Blog drought

Johnny Jump-ups make February appearance.

Or maybe that should be blog paralysis.  I've been mulling several topics, all of them languishing in the draft stage. But the following sentiment, or something similar, depending on time of day, obstructs my progress: Who the hell cares?  I should just go watch the Olympics. (Not unlike my thoughts when I started this blog.)


At this moment, I should just go for a walk! or get ready for a vacation that starts in a couple days. But I've decided. I'm not going until "this" is finished, even though I'm not sure what "this" is. I learned during the years I wrote a weekly newspaper column that even though I often had NO IDEA what to say, a looming deadline—like the next morning—would spark an idea. So I'd perch before my primitive 1980's computer and start typing. Anything. Just like I'm doing now. Over time, I developed faith that thoughts that had been roiling in my brain would bubble up and spill onto the screen. They always did, of course, because I took those newspaper deadlines seriously.

Lots of those columns were absolute dogs. But recently I've been looking them over and thinking, Hmmmm. Not bad.  So my younger self is inspiring my 25-years-down-the-road self to keep trying, even though I recognize that deadlines=discipline, and the only deadlines I have for this blog are self-imposed—which could mean more drought.
But anyway. For you faithful (and much beloved) few who check periodically to see if I've been able to cough up another post, here are some topics rumbling in my drafts file:

• I'm jealous of my kids.
• Life is senseless. But I like it.
• Not a goddess. Uh uh. 
• Southern Oregon Soul Food (series)
• Characters in ordinary life. (series)
• Why get out of bed?
• Girdles are back. Aack!
• Changing places. (caring for 93-year-old mom)
• PK's the Man!

Cold frame lettuce abounds.

See anything interesting?

And then, of course, there's all those fascinating garden updates and irresistible "what I made for dinner last night" recipes. Speaking of garden updates, you must be dying to know what's up in February. Quite a lot, really, considering the fabulous spring-like Oregon weather we had for the past couple weeks. (Rainy today, however.) Here are a few edibles ready for harvest, or nearly so. I have trouble configuring blog photos, so bear with me. The captions for photos below are consolidated under the last photo.

 Cilantro not quite big enough to harvest. Magnificent Russian KALE and fall-planted broccoli that survived 8 degree nights in December. We aren't quite rolling in produce yet, but give us another month.

The belly as public domain

This is another one for my daughter-in-law and first-time-mother-to-be, who has recently complained about uninvited belly handling. It's rough, I know, but goes with the territory. I wrote the piece below when I was eight months pregnant with Chris. Don't worry, Heather. The bigger the belly, the worse it gets. 

Grants Pass Daily Courier
May 7, 1986

I'm getting to the big-bulge stage of pregnancy that's difficult to ignore. And, indeed, far from ignoring it, quite a few people seem to suffer from the delusion that a pregnant abdomen is in the public domain.

People I hardly know rub and pat my protruding belly as if it were some neutral object that happened to be between us, like a stone or a puppy. Some grab it with both hands as if it could be removed. They probe through the skin and fat, muscle and womb, right down to the baby. I silently command the little beggar to give the intruder a swift kick, but already the kid is disobedient and curls up sweet and docile.

There are the strokers who pet it and sort of coo. These are the ones who are speaking to the baby, not to me, and I feel old and in the way.

"Do you need a moment alone with it?" I want to ask, but don't.

The absent-minded feelers let their hands wander to my belly during casual conversation, as if walking their fingers around somebody else's tummy was the most natural thing in the world. Usually they're asking baby-related questions at the time time. "When are you gonna pop? or "Is it a boy or girl?" are the favorites.

Hearty patters give the old belly a slap and a ruffle, much as they might greet a large dog or a horse. "How's that baboo?" they'll ask.

I grin and bear it. For now, it's a part of my body that, being occupied by another person, is only partly mine anyway, and I view all the handling with some amusement. Depending on my mood, I even like it. When else will my midsection be lavished with so much attention?

Most of the time people are reluctant to touch one another in casual situations, but advanced pregnancy somehow invites intimacy. People seem to want to fuss over a baby even when the baby is still sheathed in its mother's body.

They want to fuss over the mother, too, opening doors, carrying groceries, picking up dropped objects, and performing other small services that suggest concern for one who's carrying about 25 extra pounds front and center. It isn't as debillitating as it looks, but most pregnant women appreciate the sympathy.

What they don't appreciate is people who feel compelled to relate Horrible Birth Experiences in gory detail. Even if you're able to stop them before they get to the worst part—the part they're dying to tell you—the damage has been done. Telling Horrible Birth Experiences to women about to deliver is akin to tell a mountain climber she can't reach the top, or a marathon runner that her lungs will burst at mile 25. It so rude and such a bad idea.

The absolute worst example of what NOT to say to a pregnant woman was said to me about a week before I was due with my first child. This moron's wife had just had a baby, and apparently the experience was not that uplifting, because he kept tossing out words like excruciating, terrible, and agonizing. His wife nodded gravely in agreement, doing nothing to soften the impression that giving birth is worse than the Chinese water torture.

He ended his tale with a remark to the effect that he'd sooner do himself in than endure such agony. Rejecting that option, I went ahead and had the baby. I found the event decidedly anti-climatic in the pain department and quite wonderful emotionally, despite Mr. Idiot's last-minute attempt at sabotage.

Fortunately for him, while blowing holes in my psychological preparation for birth, he didn't snake his oily hand over to prod my belly. If he had, I would have been sorely tempted to return the favor—with the bottom of my foot in that anatomical area where the sun don't shine.

Forgive mothers-to-be a couple idiosyncrasies

Our oldest son Quinn and wife are expecting their firstborn. They sent out the "bun in the oven"postcard in November 2009. The ecstatic news sent me rummaging through columns I'd written when Quinn, our eldest, was a child and I was expecting his brother, Chris. (Now, as I repost Times change but some things don't, and a wanted pregnancy is a time like no other. I wrote a lot about both boys during those incredible child-rearing years and will post a rerun column occasionally with notes about what I've learned since.

Grants Pass Daily Courier
April 2, 1986

Forgive mothers-to-be a couple idiosyncrasies.

The woman was well into the third trimester and struggled to write about it. Pregnancy is so, well, common, and maybe no one cares that she's getting close to being fruitful and multiplying. Pregnant women often secretly believe they're the center of the universe, forgetting that birth is as routine as spring, as ordinary as tulips. In philosophical moments they identify with the earth and how it is the medium for unfathomable growth. Seeds draw nourishment from it, and every spring the miracles repeat, renewing the landscape and replenishing hope.
The baby grows in her, but she does nothing. She has a vague sense that making a baby is the most important thing she can do, yet it requires no effort, no creativity. The egg that produced this baby was formed within her while she was still in her own mother's womb. At conception its physical characteristics were determined, written indelibly in genes.
Pregnant women think about such things and feel important but humble They can be dull company if they often share their thoughts, or if all they can discuss is the activities of the unborn.

The pregnant woman does not wish to bore anyone with incessant accounts of her past several months, but hopes she can be permitted some reflections. She periodically tries to ignore the whole process, turning her mind to matters of greater interest to he companions, but sooner or later, a keen sense of caring emerges. It is difficult to ignore the fact that a highly visible part of her anatomy is gradually being overtaken by someone who already has a functioning brain, and who can hear her voice and music and maybe even the songs of the spring birds in the orchard.
If for a moment she forgets her condition, the becoming person will energetically stretch or flex or roll. She suppresses the urge to call attention to these gymnastics, instead resting her hand on her abdomen and trying to visualize the small but growing person exercising its muscles, cell by cell building toward birth.
She is overwhelmed by curiosity about this person with whom she shares her body, her food, her moods, her thoughts. Sometimes she addresses it as "she," and sometimes as "he," not having a strong preference either way. She sometimes believes she may be the only expectant mother over 35 who doesn't know the sex and confirmation of her unborn child. She wants to know the baby is all right, but she knows she couldn't "do anything about it," as her doctor put it, even if it isn't. So she waits, sometimes impatiently, as the baby prepares
itself for life on the outside.

Quick cat update

Thanks to all who offered counsel regarding the Christmas cat moving in with my mom, age 93. Your advice, except for one (my wise sister, Monette who said no way!) was "sure, bring it on!" more or less.  Then it all fell apart because 1) my mom took another fall in her apartment, and adding even the slightest risk would have been irresponsible, and 2) that whore of a cat disappeared for almost a week. He materialized  on our doorstep last night, visibly more sleek and well fed than the last time he was here. i went right into slave-to-whore-cat mode and whipped up his favorite meal—baked chicken drumstick. Sometimes you just have to go with the status quo and call it good.

To cat or not to cat—petting the elderly

My mom, 93, likes cats. The "Christmas cat" I mentioned in an earlier post likes her. He is a mellow guy, prone to long naps. When mom's here, he nestles into her lap and she strokes him. They both purr. She asks about him when he's gone. "Is everybody accounted for?" she inquires, looking for him when entering our home. He spends hours in her lap. The question: should this cat be her apartment mate? The arguments pro:

• The elderly are often lonely and bored  and pets help give them purpose and companionship. I can hear her talking to him as I write. She coos, "Oh, so you do move every once in awhile. Nice kitty."
• Cats are silky and responsive and nice to touch and feel. The elderly get precious little of "touchy, feely."
  
• Her residence encourages small pet ownership.
• She's open to the idea, but worries that she "can't take it outside," not realizing many cats are house cats only. Our cats, the only felines she's known as far as I know, have been inside/outside beings with a come-and-go-cat door. The last one, Rowdy, our favorite for about 10 years, disappeared one summer night. After sad and fruitless searching, we figured he was eaten by an owl, a coyote, a raccoon, a fox, or a cougar. Country life is not always kind to pets.
• Provision for litter-box clean-up, which is beyond her, can be arranged.
• We could always take the cat back and continue to share him around the neighborhood.

The primary argument con:

• The cat is black, especially difficult to see in the night-lighted darkness by a visually impaired elderly person. Cats are a tripping hazard. My mom is increasingly prone to falling. Cats are notorious for slithering around ankles and being in the way.

Since I started this post, I've witnessed the usually docile cat in manic mode, outside, flinging himself from tree trunk to tree trunk in our small orchard. He rushes one trunk, grabs it with all fours, clambers up, drops, and flings himself onto the next tree. We've also noticed carnage—a mole's head, long front teeth intact—in a puddle of slime on the back porch. Is it fair to ask an inside/outside neighborhood cat to convert to inside only? Or would we be doing him a favor by providing him with reliable warmth, companionship, and food?

But really, it's not about him. It's about her. Does the safety issue outweigh the pleasure of having a pet? What do you think? Many readers have expressed frustration when attempting to leave comments. (Why is that, Blogger?) Try my email: mkorbulic@gmail.com. Facebook friends, you can weigh in via our fave social network.  I appreciate your thoughts.