inside out, and will be for an eternity.

Still in transito. I’m so glad I changed my ticket back. Southwest airlines rerouted me to Timbuktu and back on my original ticket. As it is, It still took me nearly 10 hours to get back with a long stopover in Denver. But the original ticket was worse, and it routed me through Baltimore, then Dallas. And you know with that leads to. Grassy knolls and Q-anon conspiracy theories. All those whackjobs converging on Dallas to see the resurrection of JFK.WTF?

Flying west with the sun, we had the longest sunset ever. It was like being in Scotland or northern Canada in summer. One time when I hitched and ferry-jumped up the coast to Prince Rupert, there was no place to stay, so we camped out on the hill facing west over the Sound, I had a similar experience. It may have been a graveside park, as there were memorial tombstones. But I remember watching the sun set, and it went on and on and on and on. I totally forgot about being that far north. I couldn’t figure out why the flies were out and crawling all over me sluggishly. They too were missing their beauty sleep. Daylight savings on steroids. 

And while we’re at it, can we please do away with the concept of daylight savings time? Why are we still doing it? What purpose does it serve? We are no longer living in 1943. Or whenever it was started. It’s absolutely barbaric. Was unnerving to arrive in Oakland in the dark and realize it was barely 6 PM. 

Also I am emerging from another culture, where English is rarely spoken. My Mexican Spanish was not entirely useful so I had to switch dialects as well. When you are constantly within another language, it exhausts you. And I re-entered having to work. I got off the plane, and as soon as I was in Marin, I was busy cleaning up for my care person. Ditto that for the weekend and Monday. Even tho care provider help came in while I was gone, there so much work still to do…

Old Florida blogposts

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Flying home (Florida Journals)

Waiting for takeoff, I managed to board with all my goodies and my Keylime pie, my yogurts and surprise, my papaya and banana breakfast, so I can have real food versus pretzels on Southwest where they starve you, and greet you and then feed you pretzels. So I discovered that I can get through TSA with a flask of milk for medicinal reasons—ulcers—that’s good to know for future reference. 

I must admit that I am glad to be going home, I’ve been away from home for a long time and it was tearful saying goodbye to Justa. What makes it so hard to say goodbye to choose to was the realization that I will never see her again alive. She kissed my hands and I returned the gesture. I’ve grown quite fond of her. And we had some good laughs.

The plane faces a long climb through the cloud layer, we dance toward the sky. My ears object to the long steady climb. I have to remind myself that I’ve been much higher than 10,000 feet. Above the cloud layer is a Ukiyo-ë realm, subtle pools of light and darkness. My sunglasses provide respite from the intense glare. Not much to see, other than clouds. Hopefully when we approach Denver, there will be something more to see. Still I am happy to have a window seat finally even if there is nothing to see. I am popping my ears constantly, especially after yesterday‘s snorkeling. 

My right ear was bogarting seawater, as I swam too close to the crest of the reef and a wave plowed into me. The Grecian rocks reef is quite a ways offshore from Key Largo. It is, in essence a barrier reef. The coral and seaweed were spectacular, and I only recognized a few kinds brain coral fire coral etc. they were gorgons and tuna kids and hydrazone a rich plant animal life a Textron garden. I gave up on the go Pro camera and took a page from Ram Dass: Be here now. The sea garden was a rich nursery for small fish.

We seem to be overwater, over the gulf, the sun from my left and I see Fort Jefferson and the Dry Tortugas. Another snorkel bucket list. Maybe someday. I’m just happy to see blue skies above the cloud layer. There’s nothing to photograph but I am at the ready.

The aspirin I took an hour ago was finally getting a toehold. Denver is four hours away. I will need another round by then or before then. I was awake at 4:30 AM and I’m now so groggy but there is no way I am planning to drink the community coffee.

We are traveling a liminal boundary between the cloud layer and blue skies. We are neither here nor there. Ghost tendrils of clouds above and below. The gulf below reflecting the sky. The edge of the cloud cover is like an endless prairie of sorts. Below me is the sunken coastline of Florida, and the barrier islands, like ancient calligraphy. Soon we cross over into Louisiana, and then follow the serpentine traces of Old Muddy north toward Denver. All that water on the landscape, reflecting myriad eyes of the sun.

I cannot bear the thought of pretzels. I don’t like them on a good day, but that’s what’s for lunch on Southwest. Maybe I’ll be brave and spelunker into my magic bag and raid my provisions, papaya and banana for breakfast.

I’m listening to the first book of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. I’ve seen the BBC series, but Alexander McCall Smith is such a delightful writer, one has to also view him in print. In this case, by audiobook. However number one in the series is a bit somber and nowhere near as funny as book 21, How to Raise an Elephant (No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency) which had me snorfeling in the aisle, literally.

We land in Denver, the jaunty white party tents of the airport mimicking the Tetons. I pass a busy hour in the Denver Airport while waiting for my plane, it’s unbearable. I cannot stand being around all these people and find myself sneaking into corners to escape the crowds. I certainly don’t want to wait in line for food. I eat a yogurt for dinner. Denver to Oakland, the long light over the land, an endless sunset to the west coast, and a cloak of darkness descends over California. Home again, jiggity-jig.

Old Florida blogposts.

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal

Inside-out & backwards interview (Florida Journals)

Last night in Miami, I thought my interview with Fire Haus Projects went well, but when I got home, I discovered that I had my blouse on inside-out for the entire videotaped interview and poetry reading. You can edit out glitches but you can’t edit out the fact that my shirt will be on inside-out forever. I guess it could’ve been worse, I could’ve had it on both inside-out and backwards. Hopefully no one will notice. Only problem is, that it has these cute little maroon satin strings attached to the shoulders so that I can hang it off a hanger. 

After a full day, snorkeling offshore at the Grecian Rocks in Key Largo, I guess I’m allowed a little eccentricity. Talk about metaphor in action. My host, Lilia Fontana, who originally hailed from Havana, was a lovely hostess. We got on like a house afire.

When I got my first CAC grant to teach poetry I had many early morning classes. At that time I was a night owl and I remember getting to class to teach and looking down and realizing I had my stylin’ shirt on inside out. Thing is, it had shoulder pads. Hard to laugh that one off as a style statement. Oh well. Carry on.

Key Largo snorkel tour (Florida Journals) (photo)

Key Largo: We have a Sundiver snorkel tour at noon, the sky is cloudy so I don’t hold much hope. It is impossible to see the GoPro screen in daylight, so at the very least, it’s a boat ride into the outback of the Peter Pennekamp marine preserve. If we are lucky, we will see some cool fish. If not, I’ve got a boatride and new snorkel out of it. How I love being out on the water. It’s been too long, since before the pandemic since I’ve even seen the ocean. I have long since lost my snorkel gear, besides it was decades old. The rubber, long since rotted. I will need a new mask but the diveboat provides them, so no worries there. I’ve got my Hawaii gear on. My reef slippers. I may look ridiculous but have no intention of getting sunburned, I look like I’m getting ready for a yoga class, not a dive in the ocean.

Maimi Beach (Florida Journals)

South Point Beach was a little too cold, a little too windy, and it was a little too late in the day for swimming, so the water was chilly. An intermittent drizzle made it a rather liminal affair with little distinction between water and air. Scud clouds, like a lace tablecloth, draped over the edge of the sky, and a rainbow plunged into the meniscus of the ocean like a deep sea spear. I waded in, tossed about by small outsider waves, and attempted to surf into shore on a bigger wave, but it didn’t have the power to carry me, not like the Pacific. I sank like a stone. The Atlantic is considerably warmer than what I’m used to, but I was still chilled to the bone. The citadel of Miami Beach shone like a white castle in the afternoon sunlight. What really made my day, or rather, afternoon, as it was late and the sun sinking down behind us, was a pair of frigatebirds circling overhead, and I considered it a blessing, not an omen.

Disconnectivity happens

—for Jessy, with love, who inspired this post.

Ironically during last night’s repeat deluge of biblical proportions, well, OK, so a couple of inches, not like the last storm’s whopping 13 inches, a sweet young West Marinite posted how she was so anxious and afraid because last night there was no Wi-Fi or cell phone service, and apparently she needed some Facebook reassurance that all was well, having survived the grueling storm outage of November 7. 

I had to laugh. A little wind and rain. It’s not like the world was going to end in fire or flood last night. Sure, there were lots of downed trees dangling on power lines, playing them like basso profundo harp strings. A Comcast outage also affected most of Sonoma County as well. As long as there’s no raging wildfire, I told her to enjoy the silence. Haul out the candles, read a book. When disconnectivity happens, you can begin to hear yourself think. A rarity during this age of hyper-connectivity. She was a good sport, and took my ribbing well.

Believe it or not, some of us grew up in the San Geronimo Valley without Wi-Fi, or cell service—as neither had yet been invented. Well, that’s not quite true, the technology for Wi-Fi and Bluetooth were invented during WWII. Indeed, when I was very young, we were without rotary dial-up phone service—which often works during a storm as it’s a separate system from the PG&E power lines. I remember the day we got a phone line. A party line is probably worse than no phone line at all. Mrs. Decker, who worked for Guide Dogs for the Blind, would get on the phone and talk for hours. So we couldn’t use the phone most of the time anyway. 

Luckily Old Man Latindorf at the end of the road who spoke a crisp, broken German-English, rarely used the phone. Nor did Old Man Larsen, who spoke a taciturn Norwegian. Neither one spoke English well. More like begrudgingly. They preferred the dark domain of their own inner confirmed bachelor thoughts. And Mary Bianchi spoke an odd mixture of Italian and English, her hands wildly semaphoring like racecar flags. For her, conversation was intrinsically tied up with feeding you—whether or not you were hungry was immaterial. We could identify everybody by voice. Sometimes there were heated exchanges when somebody wanted to use the phone. But we all knew each other, so some civility ensued.

I won’t mention a lack of television reception in the valley either. No cable this far out. it just wasn’t worth it to lay cables for us outliers. Not enough money in it for Viacom. The Stones got TV reception by climbing the tallest Doug fir and planting an aluminum aerial on top of it. And the long copper and plastic antenna wire that looked like a tiny railroad track to the house was the weakest link. But when the crows and bluejays partied on the aerial, or the wires, the reception went south. 

We were in a cul-de-sac box canyon so unless the wind blew a certain way, and the clouds were otherwise preoccupied with their horoscopes, there was no way we could ever get reception—no matter where we stuck the damned aerial. Our neighbors had a little better luck as they were more exposed so they could pick up some TV reception. Not that that there was much of anything to watch. Something that people today don’t grasp. They can watch anything they want. But let’s just say we got three, maybe four stations, sort of, and often during bad weather, all of them were filled with snow. Not real snow. Just electronic snowstorms emanating from the outer regions of Alpha Centauri.

I kind of miss those unplugged days of yore. Yeah, I get it that we all want to be connected, via the Marshall McLuhan global village. And of course, there is always the danger of what might, or could go wrong! But sometimes the silence and isolation is the best thing about the Valley. It’s what made us so radically different from those townies who lived over the hill. 

However, I can’t help but think of that poor woman who went off the road into a ditch between Dickson Ranch and Flanders Ranch and died because she couldn’t get 911 cell phone reception. And that is why we have a cell tower on the top of Mt. Barnabe.  And I sure wouldn’t give up that connectivity during wildfire season. 

Ironically I don’t even own a smart phone. I use my iPad exclusively for communication. So I am very much invested in cellular connectivity too even if I’m older than dirt. I know, I know, resistance is futile. Yet, still I resist. Isn’t it synchronistic that I electronically wrote and posted all this on Heddy Lamarr’s birthday? She, who invented Bluetooth and Wi-Fi, I kid you not.

“Hedy Lamarr, a remarkable inventor who devised a system for remote-controlling torpedoes that became the basis for bluetooth and wifi.”

The color of blood (Florida Journals)

This is a photo of my thumb over the camera lens. Ergo, it is also a photo of the color of my blood—truly alizarin crimson. My stomach went south again this morning after I took a blood sample, but at least it worked! I’ve had incredibly bad luck taking blood sugar samples from my care person. We have decided that if I stab my patient three times and still can’t get a reading, that we pass on the concept. Well, I have passed on the concept more often than I have had success, usually it says, Error!, so I’m very excited to say her blood sugar is normal. Not mine. Hopefully my biliousness stomach will start rocking on a stormy sea of queasiness. Yes, I have stabbed myself with the stupid little needle trying to reload the little gun. I do rub her finger as if I were milking it before I stab it. She really needs to drink more water and she refuses because she doesn’t want to wet the bed. And yesterday’s care provider quit. I am running out of coping skills. I now know that I do not want to do a job like this again. I knew it would be difficult. But not like this!

WRITERS’ TEARS, a found poem

WRITERS’ TEARS

    — a found poem

As Billy Collins sips his writer‘s tears and segues off 

onto golden stories, I think there are no more directives, 

or Brooks Brothers’ suits heralding the nine to five,

merely traffic signs in Italy that are mere suggestions 

rather than instruction. Merge here. Turn there.

I think of those bleary Monday morning poems 

half-scryed on fogged windows, sobbing cold tears,

after a hot shower, as he leans in for a closer shave.

Billy says the poet’s job is to stand at attention, 

at the window and make an interesting report about sorrow. 

I think of those silly break-up poems that held me back,

it was like taking drugs and reading all the words backwards— 

from whose point of view, I don’t know, Leda’s, or the swan’s? 

But Billy said sparrows, not sorrows, my ears tangled 

in the small-feathered nuances of slant rhyme.

11/4/21; rev 11/18/21

BLUE RIBBON SPECIAL

BLUE RIBBON SPECIAL

Once I entered a gymkhana race
where a dollar bill was firmly placed
between my thigh and my horse.
I was riding bareback, of course,
so it was a snap and every pace
that the judges put me through,

no matter how tough it got,
that dollar bill stuck to me like glue.

They begrudgingly gave me the blue,

but I would rather have won the pot.

11/4/21

Terri Glass workshop

Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)

I just cleaned Buddy the Cat’s face with eye drops and a wet toothbrush—he loves it—plus eye medicine. He helps me scrub his little face. I did his ears inside and out too, as they were not very clean. And he went apeshit, he was cross-eyed, and groaning with pleasure, trying to stick his hind feet into his ears and everywhere else. Right now he is grooming his head. He is about 19 years old and his hygiene is sadly lacking. If he wasn’t so old I would give him a bath ASAP.

Buddy the Cat in ecstacy, falling over backwards for a little noserub. He decided I might be alright after all. Gonna miss the little guy. He is a lovely creature. When I scratch his back at the base of his tail, he licks his front, especially his bib. It’s very clean. Since he needs to brush up on personal hygiene skills, this is good. When I first scratched his spine at the base of his tail he didn’t like it, now he thinks it’s wonderful. Lots of head butts. Right now, he is washing my elbow, as well as behind his own ears. Who knew that my elbow was so dirty?

Buddy the inside cat is studying for a PhD in quantum mechanics. That is how he can be both inside and outside at the same time. He also has a minor degree in cat opera, and has the lungs of a Pavarotti. I keep stalking the cat to record his hideous meows, and he always cottons onto me. Imagine this yowl at quadruple the volume, and a sustained yodel, with more vibrato, longing and saudade to it—carrying on for five or more minutes at a stretch, going off like clockwork all through the night. 

Meanwhile, the back porch raccoon decided that the food scraps I put out for her needed a good washing—including the old bread I put out yesterday. Nothing worse than a bad cook making bread soup with cat kibble.

Fasciated bananas (photos, drawing) (Florida journals)

La sonreia de los bananas. Yesterday Ana, the good care provider, brought me a large bunch of bananas from her garden. I think they’re bananas, but they could be platanos. Yesterday I bought what I thought were small bananas at the store, they turned out to be tiny platanos. Ugh. Bitter in the mouth. Ana brought me 15 bananas, and one is a double, so 16. Fasciation. Fascinating.

A new day beginnith (Florida journals)

And so today I feel perfectly fine. This time I made sure I had plenty of tea in me before I began the cat food ritual. And I was not greeted with cat barf, nor by lively cockroaches waiting to be dispatched to the next world. I felt queasy most of the day, yesterday. I bailed on lunch. I had to force myself to eat dinner. I must admit it took willpower to eat my dinner. It was a chore to eat, but then, I felt fine afterwards. No trouble at all with eating my dessert. I’m sure the pan de boudin pudding helped. Go figure. And so now, everything is fine. Except for the new care providers coming and going like the tides. 

Buddy the Cat (more cat pix) (Florida journals)

Buddy the Cat quizzically eyeing the stranger. 

Buddy just realized I was standing there. He misses his humans. Apparently I will do, but just barely. Especially since I started cleaning his eyes. He loves that. Poor thing. Whoever bred Persians with punched-in faces oughta be forced to eat out of cat bowls with his hands ziplocked behind his back. What a stupid trait. 

It took some doing but I managed to get his face clean. He loved it. I soak a toothbrush in eyedrops and rub his face he helps me. He strokes the toothbrush and then licks it, he’s quite funny. He is 19 which is the equivalent of 133 human years. He does have teeth, I convinced him to play with me by touching his paws and he grabbed my hand in his mouth. He was very gentle, but firm. I’m trying something new tonight, as I’m rather desperate for a full night’s sleep. I brought him on the bed with me. He seems to be happy. He hasn’t yodeled in several hours. I got five whole hours uninterrupted sleep.

In this photo he just squeaked softly, as if mumbling to himself. That I can live with. But not the howling all night long under my window. When does he sleep? I’m fairly certain he is deaf, and is probably near-blind as well. Possibly senile. His yowling sounds as if he was lost or abandoned. Not a caterwaul yowl. 

When Buddy loses the plot, he can crank it up several decibels. I keep stalking the cat to try and record his hideous meows, and he always cottons on. Imagine this at quadruple the volume, and a sustained yodel, with more longing and saudade— for five or more minutes, going off like clockwork all through the night. I wanted to post a video of his medium howls, but the file is 35 MB. When I can figure out how to trim it I will post it. Can’t seem to access the clip function on the iPad version of a movie.

Losing the plot (Florida journals)

Too many surprises this morning—after having to feed the cats stinky canned catfood, before my tea had kicked in, and my stomach went south—and that was it. One atrocity I could prepare for, but not three in a row. The crowning glory, I found what I thought was a dead cockroach snoozing in the middle of the dining room floor. I went to scoop him up with a large post-it, and he scurried off. 

I have to keep reminding myself of palmetto bug is not a German cockroach. He’s a member of the cockroach family, a.k.a. an American cockroach. I did not see any evidence of red MAGA hats. And I don’t know if he voted for Trump. but he did flip over on his back and danced the the whirligig watusi before he scurried off. He didn’t say much of anything as he headed off towards the bar, wildly waving his long antennae, perhaps looking for a stiff drink. OK then. 

Fighting a little revulsion there. Now I need a stiff drink. Oops, I discover an American cockroach is not native, it hails from Africa. Another immigrant. At least it did not speak German. So, now I don’t know if it was a native palmetto bug or an unAmerican cockroach. Just didn’t have the heart to step on it. Besides I was barefoot, and I haven’t yet had my morning tea.

So, a little sucker came out from under the bar for another visit. This time I was prepared. Flyswatter in hand. Whap! That’s one dead cockroach. How many more million to go? I feel queasy, oh, so queasy am I. Urg. So much depends upon my weapon of mass destruction, a red fly swatter on the table, next to the fruit bowl. 

I am gaining so many new skills. When I went outside to feed the cats—I mean, it’s bad enough to have to face dirty cat bowls, or cans of cat food in the morning on an empty stomach before having my cup of tea—I was greeted by cat barf. My stomach is winning the queasy battle. Bilious stomach score 3, equilibrium score, zero. Add jet lag and whacked circadian rhythms to the bilious mix. I could do without the vertigo and headache. Tomorrow I will be fine.

Unfortunately, once it arrives, there is no way out. When I was young I had to ride the bus to school, and if I ate breakfast, it was all over (me) for the rest of the day. Similar to the twin maladies of carsickness and seasickness, the finicky stomach rules the day. I didn’t get enough sleep, which didn’t help, and all the grossities of the morning bested me. If I don’t pay attention, then I rue the day. In this case, it had to do with a combo of unpleasant things before I was fully awake. And jetlag.

But yes, I do get terribly carsick unless I’m driving. I have been queasy while on the ocean but it’s rare. Usually because I’m in a sailboat and the breeze helps. Motion sickness is a real thing. One time my former partner did not believe that I get carsick, he thought it was all in my head, and so he ignored my urgent pleas. Ulp. Sitting in the back of a car is treacherous. I have to sit in the passenger seat and pretend I am driving. Drugs don’t help. Dramamine makes me comatose. A valium and I am on the floor drooling out of both sides of the mouth. 

The only time I completely lost it and got the dry heaves was when we were salmon fishing and I made the mistake of going to the bathroom. And that was it. I lost sight of the horizon and I could not convince myself one way or the other which was which. 

What was funny was that I was doing a story for the paper on a contractor who took people from the Forestville halfway house out on the bay to catch fish every year. I did catch a salmon, but somebody else had to help me reel it in because I felt so bad. I remember being off Potato Patch Shoals watching the Marin Headlands lurch up and down. Once I lost the side of the horizon I was done for.

I think I need to lie down with Buddy the cat who comes over for a little scratch and a head butt, he is scent marking my iPad with his goopy eye, and he wants to snuggle, this is a first. I guess I am finally being accepted. Even the gris-gris cat outside wanted a scratch. If only my stomach would settle down. An opossum came during the night, leaving strange little starfish paw marks on the patio tiles. At least the raccoon cleaned her bowl. Small mercies. I think I may need to resort to a PeptoAbysmal chaser.

Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)

 Mi vida loca. Ana, the weekend care provider arrives today, she is an angel, the other care provider is terrible, plays on her cellphone all day, cada día. Pero Ana se limpio todo la casa. She takes care of my musician friends’ mother, Justa. I am a majordomo orchestrating the house, and I am also responsible for a bevvy of cats who understand todo en español Cubano! Este lenguage es muy rapido, no Rs, no Ss. Todo inmersión. 

Meanwhile, Buddy the Cat yowls his bilingual two-note aria, he is searching for his mortal beloved. I cannot tell him that no matter how many doors he visits, Kirk no esta aqui. The cat has taken to howling beneath my window every night to show his displeasure. I need earplugs and a full night’s sleep. Mi mente explotándo en tongues. Buddy, a declawed flame Persian with a ridiculous lion haircut, is the victim of a careless owner who wanted a plush toy, found safe haven here en la casa de los gatos. He is yodeling in the stairwell, which is an echo chamber. I know he is senile and deaf, I wonder if he can hear himself better there. 

He is 19, which is the equivalent of 133 human years. He has a chronic eye infection, I wonder how much he can see, because sometimes he tumbles down the stairs, and uses his paw like a blindman’s cane. He doesn’t seem to have teeth either. The four feral outside cats, the opossum and the raccoon are blessedly silent. Thank God there are no longer any cockatiels in the mix. But a cloud of escaped zoo parrots from Hurricane Katrina fly across the sky chattering up a storm.

Maimi Majordomo (Florida journals)

Your assignment seemed simple enough, make sure your friend’s bedridden mother is taken care of. But she speaks limited English, and you speak limited Spanish, and certainly not Cuban Spanish, and then, the care provider quit on the first day, saying that you are too old to be of any use. She thinks I can’t understand her; the next care provider is thick as a stump, and possibly cruel, she let poor Justa crap herself, rather than help her to the bathroom, because I wasn’t there to help out. She told Justa to wait for me. Cruel. I had all of an hour off to shop for food. To make matters worse, I got lost, in a strange car, in a strange city. Google Maps gave me crazy directions, it kept telling me to turn right, into the burbs, before I cottoned on that Google was winging it, it was not talking to its cell tower. The third care provider, an angel albeit with limited time. She is my teacher. She is an angel. She too does not speak English, but I ask questions about cuisine, how to fix the blood sugar lancet, etc., and we make do. Steep learning curves ahead. Somehow we will survive this nightmare.

Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)

Mi abuela Amalia, was born in Havana, and died when I was 7 or 8. I was born in Puerto de Golpe. My Abuelo, Elucerio died at 70. Mi mama, Mima, was one of 7 daughters. they didn’t have tv, or radio, nada, so they had many daughters. (Laughs). I study three years at University of Havana for dental surgery. When the University of Havana was closed by Castro, I couldn’t finish my diploma. In 1922 Fidel closed all the Universities—todo. Everything. Everything. 

Mis tias were Marusa Caridad, Silvia, Oralia, Emelina, JoAnNuñes. My name, Justa, belonged to my grandmother. I had muchos primos Mi favorito was Rolando Ross who died two years ago. He was so friendly with me, we talked about many things about life.

Mi padre, Francisco Jose Nunez Blanco, nacie en San Cristobal, so kind a person. I loved him. He married my mother when she was 16. He was the Chief of Puerto De Golpe train station. He was very smart. She was a telegraph operator. Francisco had six brothers two sisters. I had muchos primos from my father’s side too. One uncle had 12 children.

Mi primo Rolando was a singer, and he loved Mexican music. I have two cousins who were lawyers. Nephews who are doctors, they live in Coral Gables. 

I met Gustavo when I was 17, Gustavo was 19, in 1927. We met en Puerto de Golpe. Y en el university. I see him many times. When the univeristy closed, he wrote me a letter. Many letters he wrote me. He wrote to me and Maynita sent it to me. It was a secret. One time I put the letter on the table and I forgot it. And my mother found it and she said it was impossible, you’re too young. 

You told your family you wanted to marry Gustavo. But he was mi enamorado. They knew nothing about him. One day Gustavo wanted to visit me and they said Get out. She’s too young. Everyone was angry with me. Gustavo said I won’t wait anymore. On Dec. 20 , 1920, I married with him. He is the man of my life.

We got married twice, once in Havana. Then I went to Santa Clara to marry in the church, where he was born. El pais de General Carillo. We lived in Havana, close to the school where Gustavo taught, at the Collegio Belem, a religious college. When the university closed, he had to leave. He studied architecture. But nowhere to practice.

I left Cuba on July 9, 1975. My brother Miguel left first, he died last year. We went to Spain for three years. Refugees. I didn’t go back to school. I didn’t want to be a medico. Gustavo worked at mano alsada? architecture. I taught at the Sagrada Familia school en Barcelona. We had two daughters Mari and AnaLina who went to school there. When we got ready to leave to the United States, they didn’t want to leave. 

After three years in Spain, we had to leave, or return to Cuba. We came direct to Miami because Gustavos‘s brother lived here. En 1979 we went to Maimi but I don’t like it. Gustavo said Bueno, everybody has to stay here because this is the last place. The family was scattered over here. Money is so important. It was impossible no junto.

I worked 26 years as a surgical nurse in the Emergency room at Coral Gables hospital. I liked to work in hospital, I made electrocardiograms, I helped people with heart problems. I loved my job. All those hearts. All those heart operations, sometimes I was covered in blood. Sangre. Es la verdad. 

When Gustavo died I lost my heart. It was 17 June 2016.  For me it was a love forever and ever. I say to God, I’m sorry, the time that I had with him was good. I will visit him again.

Florida Journals: caregiving for Justa

I have been so busy since I arrived here in Miami that I have not had a chance to compose any thoughts. Kirk and Mari invited me to Miami to be an overseer care provider for Mari‘s mother, Justa.

My days are long, often 13 or more hours. No wonder I have no time to write or to be creative. Mari has been taking care of her mother for two years and it must be extraordinarily hard on her.

I am the inexperienced care provider flown in from California to keep an eye on things. I have it easy as my care person, Sam, is mobile and does not need the kind of care and attention that Mari’s mother needs.

The official care providers come in at noon and take care of the larger work, bathing Justa, feeding her lunch, etc. But the buck stops with me. I am one in charge of the house. The majordomo, or majordoma—I make things run smoothly. I make the trains run on time. I am el jefe. Which is a scream, because the latest care provider doesn’t speak a word of English, and she is not the brightest bulb. We muddle along in my broken Spanish, sometimes with Justa, who speaks little English, providing translation.

My Spanish is based on Mexican Spanish which is much easier to understand and people speak slower. Cuban Spanish is another animal entirely. Everything is running together, and there are no Ss, or Rs pronounced. And everything has a lisp to it.

The most recent care provider’s name is Virginia Maria, the Virgin Mary, I kid you not. Justa is offender by both her, and by her name. Virginia Maria’s husband is still in Cuba. She speaks a rough, guttural Cuban Spanish from the Oriente that even Justa has trouble understanding.

We, none of us, like each other very much which makes this whole mess worse. Virginia Maria talks simple to Justa and then shouts at her. But Justa is not deaf, and she is cognizant of what is going on around her. She is trapped in a body that no longer functions. She was once a nurse so she knows how the body works. Justa was born in the westernmost province of Pinar del Río, in Puerta de Golpe, close to Havana, where she studied dentistry. When she came to Miami, after a three-year haitus in Spain, when she fled Cuba, she became a surgical nurse.

Virginia Maria spends most of her time texting on her cellphone or playing bad Cuban music. Poor Justa just wants tranquility and silence. Intelligent conversation. And I cannot tell Virginia Maria anything because I am not fluent in Cuban Spanish, and if I question her, she flies off the handle—probably because she cannot understand me. It is difficult getting care providers and if I lose her, then I am stuck doing everything and I cannot do it all alone. My back hurts. The last care provider walked off the job the day I arrived. They are unbelievable, unprofessional, etc., but then they probably don’t get paid much either.

I arise around 7:45 AM so that I can give Justa her thyroid medicine. I change her pampers and also her nightie, if it is wet. This takes about 15 minutes. I turn on the daily mass for her and leave her to it.

I make my tea in a tiny carafe as there is no teapot large enough. The first time I made tea I used to tapwater and it was atrocious. I have discovered the hot water from the water dispenser makes a passible cup of tea. Not a decent one, but passable. At least I get my 3 cups of water in that way. My mug is the Mona Lisa. She doesn’t know whether to smile, nor do I at this time of the morning. Miami is three hours ahead of California time. So it is really 4 AM, which explains why I stagger down the hall like a drunken sailor. I am not used to being awakened so early in the morning.

I feed the cats, and the raccoon, a laborious process of many steps. The outside cats are not in great shape, nor is the inside cat, Buddy. He is deaf and senile; he is also a yowler, and no matter what I do, I cannot keep him quiet. I think he is looking for Kirk. It is hard to say as he cannot hear himself, let alone, me. I have tried clapping to get his attention but it doesn’t work. However, he can see. Sort of. Poor thing has a chronic eye infection, so his face is a mess. I don’t wipe off his face daily, but I should. He loves it and helps me clean his face.

He is an abandoned flame point Persian with blue eyes. Under ordinary circumstances, he might even be beautiful, but the owners declawed him and so he is permanently an indoor cat because of it. His teeth or not so good either. Now he is meowing that horrid sound outside the back door. Since he cannot hear, I am thinking of sprinkling water on him when he is particularly obnoxious, but he is an old cat and would not understand.

The other feral cats, have abscesses and are real dirtbags. They are starting to figure out that I am the gravy train. So they are cozying up to me for a head skritch. Heaven help me if the raccoon wants a scratch too. She has babies stashed somewhere in the back yard.

Last night it rained, thunder and lightning—and Buddy the cat yowled the entire night outside my window. After his breakfast, he goes into the hall and yells like a banshee. He hits the exact right note to exacerbate my dull-witted morning ears. So I generally toss him out right away. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t get to hang out in the house, but I can’t stand the noises he makes. I have never heard such volume in a cat.

Then I prepare Justa’s morning pills and rice pudding breakfast, timed for an hour after her thyroid medicine. But before that I need to take her blood sugar. I have been on my own with Justa for three days and still I cannot seem to get the blood sugar monitor to work. Either no needle, no blood, or error. Turns out there are no more needles left in the cartridge. After her bloodwork, Justa gets tiny Cuban cafecito con azucar.

Then I make her breakfast, which really is her elevenses if we were in Hobbitlandia. Cafe con leche y toast Cubano. Somewhere in the midst of all this I give Justa her eyedrops as well. There are so many things to remember I have to constantly refer back to my lists which are not sequential.

The care provider arrives late. My job is to make a salad and sort out the lunch, her job is to feed Justa, etc., but she needs help with dressing, bathing, etc. She is supposed to also do housework, but she does as little as possible. She is constantly on the phone talking to her husband, daughter, friends and relatives in Cuba—which is very strange for me.

By the time Virginia Maria leaves, I am supposed to feed the cats again, but sometimes I sit down in a coma and just stare at the wall, or the iPad. I am so tired. The idea is that I should also be feeding myself by then, and sometimes I have to force myself to eat. Luckily there is lots of soup and take-out meals in the refrigerator.

The first two days I spent re-organizing and cleaning the house. Everyone saves every bit of paper possible, every time something is bought, so everything is kept and nothing is thrown out. I must’ve tossed five or six big bags of recycle debris, not to mention, garbage. Nearly every chair is filled with something, and all tables are covered with stuff. It’s frustrating because there’s no place to get comfortable. Even the couches have hundreds of pillows on them them, so many but there’s no place left to sit.

I found what I thought was a dead cockroach snoozing in the middle of the dining room floor. I went to scoop him up with a large post-it, and he scurried off. don’t know if it was a native palmetto bug or an unAmerican cockroach. Just didn’t have the heart to step on it. Besides I was barefoot, and I haven’t yet had my morning tea.

So, a little sucker came out from under the bar for another visit. This time I was prepared. Flyswatter in hand. Whap! That’s one dead cockroach. How many more million to go? I feel queasy, oh, so queasy am I. Urg. So much depends upon my weapon of mass destruction, a red fly swatter on the table, next to the fruit bowl.

I am gaining so many new skills. When I went outside to feed the cats—I mean, it’s bad enough to have to face dirty cat bowls, or cans of cat food in the morning on an empty stomach before having my cup of tea—I was greeted by cat barf. My stomach is winning the queasy battle. Bilious stomach score 3, equilibrium score, zero. 

I think I need to lie down with Buddy the cat who comes over for a little scratch and a head butt, he is scent marking my iPad with his goopy eye, and he wants to snuggle, this is a first. I guess I am finally being accepted. Even the gris-gris cat outside wanted a scratch. If only my stomach would settle down. An opossum came during the night, leaving strange little starfish paw marks on the patio tiles. At least the raccoon cleaned her bowl. Small mercies. I think I may need to resort to a PeptoAbysmal chaser.

Ana the good care provider who comes on the weekend, brought me dozens of bananas from her garden. I think they’re bananas, but they could be platanos. Yesterday I bought what I thought were small bananas, they turned out to be tiny platanos.

Today’s agency care provider was an absolute joke. she came a half an hour late, she apparently had almost no skills and was definitely not a nurse, she looked like she was ready to go to a rock concert, or the mall—not even dressed for the job and then she expected me to do the work, missing the point entirely that she was being hired to do the work. I was torn between wanting to be gracious and polite in another culture to this new person and wanting to rip her a new one. The latter won out. 

What blows my mind is how no one actually speaks English at all. And yet they live here in America you’d think that by osmosis they would have picked up some rudimentary language skills, but, no. I have found that when I attempt to speak someone else’s language they equally reach out and attempt to speak my language. And between the two languages, we are able to communicate. Not with this one. She simultaneously quit and was fired at the same time. She lasted all of three hours on the job.

Despite everything going wrong, Justa and I have many laughs. She is teaching me to swear. She has discovered Alexa. And she is plowing her way through all the big band music Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, etc. We make up silly new lyrics to all the old songs. Who knew that Alexa would be an excellent eldersitter? I told Alexa Cállete! to shut up in Spanish, and Justa giggled and giggled and giggled. We are easily amused.

I am gaining odd new skills daily. Survival equals one nostril above water. Or, snorkel. But for some reason I have trouble taking Justa’s blood sugar readings. I don’t get enough blood and then I get an error signal and then I feel so bad that I have to stab her finger again and again. There must be a knack to this but I don’t seem to have.

The raccoon is upset because I’m not giving her enough cat food. I give her table scraps as she has babies, so a varied diet would be a good thing, but she shows her displeasure by throwing food all over the back porch. Or maybe it’s pleasure, it’s hard to say. However she did scoop out the rest of the papaya and leave a hollow shell. Her water dish is atrocious.

The opossum stole what was left of the Halloween candy. There are little silver wrappers glittering all over the porch. There have only been three outside cats the past few days. I think the orange one is dead. He was very sick.

Buddy the inside cat continues his yelling and sings all night long. I have taken to cuddling with him on the couch in the afternoon for a siesta which seems to calm his raging heart. He misses his beloved. But that cat has the howl from hell. I keep trying to record it but every time I sneak up on him he twigs me and stop yelling.The stairwell gives him maximum volume. He is positively a Pavarotti with laryngitis on those high notes.

OK so I fed Buddy the cat his second breakfast, his elevenses, and then he yelled again. I told him to be quiet in several languages. Nada. So I waterred the cat—he has been amazingly silent. I think he knows that he is not supposed to howl.

The food that the agency sends is atrocious for anyone who is a diabetic. Toto carbs. However, the opossum and raccoon are eating very well indeed. Fine porchlight dining and impromptu howling cat serenades. I’m still suffering from jetlag, and fall asleep practically in my dinner plate, and I’m still not done with my chores.

Florida Journals:

• • Home again, jiggity-jig (Florida Journals)
  • RIP, Buddy the Cat (Florida Journals) (photos)
  • Re-entry is a bitch (Florida Journals)
  • Flying home (Florida Journals)
  • Inside-out & backwards interview (Florida Journals)
  • Key Largo snorkel tour (Florida Journals) (photo)
  • Maimi Beach (Florida Journals)
  • Disconnectivity happens
  • The color of blood (Florida Journals)
  • Facewashing the cat (photos) (Florida journals)
  • Fasciated bananas (photos, drawing) (Florida journ...
  • A new day beginnith (Florida journals)

• • Buddy the Cat (more cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Losing the plot (Florida journals)
  • Mi vida loca (cat pix) (Florida journals)
  • Maimi Majordomo (Florida journals)
  • Justa’s story (Florida Journals) (folklore)
  • Florida Journals: caregiving for Justa
  • Airborne

Old Florida blogposts.

• Hurricane Charley, Mile Zero, Highway One (photos)
• Confessions of an iPod Roadie
• Letter from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal
• Missive from Fort Jefferson, Dry Tortugas, journal