Mo

A year after Miss Thing passed away, we decided we might be ready to let another cat into our hearts. We'd planned to pick one up from the shelter, when we spotted the ad in the Missoulian, “Two Mousers for Free.”

So we drove out to a ranch in the Potomac, and brought home two cats. Females. Half-wild, they'd lived most of their lives in a barn. We named them Harriet and Maureen – Harry and Mo.

We hadn't had them a day, and Harry disappeared never to be seen again. We lived at the foot of Mount Jumbo, and I prefer to believe that she’d decided to live out the rest of her life free. She obviously didn't like the idea of living in a house, and there were probably some juicy, fat mice running around up there.

But Mo liked us. She loved us, in fact. She especially loved sleeping on us…on our laps, on Tom's shoulders, or tangled up in my hair.

It wasn’t long before we realized Mo was pregnant. We suspected that she came to us this way. And we might have taken her back, but we already loved her too much to let her go. So we took her to the Vet’s for a prenatal check-up. Turned out she was very pregnant, only a couple of weeks from delivering.

I cleared out one of the drawers in our highboy, and lined it with cedar shavings, newspaper, and wide strips of flannel, torn from an old sheet. I slid it more than halfway under my side of the bed, so that just a few inches would poke out. I figured it’d be dark and private in there, but easy for her to climb into. And it sure seemed like she approved, because I found her sleeping in there the evening before she delivered.

That night Tom and I were sleeping, cuddled up in our comfy new queen-sized Serta, and Mo was cuddled up, too, on my pillow, her body nestled in my hair…

In the wee hours of the morning, I woke to the sound of her crying. Meowing. But when I heard her purring in my ear, I let myself drift back to sleep. I figured I must've been dreaming. But then she cried out again.

Half asleep, I reached up to pet her. It's okay, sweetheart. Wassa matter? Mommy's here.

But my hand didn't pet Mo. It touched something not-Mo. And it was then that I realized that my hair was wet, and there was something besides Mo sitting it. Something soggy. Something lumpy. And what the hell's that smell?

I jumped outta bed, screaming bloody murder, with this wet thing in my hand, ready to throw it across the room. Tom woke with my scream, and turned on the light.

My hair, my face, and my pillow were dripping with goo, poo, and amniotic fluid. And the soggy thing in my hand? A newborn kitten.

While Tom stayed in bed laughing, I moved mom and first-born kitty to the dresser drawer, and she delivered kitten number two.

I stayed with Mo, crooning and cooing while she delivered two more. And still chuckling, Tom removed the soiled sheets, and tossed my pillow in the trash can, outside.

Once we were certain Mo was no longer in labor, Tom took over with the reassuring noises. And until we ran out of hot water, I stood in the shower, shampooing sticky poo out of my hair.

The Eleventh Day of Christmas

Tom

Secrets in his mouth,
crayons in his hand,
2 days from now,
6 years ago.

He fell from the earth
into the world,
through gold in the trees,
and the stars below.

Scrapple

I just came in from a long walk. You can tell it's Fall. People are starting to cook again. Someone was roasting pork a block from here, and at the same time, I could smell frying bacon, and a memory came to me...

About every other Sunday morning, Tom used to make a big breakfast for us. It was usually of fried potatoes with onion, sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs, and pancakes. About a year into our marriage...it was a Saturday night, and I heard him out in the kitchen banging pots.

"You gonna make popcorn?"
"Nope. Corn Mush."
"Corn Mush?"
"Yeah. Where do you keep the bread pans?"
"You're making hot cereal. Why do you need bread pans?"
"To set the corn mush. We're having Fried Corn Mush for breakfast tomorrow."

Sure enough, he boiled up some corn grits, and spooned them into a greased bread pan, covered it, and set in the fridge overnight. And in the morning, he sliced it, and fried it in bacon grease. He had his with a couple of over-easy eggs on top, and sausage patties on the side.

The reason I'm telling you this part, is because after one bite, I knew it need molasses. I just knew it would be perfect that way. And sure enough, memories of eating fried corn mush came pouring out of my Brer Rabbit bottle. My mom used to make this! When did she stop? Why?

Fried Corn Mush is an inexpensive breakfast, and it can be eaten sweet or salty, as the main dish or the side. I prefer it fried in butter, and drizzled with molasses, but lots of folks like it with sausage and apples.

There's also a savory kind of corn mush my mother liked to make for frying that's very popular amongst the Pennsylvannia Dutch. It's called Scrapple.

Pennsylvania Dutch Scrapple

1 medium onion, chopped
1- 1/4 quarts water
1/2 pound finely chopped raw pork
1-1/4 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper
1 cup corn meal

1. Brown onion slowly in some sausage or bacon fat.
2. Add pork, seasoning and water.
3. Brink to boil, then turn down to simmer for 20 minutes
4. Add corn meal, and cook on lowest heat for one hour. Stirring frequently.
5. Spoon into a greased bread pan. Bang a couple of times to make sure there aren't any air bubbles.
6. Let set for overnight.

Cut in 1/2 inch slices, and fry in bacon/sausage fat until brown.

Ghost

Cleaning out the drawers...

Today I made ashes
of his last morning.

I put a flame
to the clothes
I'd bundled in red wool,
and tucked away
in the bottom drawer of his dresser.

In a black drum
I set fire to blood
and betadine,
and cotton jersey, scarred
from hurried scissors.

I added fresh sage and tobacco.
And I stood in the smoke.

Incognito

I was up late the other night, working on the spring header for an MSNgroup site that I manage, when suddenly I was overcome with a craving for chocolate. It was 2:30 in the morning, and I realized the streets were crawling with jocks and other such subhuman life…and the closest stop~n~rob is like 7 blocks away. So I decided to disguise myself - maybe try to look like a guy.

I've still got this old pair of Tom's jeans that I slip on when I'm doing handiwork or muckier yard work. But now you gotta understand, Tom was my height, but had much shorter legs, and he was very muscular. His waist got a bit wide, though – about a 38, and he wore relaxed-fit jeans with 30/32 inch inseam. (I have a 34 inch inseam.)

Well, I decided to put them on…but instead of overlapping the two sides of the fly, and pinning them, like I do here at home, I decided to hold them up with a pair of Santa-suit suspenders. (very roomy!) No one would see them, cuz they were going to be hidden by Tom's big bulky grey Pendleton jacket.

I tucked my hair under the collar, and put on one of his RMEF caps, a pair of really warm socks, and my redwing boots. ♪taDA ♪

Well, I got there, no problem. I didn't meet a soul on the street. I got inside, and was looking for a bag of Hershey kisses. Well, some guy comes up next to me…and I pretend he's not there…when alluva sudden he starts chuckling.

He says "trying to get up your nerve to rob the place?"

That startled me enough to look over, and it was cop! And now he's actually laughing!

"I don't know what you mean. I'm here for the chocolate."

"So what's with the costume?" You coming from a party?"

I told him the truth. "I'm came here on foot, and didn't wanna attract attention to myself."

First Kiss

Love! Love, love, love, love. You want to be in love.
That's right. You want to feel that first kiss again.
Because that's the only real kiss in a relationship, is the first kiss.
All the rest of the kisses are just protocol.
Every other kiss is protocol. Just routine.
"Hey, you was gone, you back."
"Hey, we're having sex."
"Hey, I miss you."
The first kiss is the only real one.

---Chris Rock












I practically had to force myself on Tom, the first time we kissed. I went more than half way, and still he demured. I'd spent the entire evening giving him every come hither signal I could think of...incidental touching; sitting thigh to thigh; ignoring every other guy at the party; joining him out on the patio when he went for a smoke. And even as I closed in on his lips, he stood wooden. I had to do everything!

He told me much later that I'd been drinking, and he didn't think I would've wanted him if I'd been sober. Oh please!

Buzzard Bait

The year Tommy turned 9, he and Pat decided that they needed a pet buzzard. The problem was, they couldn’t seem to get close enough to any buzzards to grab them.

But Tommy had a idea. Buzzards eat dead things, so all we need to do is get one to think we’re dead, and he’ll walk right up to us. Then we’ll grab him!

Pat wasn't so sure. He’ll know we’re just faking cuz we don’t look dead.

But Tommy said, Not if we look like we just this minute died from bleeding to death.

So, the next day, before leaving for the hills, Tommy snuck into his mother’s pantry, and got himself a bottle of ketchup.

They found the perfect clearing, and only after they staged a convincing battle in which they would both die, Tommy and Pat put down their wooden rifles, and opened the new bottle of ketchup. They took turns pouring its contents on each other, and then crawled almost 20 feet in the tall dry grass, moaning, Oh I’m dying. I’m dying.

Naturally, they had to make certain that the buzzard was convinced. So for good measure, the boys got up and did their best I’ve-just-been-shot-by-the-Enemy collapse, falling back to the ground.

And then they waited.

On their backs, they waited. And they planned about what to do when the buzzard walked up to eat them. I’ll get up and grab him by his legs. No. I’ll jump on top of him. Should we tie him up with my belt? Hey, shut up. He’s probably looking at us, right now!

And for a long while, watching the blue, cloudless, buzzardless sky, neither said a word.