Well into July now, the weather is hot and steamy and the neighborhood is a-pop with the next phase of color and bloom. With just the tiniest bit of guilt, I note the tidily tended perennial beds of the house next door; weed-free and thoroughly mulched. I have allowed the plant life to run rampant in this yard – it has been difficult to distinguish what is a weed and what is not at this point. The growth on and around The Urban Porch hovers in limbo phase, no longer well kept, but not yet gone to hell. There is a shabby wildness I am rather enjoying. No doubt, as the month wears on it will all tip over into a disheveled mess, but for now the random bursts of color are somewhat delightful.
a delightful mess – shabby chic?
Intermittent storms have provided blustery winds and a few buckets worth of rain, which have kept the gardens going during the heat.
enjoying some intense wind and rain
Tiny, crimson explosions of Bee Balm dot the yard, emitting minty scents when brushing by.
Bee Balm (Monarda)
“The Oranges” of Summer have arrived. Sneezeweed hugs the foundation.
Sneezeweed (Helenium)
Daylilies rise up amidst the tangle of unidentified growth.
A few Nasturtium are spreading out and opening in the patch where the poppies had previously been.
Despite what I had thought was my heavy-handed removal of the Trumpet Vine this past spring, it has persisted. How unfortunate that this distinctive clarion of Koi-colored blooms is so invasive.
Trumpet Vine (Campsis)
Mere steps away in a neighbor’s front yard, a variety of vibrant orange Coneflower draws the eye. I have the mauve ones – perhaps these are a possibility for next year….
Coneflower ( (Echinacea)
Potted plants on The Urban Porch reflect The Oranges of Summer too. An occasional Hibiscus flower will bloom for a day.
Cheery Marigolds and Sungold cherry tomatoes share space.
happy and bright
Sungolds, sweet as candy
The Black-eyed Susan Vine sends tendrils out to the railing.
Black-eyed Susan Vine (Thunbergia alata)
Rudi, framed in white blossoms, surveys the scene beyond the porch.
Porch Papillon
These light-hearted petunias were lush and happy a few weeks ago, but the heat of west-facing afternoons is taking its toll on them now.
Some flowers blew quickly by – the Hollyhocks that return each year by the kitchen haven’t merited comment and are pretty much done now. The palest of yellow, they lack contrast, tending to get lost against the house of a similar shade.
The leaves have developed Hollyhock Leaf Rust Disease, which should probably be dealt with. Although it’s not a good thing, the affected leaves look interestingly cool in their own damaged way. I’m actually enjoying the patterns of the fungal infestation on them more than the blooms…..
Rust fungus (Puccinia heterospora)
The huge Rose of Sharon that lends privacy on The Urban Porch has once again not disappointed, creating a deep pink, bumble and honeybee-filled screen.
Time appears to be moving at a serious speed. It seems within mere days, the Robins went from eggs to hatchlings, quickly fledged, and were gone.
so new
briefly young
ready to leave home
Sweetly scented privet flowers came and went. The aroma of privet brought distant recall of decades past, lost childhood, hot breezes and dreamy evenings.
The Milkweed has flowered and turned to pods.
MIlkweed (Asclepias)
Out and about, hot temps and sporadic, soaking rainstorms have helped the Chanterelles to emerge.
And provided a significant blueberry season…..
After hanging about all day, every day, the crows have gone radio silent this week. Maybe it is just a temporary situation. Perhaps they are off at a crow-fest somewhere. I look forward to their return.
The squirrels are squirreling away their stashes, and it’s only mid-July!
School clothes are already being advertised in the stores before we’ve barely had a chance to get into bathing suits (well, OK, you won’t be seeing me in a bathing suit anytime soon, but I impress upon what appears to be the rapid urgency of the seasons).
Massive, billowy cloud formations typical of August skies have been frequent during this July. It seems everything is ahead of schedule.
Summer. Couples stroll by in the cooler hours of evening, families navigate the uneven bluestone sidewalks while pushing strollers. People walking dogs, listening to music or talking on their phones – often simultaneously. Children fly down the street on their razor scooters, a caravan of friends breeze by on their bicycles. Neighbors weeding their gardens, the distant drone of a lawnmower. Cardinals call back and forth from the trees. Everyone out on their porches, sipping lemonade, having a smoke, waving hello, sharing news, gathering to chat.
While observing the turn of the seasons and the flow of humanity past my front steps, I cannot help but reflect on a framed poem my mother had placed inside our front door when I was growing up – a stanza from “The House by the Side of the Road” by Sam Walter Foss (1858-1911), a New England poet and librarian. After learning to read, I memorized it and enjoyed reciting it often, all the way down to loudly concluding “By Sam Walter Foss!” at the end, with tremendous elementary-school enthusiasm. Something to aspire to, it is now hanging by my front door – I can’t help but think it lends relevance to The Urban Porch. In relation to “man”, this would encompass animals and nature as well.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner’s seat Nor hurl the cynic’s ban- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
Back when we were teenagers, my dad gifted my sister Charlotte and I each a silver and turquoise bracelet. I want to say he got them in Arizona, but that part of the memory is sort of hazy, and actually irrelevant. But he “brought them back” from somewhere he had been, specifically chosen with us in mind. Without a doubt he had put consideration and intent into picking out which bracelet went to which daughter, because that’s the way he was. His gifts always reflected thought.
The one he gave Charlotte was larger and a bit more detailed of the two. Mine was not as ornate. I admit to being slightly envious of her fancier one – initially. But it quickly became clear to me that the smaller and simpler one he had picked out for me suited me better and worked well with the other silver cuffs I wore stacked together. And hers was actually perfect for her.
Charlotte and I had a somewhat acrimonious childhood relationship and our adult connection remained complicated. Thus we grew up and went our separate ways, with vastly different lifestyles, living in vastly different states. While we remained in regular touch, over the years our physical visits were infrequent. But whenever we did see each other, we always happened to show up spontaneously wearing our childhood Dad-gift bracelets – even though neither of us had discussed it beforehand. Upon noticing this, we would look at each other, hold up our wrists and smile knowingly. It was an unspoken bond, one of many unspoken things.
Charlotte left this earth many years ago. Now I have them both.
Occasionally I will wear my own silver cuff, and think of my dad almost every time I put it on. When I wear Charlotte’s turquoise bracelet, it is in tandem with my own. This happens annually on her birthday, at my daughter’s wedding, and at other events where she should have been present.
Recently on her birthday, I took them out of the little pouch I keep them stored in and put them on once again. When I wear them in honor of our relationship, I can’t help but glance down at my own arm and wish her fancier bracelet was adorning her wrist instead of mine.
Object attachment is a normal part of being human, something that begins in childhood. As long as it is not obsessively out of control (like a hoarder situation), there really is not anything especially unhealthy about it. While I love my stuff, there are many items I have no trouble detaching from. As a matter of fact, I often take pleasure in releasing previously enjoyed possessions back out into the world, both randomly and with intention. It can be easy to free myself from some of those memories, while other times it might take a while before being ready to let them go. But there are certain inanimate objects attached to people or events which tend to hold significant weight and importance, lying close to my heart. The value is not monetary, but purely and strongly emotional. These bracelets are an example of preserving a memory that is precious.
As the years blast by and we find ourselves propelled into what is supposed to be the golden light of senior-hood, it becomes practical to downscale, although that has been met with a bit of difficulty. It has become clear that those sentimental attachments will not hold the same meaning and importance for the next owner. Think of all the wedding and engagement rings, heart-shaped lockets and initialed charms, symbols of once-upon-a-time love that end up in pawn shops, flea markets and garage sales, the passion and caring intent behind them long forgotten. Depending on the circumstances, some of that might be rather sad. I have at times wondered about people who have no sentimental attachment to anything at all. Yes, there is such a thing as embracing the concept of Impermanence, but sometimes I ponder – is there a coldness in their hearts? Is this healthier…or maybe not as healthy? Does it even matter? I guess there are extremes on both ends.
In the case of our sister bracelets gifted from our father, it pains me a bit to think someday their story will probably be lost. How magical it would be if they could continue to carry some sort of residual energy, imbued with all those years of love.
Although not necessarily their style, I plan to give one to each of my daughters, the style chosen specifically to their individual nature. As my father did, I will know who will get which one, and why. Perhaps they might wear them at some point. Perhaps some day in the future while visiting each other, they will show up wearing their sister bracelets, gifted with great love from their mother.
Every once in a while I will glance down from my upstairs bedroom window in order to catch the flashes of crimson fish in my neighbor’s backyard koi pond. Seeing them lends a tiny slice of serenity. I’m always glad that most of them tend to survive the predators and winter cold, rising back up from the bottom to return each Spring. You can only see them from above until the trees come into full leaf during summer, at which point the view is obscured.
Although the view of the pond is currently hidden by a canopy of leaves, something blue along our shared back fence caught my eye. Could that be a Hydrangea? I had no idea there was a Hydrangea back there at all. I’m guessing it had never gotten large enough or made enough of a show to be seen from my perspective.
a glimpse of blue?
Walking down to the back of the driveway, I peered through the fence to check the patch of color on the other side and discovered the bush is actually huge. Who knew?
peeking at the Hydrangea
And then I started to notice the Hydrangeas seemed to be going wild all over the neighborhood. It appears to be a banner year for them. Has anyone noticed how prolific and gorgeous the blooms are right now? Especially the blue ones, but the others have been stunning as well.
Of course I had to look up why…… apparently this is happening throughout the northeast and has something to do with the amount of rainfall combined with a milder-than-usual winter, in addition to some strong sunny days. Aside from the variety, the acidity of the soil factors into the shades and intensity of pinks or blues.
huge white pom-pom blooms as big as my head
The blues are so stunning I just get lost in them like a magical, textured sky.
All of the colors…..
Many years ago I planted a Hydrangea in front of another house a few blocks away. It usually makes a handful of blooms each summer. But driving past it the other day I did a double-take, as it has become a massive explosion of azure and sapphire. Rudi and I took a walk over there to admire them.
“who’s so beautiful?”
All of the varieties are lovely, but the blues have always been my favorite. There is something about blue in nature that sets an interesting mood.
High up in the crow tree, my crow friend calls out from a Hydrangea-colored sky.
It is blueberry season right now. Can you almost taste the blue?
June to July, slipping into the season of Summer, a season of Something Blue.
Back over the winter, a woman called out to me as I was walking across the parking lot of a shopping plaza. A friend and I had been out doing a little pre-holiday purchasing together – we had just left the store and since I don’t hear very well, I didn’t hear my name being called. I would have kept on walking by, no doubt appearing rude, had my friend not alerted me.
Immediately I recognized the woman who had called my name. The first time I had met her was at a workshop on memoirs a number of years ago, where people shared some very intense and personal stories, which resulted in creating some trusting bonds and connections. She is a rather strong writer who disclosed thought provoking and moving narrative. While we don’t live in the same town, we do live in the same county, and so we have run into each other a few times since then while out and about, which always results in brief, pleasant conversation. We are also connected on social media. So here we stood, and as I looked into her familiar, smiling face, I suddenly could not for the life of me remember her name.
What is their name?
This might not have been an issue, but for the fact that my friend was standing there next to me, awaiting an introduction. A few awkward seconds (which felt like an eternity) clicked by before they (gratefully) introduced themselves to each other. Once she said her name (of course, how could I have forgotten?) I shared that I had (rather synchronistically) just received an essay in an email that very morning from the facilitator who had taught our workshop way back when. But when I went to mention the name of our teacher, I could not remember her name either! My brain had just totally frozen, the same way your computer might suddenly freeze and lock up. As I tried to recall the name of the workshop facilitator, I looked at my fellow attendee expectantly, hoping she would fill in the blanks – yet simultaneously, she had the same memory lapse and also could not recall the name either. So we stood there with our mouths open, grasping at threads; “You know, the woman who ran our workshop”,“Yes, it was…. starts with an M?” while we tried to put a name to the clear image of the face in our minds.
Afterwards I actually did look up the teacher’s name…..which did not begin with an M. This dual brain-fart was yet another “senior moment” in a string of increasingly annoying and somewhat disturbing temporary lapses. All three of us stood there, suddenly speechless, until my friend (who had no connection to any of this and became tired of standing out in the cold) indicated she was eager to be on our way, politely prompting us to get going.
You know how it is, right? You walk into the kitchen to get something and then forget why you walked into that room. Of course there are plenty of other things to do in the kitchen, so you get side-tracked into opening the refrigerator or picking up a sponge to wipe the stove. Or maybe you just stand there in the middle of the floor while your mind whirls around trying to remember what task had been at hand moments before. Giving up, you then leave the room, maybe walk back upstairs, only to remember what it was and head back down to the kitchen again. If you are lucky, this scenario might only play out once. It is funny/not funny that a few times I’ve gone up and down the stairs more than once. At best it’s just a case of being distracted. At worst it sets off all sorts of senior-related worry, even though this seems to be a normal aspect of aging.
Why am I here?
This phenomenon (I really don’t want to call it an “affliction”) seems to be a common theme with just about every friend or relative I’ve spoken to that is about my age – and even a bit younger. Why did I walk into this room?Where are my glasses? (They are on top of your head). Where are my car keys? (In the last jacket you wore? In your pocket? Still sticking out of the lock in the back door?). Where is my phone? (THIS is the one that is providing the most mileage for me).
I misplace my phone pretty much every day. I lay it down to do something else, wander away from it for a minute, and then – poof – it pulls a Houdini. Because of this, I have unfortunately/disappointingly decided to forgo having a trendy, cool-looking, design-covered, artsy protective case on my phone and have opted instead for a very brightly colored solid one that will stand out every time I lay it down. I realize this is the equivalent of ditzy old women that would put plastic flowers on the antenna of their car so they could find it in a parking lot. I will admit that I have a sticker in a window on each side of my car, only so I can recognize it from all the other cars of that model that look the same. Although these days, all I really have to do is search for the one with the missing fog light, cracked bumper and dents on each corner. But I digress……..
So yes, I misplace my phone pretty much every day at some point – often multiple times a day. Usually it just takes a moment or two where I can retrace my steps and locate it. But occasionally it seems to vanish in thin air…. or hide in plain sight, despite the bright-yet-unartistic case on it. When it comes to a critical impasse, if anyone is available at the moment I will ask them to please call my number to help locate it. But here is where it gets especially tricky.
The phone is connected to my hearing aids, so when someone calls me, it does not ring aloud for anyone else to hear – it only rings in the aids. This means there is no way to pinpoint the actual location of a ringing phone, as it is silent to everyone else. Yet for me, there is this directionless ringing going on in my head, which has me uselessly twirling around in circles like a dog chasing its tail, trying to spot it. The best I can discern from this ridiculous situation is that the phone must not be very far away (like outside in the car) and possibly still in the house. I do have the strobe light set on the phone that will go off when it rings, but if you lay it down the wrong way that is not going to help. And even if the light is face-up, you still have to go from place to place trying to find a flashing light, which is not obvious unless it’s nighttime and you are in the dark. You see where this is going…..
Every time I have any kind of doctor appointment they ask me how much weekly exercise I get. This appears to be a standard doctor appointment question. Without a doubt, the most exercise I accrue is by running up and down the stairs multiple times a day, either looking for my phone or forgetting the reasons why I went up (or down) and doing it all over again. Once upon a time I had one of those knock-off Fitbit pedometers that counted your steps. If I could remember where I last saw it, I might put it back on just so I could tell them at my next appointment about my amazing mileage. There are fifteen stairs in this house. That’s a trip of thirty stairs each time I do it. Multiply that by the ongoing trips up and down them all day and I should have Quads of Steel by now. I honestly don’t understand why I don’t!
To get around this Common Aging Phenomenon, I’m finding there are a few Senior Hacks that can be used. If you have a second device available and they are connected, you can use that to help locate your phone. And then there are tracking tags. About a year ago I had bought one for the dog’s collar, but discovered it was a bit too big for his little self. Having already spent the money, I laughingly thought, “Why not?” and attached it to my keys. For the most part it’s been just some extra dangling junk on the key ring that I’ve forgotten about. I’ve never really had a reason to use it…until about ten days ago. While rushing around to leave for an appointment somewhere, suddenly (of course) my keys were missing. Normally they would only be in one of two places – either hanging on the key rack on the wall, or in a purse. So I did the backtrack. Checked all the pockets, all the purses, took a walk out on The Urban Porch to see if they were sitting outside. Started looking on top of every table and dresser, every counter and chair, in every single room. Nothing. And I was going to be late.
Suddenly, I remembered the dog’s AirTag! Using my phone (which, blessedly, I had not misplaced at that moment) I traveled around following the (not exactly perfect but somewhat helpful) directionals until I actually located them – on the floor by the front door, underneath a pile of shoes. How they ended up there is beyond me, but I can safely say they might not have been found for a few weeks beneath that mess otherwise.
For the most part, up until recently I’ve been averse to certain levels of technology, this being one of them. But now I have to admit, it really is tempting to get about twenty of these gadgets and start attaching them to everything. Find My Car. Find My Purse. Find My Other Shoe.
The other Useful Thing is the key fob for your car. When I park the car in a lot and forget exactly what row I left it in, if you keep hitting the Lock button on the key it will make the lights flash and the horn beep once or twice. Of course I can’t hear the beep unless I am pretty close to it, but the flashing lights have been somewhat helpful at times. And I learned that if you are in a really big parking lot in an airport, it is useful to actually take a photo of where you parked with your phone for future reference. Because if you return in a week, you might not remember and those lots are pretty big. Once upon a time my poor mom had to be driven around a large mall parking structure in a little golf cart by a parking attendant because she couldn’t locate her car. I’m thinking a number of us are not too far away from that possibility.
I will add that these technology hacks cannot always be trusted. For example, instead of the little daily planners we used to use years ago (do they even make those anymore?) all my appointments are stored in my phone calendar now. It is supposed to alert you when an appointment is coming up, and so whenever I’m asked if I would also like an appointment card, I tend to say “No thanks, I’ll just store it in my phone”. But they are not fool-proof. Sometimes if you put in a time, for some reason the phone memory will remember the time of the previous appointment from the same place and revert to that, unbeknownst to you – until you appear at your next appointment at the wrong time. Worse, sometimes you think you put the date in right, but one false move of your fat finger on the screen might mean the date got changed. This has happened to me a few times. I’ve shown up for a medical appointment on the wrong day (after driving over an hour to get to it). Or the wrong time. The worst though was missing the time of a memorial for someone special. I’m not quite over that one yet.
These are not actually things that can be blamed on Senior Moments, they are technology fails – at least as far as I am concerned. I do have a good old fashioned wall calendar to refer to – I just have to remember to write everything down on it – and to take the appointment card when they offer it to you. And maybe, just maybe, tie a string around a finger…….
As I headed back toward the house after the last evening dog walk tonight, I wondered to myself when the fireflies would appear. They always show up in June. As if a manifestation of my wishes, there they were as I approached my yard – the first fireflies, blinking on and off in front of The Urban Porch.
Tiny black and red ladybug larvae have appeared on the porch over the last couple of weeks, alighting on a flower pot, landing on my hand or lap as I sit outside sipping iced tea. They look like little monsters – I had to do some checking to figure out exactly what they were. I don’t recall seeing any last year, but have encountered plenty this month. Apparently they eat aphids, so they are a good thing.
tiny ladybug larvae
They quickly have become Ladybugs and beetles. I have escorted a few out of the house.
The flowering of the Tulip tree – a particular favorite – has already come and gone in what felt like a lemony/greenie/neon orange flash.
Tulip Tree (Liriodendron)
Their flowers are so gorgeously weird in the coolest sort of way.
totally cool-looking Tulip Tree flower
The hens are laying. Neighbors leave fresh eggs on the doorstep.
Emboldened House Sparrows dive, perch and continually chatter on and around the porch.
A Mourning Dove sits on the wire above the bird feeder next door, waiting patiently for the bully sparrows to give it a chance at some spilled seeds.
Small tomatoes have emerged in the pots.
And the purple sage is ready to be used in any dish, should I feel creative.
The crows continue to inhabit the Crow Tree, taking off and landing like witches in the sky. Yesterday I left some food out for them, but they did not come for it. However, they continue to watch. One landed on the corner of the house to check out the scene before leaving in a noisy rush.
witches in the sky
The Smoke Trees have created glorious, dreamy clouds of pink. Along with the Tulip Trees, I think they are my other favorite tree of Spring.
Smoke Tree (Cotinus)
the fairy clouds of the Smoke Tree
A glimpse of twin Fuchsia flowers dance just inside the porch window but don’t last long before dropping off. This tiny plant has managed to thrive on neglect over the past year. Historically I have never been able to make my Fuchsias last. They always seem to get infested with aphids. Perhaps those little ladybug larvae monsters could remedy that problem! I hope there will be more blooms.
The annual spring treat of Chicken of the Woods mushrooms (Laetiporus) lent substance to a dinner of “Chicken” Asian stir fry.
For some odd reason, the Peonies did not flower this year! Not a one! I don’t understand why, it is definitely strange. Plenty of leaves but no flowers. I miss their fragrance.
the flowerless Peonies
But the Wild Indigo has opened
Wild/False Indigo (Baptisia)
the Spirea is keeping the bees happy
while lemony pops of Evening Primrose – somewhat invasive but so sunny – have cropped up all around the porch.
Evening Primrose (Oenothera)
Mama Robin eyes me cautiously from her nest in the lilac bush.
Milkweed has burst through the driveway and has begun to make buds
as are the small spruce trees next door. They look like they should be so soft, but when I run my hands across them, their sharp needles stick into my arm.
White Spruce (Picea glauca)
Fledglings teeter above a doorway, ready to join the wild, wide world. Good luck buddy!
The mulberry trees are dropping great quantities of berries. I wasn’t going to bother with them this year, but while walking by the tree, I was overcome with the sudden urge to gather some for breakfast tomorrow.
The hanging plants on The Urban Porch and the height of the Rose of Sharon have blocked some of the view from the street now, lending a bit of privacy.
Along with the arrival of the fireflies comes the arrival of the mosquitos. I have already had encounters with a few. We are supposed to get our first real heat wave this week, which will direct outdoor enjoyment towards the earlier hours, as the western sun gets too intense on the porch in the afternoon.
For now, Rudi lazily plants himself in a chair and barks at the other dogs walking by.
little old Rudi resting on the porch
I make iced sun tea and observe the small joys of the season.
It has been enjoyable immersing in the late gifts of Spring, as we quickly (oh, so quickly) tip into Summer.
Crow sentinels come and go from the top branches of The Crow Tree throughout the day and into early evening. It’s been happening for the last couple of weeks. Observing them distantly from my view on The Urban Porch, it appears to be the same one or two. Perhaps that is just my imagination, as I have no way of truly knowing if this is so.
Although slightly hopeful that they would be scouting out a place for a rookery and return en masse as they did a couple of years back, it is late in the season and that probably would have occurred by now (see Crow Tree – 4/9/22).
Sometimes one will rest there for a solid length of time, a dark paper cutout against the sky. One cannot help but get the impression that while watching them, they are also watching you. Often a single crow will land and then call out to the others, who swoop around, briefly alight, and then leave. But at least one always seems to return and remain again for a while – perched, watching, and reporting.
Their moody silhouettes against a background of ever-changing skies continually draws my eye upwards.
on the bluest of blue mornings
on a backdrop of shifting evening clouds
Standing beneath the crow trees isn’t a good idea, as they have become unstable and have dropped dangerous boughs from high above, so when I do walk the dog that way, we crisscross the street so as not to be directly underneath. A few days ago, a few yards beyond the tree, we encountered a lone crow on the grass dining on some unidentifiable substance. I wanted to imagine it was bread, but it did appear to be ripping up some kind of meat. Crow didn’t seem to be alarmed at the presence of the dog and I in the least bit, and continued eating while we stood a few feet away to watch.
I had hoped to capture the shimmer of dark blues on the feathers, which simultaneously reflected and yet absorbed light into their depth. But although we were pretty close, my photos are – unfortunately – not very focused, as I had the dog’s leash wrapped around my wrist and he kept pulling away, shaking my hand while I attempted to hold the camera still.
Unlike many dogs I have known, he had absolutely no interest in chasing this bird, instead wanting very much to get away from it. Perhaps the fact that the crow was about as tall as he was and seemed to possess a palpable element of chutzpah might have influenced his decision to put some distance between them.
rather formidable
Back atop the tree, I watch the crow preening.
The grooming contortions conjure up images of Indonesian shadow puppets in my mind.
Their cleaning rituals cause a few loose feathers to fall to the ground.
As the day wanes, the crow decides to leave its towering perch, as it noisily calls back and forth to others in the distance. I figure that might be all for this evening, but it returns a few more times to land, fluff itself, turn back and forth in a few directions, only to take off again. I would love to know what they are thinking.
Then finally, this dark shadow departs, heading somewhere west for the night. Maybe see you tomorrow?
I can’t keep up with it, how is it possible these days of spring are blowing by? A glorious May it has been, filled with heady fragrance, breezy blue skies, gentle rains. On this last day of the month, here are the Purples of May as viewed from The Urban Porch.
I’ve got a thing about the Siberian Irises. I’m sorry (not sorry) if their photos keep showing up on these pages over the years. I love the surprised exclamation points before they open. I love the look of them against a weathered fence, or all rising in a row.
the lineup in front of the Urban Porch
There is a neighbor down the street – a Very Serious Gardener – who separated out her irises last fall and shared multiple pots to whomever wanted them. Over the weeks people would stop by to carry off large containers to transplant. Now our street is filled with gifted purple iris bounty, as are the homes of my children and some friends in other towns too!
I already had some vintage ones growing around the Urban Porch that are steeped in memory, transplanted from a home decades ago. It’s interesting how people who garden pretty much know where or who their plants came from, wouldn’t you agree? Almost anything I planted that came from someone else has a backstory. When they return year after year, I can’t help but think of those people. The newest irises were added along the fence line this past autumn. They did not disappoint.
There is also a bed of pale purple bearded iris growing on the far side of the porch. I am not as enamored of them, although they have lasted longer than the Siberian ones and have generally been pretty hardy.
The garden is filled with jewel-tones, the colors of semi-precious stones. Charoite and Serpentine. Fluorite and Malachite. Amethysts and Tourmalines, Jaspers and Jades. Jewels from within the earth and jewels from above the earth. I wear a garden of many-colored bracelets to celebrate the season.
With the recent rains, Spiderwort has exploded forth out of the Hostas bordering the front walkway. I don’t know how they got there, as I never planted them. Scraggly and bent at crazy angles, they rise above everything else and lend a bit of disturbing dissymmetry. Perhaps someone more meticulous might pull them out or move them, but I’m lazy and instead will just enjoy their shades of periwinkle blue until they are finished.
An almost neon pink/purple Spiderwort appears where the poppies had been. I did not plant that either, at least not to my recollection.
Along the back fence, lending some grace to a rather unsightly scrap metal pile (which I take no responsibility for and am not particularly happy about), the Wisteria once again blooms. It is a variety of wisteria with rather compact flowers, not the long, draping racemes that I am especially fond of, and not what I expected when they finally bloomed. But they are still pretty nice. It’s been years now. They have jumped the fence into the neighbor’s yard – I have no idea if she is cutting it back on her side or enjoying them. Perhaps next time I see her I’ll ask.
Overnight, magenta Rose Campion opened with a flush against the foundation of the house.
Rose Campion
Did I forget the Lilacs? How could I forget to add them? I return to insert a few lilacs of May here. What does purple smell like? The rich tang of grape? The spice of violet? The “Ahhhhhh…” inducing, heavenly waft of lilac…..
“Ahhhhh…..”
Pots on the porch also mirror the shades of amethyst, lilac and violet.
lobelia
petunias
I can’t help it – Earworm of the day – “Purple Haze” *
“….’Scuse me while I kiss the sky”
lavender
All the jewels! All the purples!
Farewell May! Hello June!
~*~
* “Purple Haze” – written by Jimi Hendrix – Are You Experienced (1967)
I don’t know why it is exactly, but going through the car wash has repeatedly provided brief moments of simple delight. Perhaps if getting the car cleaned was something that occurred more frequently, I might have eventually become a bit jaded about it. But I (somewhat embarrassingly) admit that the car does not get washed very often, ensuring an infrequent thrill that brings out my inner child.
The trippy patterns created by brush, spray, bubbles, light, and those great big blowers at the end generate constantly changing, mesmerizing windshield landscapes. This past week I went through a car wash where a series of different colored lights were strobing as the car moved through, enhancing the other-worldly experience.
The journey began as we headed towards the Milky Way galaxy.
There was a quick visit to a prehistoric planet – a deep, dark jungle below, where dinosaurs probably lurked. The glow of volcanic activity appears on the horizon.
Suddenly these wild-looking strips of furious fur and flame began attacking the glass, whipping around like some crazy interplanetary beast. How cool is that?
The beast quickly retreated, leaving behind a phosphorescent sea
which morphed into a moody sky of altocumulus clouds
And then, like a swift carnival ride, it was suddenly over. The winds sent the water droplets skittering away, leaving us squinting as we emerged into the bright sunlight, back on planet Earth.
It was a few seasons back when one of those universal symbol lights popped up on the dashboard display of my car, warning me of something amiss which required attention. It was the first time I had seen that symbol – what appeared to be the arms of a person rising up out of the water with an exclamation point in the middle, like a drowning man calling for help.
Pulling the car manual out of the glove box, I thumbed through the pages looking for the drowning man icon, and discovered it meant your tire(s) were probably low. Ah, I see. The “water” below is actually tire tread. The “arms” are the sides of the tire. And the exclamation point in the center is alerting you to look into something going on within. I sort of chuckled inwardly as my brain readjusted to the explanation, reflecting on those optical illusion pictures where they ask “What do you see? A vase or two faces? A rabbit or a duck? A women looking into a mirror or a skull?”
A low tire or a drowning man?
Of course, an Earworm of the Day started in my head, although this time it has not been a song but some lines from a poem by British poet Stevie Smith called “Not Waving But Drowning.” The movements of a drowning person out in the water are mistaken for waving by the people on the shore, a metaphor for the measure of inner loneliness and isolation that many of us feel at one time or another which goes unrecognized.
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
I fished around the overstuffed glove-box looking for a tire gauge and discovered an old feeler gauge for gapping spark plugs – something that (one-upon-a-time) I actually did – changed my own spark plugs, back in the days when I had some chops regarding these things. Those skills (and desire) are long gone, and yet I keep it in the car as a small reminder of who I once was. Do spark plugs even get gapped anymore or do they come pre-gapped? Honestly, I really don’t have any interest in that level of self-sufficiency anymore. And I didn’t feel like squatting down to check the tires with my (then) recently replaced hip either. So the next time I happened to by driving by the service department that has done plenty of costly work on my car, I stopped in and asked them about the light.
Now, I could have just said that the tire warning light was on and could you please check it? But instead, what automatically blurted out of my mouth was “The light with the drowning man came on in my car.” The guy behind the counter walked out and looked. When he turned around, I got the impression he was a bit amused but was trying to hide that amusement, perhaps out of kindness. He told me my tires were low and waved someone over to put air in them. And that was that.
Periodically, maybe once or twice a year, the light will suddenly come on again. Usually it has to do with seasonal temperature changes – the heat of summer, the cold of winter. Add air pressure. Remove air pressure. If I am in the area where I get the car fixed I will stop and ask them to make it go off. Once I was losing air as a tire was damaged and had to have it repaired, so clearly it can be a useful light. I am sure by this point when they see me coming they think “Here comes that dotty old lady with the hair and the dog again,” because each time I still always tell them that he light with the symbol of the drowning man is lit up. Then I watch them try to control themselves from laughing at me, although I am guessing after I am gone they might crack up about it. But the joke is not on me, it is not at my expense. The truth is that I am actually getting enjoyment out of giving them something to laugh about during their work day.
So the light has been on for a few weeks now, those bright yellow waving arms right in front of my face every time I turn the car on. Again, while in the area I stopped off and asked if they could check it.
The atmosphere was unusually quiet inside the service department. It was a hot day. There was nobody available behind the counter. From a distance I could see some guys who were busy, engrossed in their work and not looking particularly happy, although that might be a projection on my part. You don’t really know what is going on in a person’s life or their heart – inside any of us – just by a glance.
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way
They said.
There was one young guy standing there leaning against the wall, looking a bit lost. I got the impression perhaps he was a new hire, not able to assist anyone at the counter yet. Maybe he was just learning, or maybe hoping for something to do.
Finally, someone came to the counter. And I did it again, I could not help myself. I told him the light with the waving/drowning man had come on. I could see the looks on their faces as they struggled to hold back their smiles in an attempt to be polite and respectful to this (clueless?) woman…..and honestly, I admit I got a kick out of it again.
They sent the young guy out to attend to my tires. He found one that was very low, earnestly instructed me to watch it (which I will) and sent me on my way. I don’t know if they allow tipping there. I only had a twenty dollar bill on me anyway and wasn’t going to hand that over as a tip (although I wish I could have, just because). But I thanked him profusely and wish this guy all the best. I almost feel like going back with some cookies or something for him – and all of them (also, just because). In the meantime, hopefully this (clueless?!) old lady with the hair and the dog gave them a small moment of levity in their day.
The Dogwood tree at the side of The Urban Porch exploded with radiant blooms, sun filtering through translucent petals against vibrating blue skies.
Each year I almost forget how stunning the Dogwoods can be until it happens again.
Day after day I could not help but want to capture another view of their luminescence.
I kept going outside again and again to stand beneath the tree and gaze up at the sky through the branches. The view feels reminiscent of Van Gogh’s “Almond Blossom”.
Van Gogh’s “Almond Blossom” 1890
The Cardinals seem to love this tree. All day long, and especially in the early evening, they loudly call to each other from the branches – “Wheet-wheet-wheet-pew-pew-pew!“
Mr. Cardinal lends a pop of color!
glowing
It was only a blink in time before the petals dropped
leaving a light scattering of petal snow across the front yard.
Wanting to appreciate them much longer than they stayed inspired a search for other white and almost-white blooms around The Urban Porch and about the neighborhood. There are some lovely discoveries. I’ll share (or possibly bombard you with them) here.
Crabapple blossoms came and went quickly
The delicate fragrance of the invasive, yet beautiful, little bells of Lily-of-the-Valley flourish in the shady patches.
Lily of the Valley
lots and lots of Lily-of-the-Valley
Wood Hyacinth rises among the Hostas
These tiny pale buds of blush burst open to become white Lilacs.
Clover within the grass scents the air sweetly as you walk by.
Clover
Viburnum Plicatum over my neighbor’s fence
I almost pulled out the Eastern Bluestar by accident when I was weeding a few weeks ago. Every year I seem to forget what it is when it first comes up.
Eastern Bluestar
The fractal structure of seeds in a Dandelion head merits appreciation.
Dandelion
Woodruff
Japanese Snow Flower (Deutzia)
Spirea
These Irises just began blooming this morning, their white spears pointing toward the sky, then opening into delicate white birds.
Iris
It’s been white on white on white blooming over the last few weeks. Now more purples are suddenly emerging. The lilacs have mostly blown by – I really didn’t get a chance to share much on that, although I was inhaling and photographing them the entire time, for some reason encountering way more varieties than usual.
The house plants (the ones I didn’t manage to kill over the winter) have been relocated outside and arranged on the Victorian porch, where more time is being spent, enjoying glasses of iced matcha, reading, and observing nature and people from that vantage point. There have been a few forays to nurseries and garden centers, resulting in a carload or two of hopeful projects.
Trying to keep a handle on some of weeding is always a challenge – I doubt that will last once it gets too warm and buggy, but for now things are looking rather colorful and have provided a sense of appreciation and peace to my heart. I mowed the little patch of lawn in the front – the scent of freshly mown grass providing long-ago memories into happy places. This evening it remained light out until almost eight o’clock!
Here we are, three quarters through May already. It seems to be passing awfully fast; has anyone noticed?
I have pulled up this poem by Billy Collins – “The Lanyard” – every Mother’s Day, year after year. Although some of the technology has changed over time since it was written (for the current generation, typewriter and dictionary for the most part has been replaced by laptop and search engine), the translation and impact remains the same. I recall doing this with the same assured conviction as a child. I wish my mom was still earth-side now to share with her.
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
The Lanyard – by Billy Collins
The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
As always, the big old cherry tree across the street from The Urban Porch made a spectacular annual showing.
Walking beneath this fairy-like bower over the last few weeks has provided moments of daily enchantment.
The burst of warm temps a couple of days ago encouraged her leaves to push through, prompting a sudden drop of petals that left a massive, flamingo-colored blanket on the sidewalk and grass.
Rudi and I took a moment to enjoy this carpet of bubble-gum snow before the wind blew it away.
Papillon in Pink!
Thank you, Cherry, for the magic! So long until next year!
I’ve been bouncing between doing a little bit of yard work and planting myself in a chair on The Urban Porch during this spate of gorgeous days. The poppy patch, located in a corner of the front yard by the entrance to the driveway and near the sidewalk, is gearing up to its annual display. The patch began with a couple of small, wilted-leafed plants gifted from a friend’s prolific garden that didn’t seem to want to grow in mine.
For years nothing happened. And then one Spring day out of the blue, a couple of poppies suddenly appeared. As years have gone by they eventually spread out and have become a nice little bed that blooms each May and lasts a few weeks. Right now there are a mass of fuzzy-headed pods on the verge of bursting open to reveal their vermillion petticoats within.
getting ready…..
Yesterday morning the very first one bloomed, which was kind of exciting. It was small, but lovely, standing alone in contrast against a background of spent daffodil leaves.
There is a lot of foot-traffic going by on these bluestone sidewalks in front of the house. While out there weeding, many people stopped to admire the single blossom or ask what it was. I let them know if they kept checking back that it would be a treat to see them all together, like a party of Flamenco dancers in vibrant skirts. When the entire patch is in flower, people stop to take photos of themselves or their children in front of them. Some come with very good cameras to take professional-looking shots. While walking by, many cannot help but reach a hand out to gently brush the petals with their fingertips.
the first poppy to open
When the petals are finally spent and blown, I save the seed pods, to be shared with whoever asks for some. The poppies tend to bring some temporary joy to the neighborhood, much like the beautiful cherry tree across the street which just finished dropping all its pink petals.
Last evening when I went to take the dog out, I discovered the poppy was gone.
Someone had taken it! I couldn’t believe it…. I actually went outside again a number of times to make sure it was really not there. That perhaps it had been knocked over or stepped on by accident, or bent over and tangled in the other growth. But no, it had been picked. Somebody stole the lone poppy.
How incredibly disrespectful to just take flowers out of someone else’s garden without asking. And to take the only flower that was there! Beyond rude. I was hoping at least maybe it had been a child that had taken it. There is an innocence to that which would have felt a lot more palatable. But it wasn’t – it was an adult. I know this because there happens to be a video camera on the front porch and another one on the barn…. something that became an unfortunate necessity to install a few years ago. So I know that every single person that stopped to check out the poppy – from the time I was weeding the patch up until the time I took the dog out – was an adult. Which to me changes it from something rather innocent to something that feels rather violating. The waste of it also is that these particular poppies don’t last long once you cut them. I just hope that whoever took it really needed it, or gave it to someone whose day was then brightened.
I thought about putting a sign out by the flowers asking people to please leave them for others to enjoy and to take nothing but a picture. Except I already have a polite sign out there asking people to please be respectful and not let their dogs pee and crap in the flowers.
That sign is a brand new development…. it has only been there a day so far, and the reason I (reluctantly) had been considering getting one was because I am repeatedly picking up dog crap out of the yard (mostly left by the same neighbor). It is rather infuriating and kind of gross to be kneeling and shoulders deep into the weeding and having to deal with that. But the final event that pushed me to get that sign happened a few days ago, while I was actually sitting outside a mere few feet away from the poppy patch.
A woman and her dog came along and she stopped to let the dog pee all over them, right in front of me. Incredulous, I said to her “That’s my garden.” You would think any person with even a shred of awareness might have apologized and pulled their dog away. But she just stood there, allowing her dog to continue sniffing, peeing, and then (this is the worst) kick up/dig up the ground where the plants were growing! Acting like nothing was happening, she then asked me what they were. before ambling away. Honestly, I had to almost bite my tongue not to say “Are you some kind of clueless idiot?” Perhaps I should have.
So I put up that sign and have noticed, at least for day one, that it seems to have evoked a sliver of consciousness in a few people, who paused, noticed it, and then quickly pulled their dogs past the flower beds. However, knowing how it is around here, I expect to eventually either find a giant turd sitting in front of the sign making a defiant statement, or someone will just steal the sign. Either is a very real possibility and I would not be surprised if I wake up tomorrow morning and find the sign gone and a large pile of poop in its place.
In any case, I don’t want to fill the yard with signs (some of my neighbors have…I don’t know that they do any good though) and I definitely don’t want to be that cranky old lady sitting on her porch yelling at everyone to pick up their dog doo and not pick the flowers. I don’t want to be The Garden Police. I just have an ever growing disgust for disrespectful humans.
The truth – this is not about the flower – it’s only a flower and there will be other flowers. It’s more about a mindset regarding respect – of nature and of others – and it pushed a few of my buttons about all of it on a much greater scale. I could not help but reflect on something that stood out to me a couple of weeks ago while walking through a redwood forest. Some of the massive, fallen trees were filled with people’s carved names and initials. Even though those trees were no longer alive, there was still something so irreverent and emotionally disturbing about it. Synchronistically, I saw this poem posted on social media this week that went to the heart of addressing the apathy and disconnect :
Letter to the Person Who Carved His Initials into the Oldest Living Longleaf Pine in North America – by Matthew Olzmann -Southern Pines, NC
Tell me what it’s like to live without curiosity, without awe.
To sail on clear water, rolling your eyes at the kelp reefs swaying beneath you, ignoring the flicker of mermaid scales in the mist, looking at the world and feeling only boredom.
To stand on the precipice of some wild valley, the eagles circling, a herd of caribou booming below, and to yawn with indifference.
To discover something primordial and holy.
To have the smell of the earth welcome you to everywhere.
To take it all in, and then, to reach for your knife.
Today I think I am mostly going to fill the page with visuals. Spring has truly sprung.
My family are East Coast-West Coast people. At times all of us have been living in the East. Other times all have been residing in the West. There have been periods where there has only been one parent or sibling on one coast or the other. A handful of us here, a couple of us there. Over the decades, the numbers and configurations keep shifting, as some of us (but not all of us!) have gone through and continue to go through our nomadic dances, spanning five East Coast states and three West Coast states.
I am in the Northeast and have been for a long, long time now. But I still try to go back when I can, and when I do, it provides a temporary – but comforting – sense of place.
This year when I went to visit my family in the west, I was lucky enough to catch some lovely earlier blooms happening. The rolling hills and slopes were still verdant and had not yet become the hot, sleeping brown hushpuppies of summer.
In the gardens, French Lavender was in full flower, lending peeks into a mauve fairy-land.
Intoxicating clouds of Jasmine stopped you short in your tracks, luring one in for repeated inhalations of sweet perfume and gasps of “Oh My God!”.
Jasmine
Tiny blue orchid-like blossoms emerged from large bushes of fragrant Rosemary.
Blueblossom (Ceanothus thyrsiflorus) added a stunning hints of deep purple/blues.
Blueblossom (Ceanothus thyrsiflorus)
Picturesque vineyards stretched out for miles, the vines just beginning to leaf, with promises of bounty to come.
California Poppies were everywhere. In people’s gardens, growing wild by the roadside, into open fields, and glowing in the sunlight along shoreline cliffs.
With the cerulean sea as backdrop, hot pink and creamy white Ice Plants (Carpobrotus) clinging to the cliffsides created an alluring carpet of feathery petals.
Ice Plant (Carpobrotus)
Ice Plants at Bodega Head
Blankets of California Goldfield (Lasthenisa californica) stretched out into the distance, a super-bloom.
California Goldfield (Lasthenisa californica)
California Goldfield (Lasthenisa californica)
They mingled and overlapped with Douglas Iris, extending out into a separate carpet of its own.
Douglas Iris (Iris douglasiana)
Douglas Iris
In the forests, the Trillium was almost finished.
Lupin emerged in sunny, green-tangled patches
Lupin
and tall, oat-like grasses sparkled in the sun.
Small lizards darted across sidewalks and through gardens.
A large, majestic turkey struts through high grasses, displaying his fan for his harem.
On our walks, the sounds of Brown Creepers, Warblers, Vireos, Tanagers, Wrens, Woodpeckers, Ravens and Finches serenade us.
I soaked up the images of some of my favorites… the smooth and peeling bark of Madrone, and poppies! poppies! poppies! before heading back to the East.
Madrone (Arbutus menziesii)
And when I arrived home – back on the Urban Porch – Spring was just exploding there too. How lucky to have Two Springs!!!
The Hyacinth surrounding the very young Sugar Maple was doing its usual spread in the median, amidst emerging Hosta leaves.
Like clockwork, the one clown-looking rando Tulip popped up again.
A great big clump of Creeping Phlox clusters and spreads at the bottom of the stairway.
The Solomon’s Seal has opened its droplets
and the single, strange Trillium is doing its annual “almost but not quite open all the way” dance.
Despite being overshadowed by a massive Rose of Sharon, the Azalea has managed a few blooms.
On our dog-walk a few houses down, we find dainty Columbine in gentle ballet pink,
Columbine like ballet dancers
and some fancy variety of lilacs that are incredibly, gloriously scented. I stop and sniff, and sniff, and sniff….
The Urban Porch faces a huge, old, beautiful cherry tree growing across the street. It is possibly the best tree on the entire block. I am grateful to have caught it in full bloom again this year.
Woodpeckers, Cardinals, Chimney Swifts, Carolina Wrens, Tufted Titmouse, Crows and the relentless House Sparrows busy themselves with nesting and fill the neighborhood with song. Happy turtles in the bog emerge on these warm days and sun themselves on logs.
When I arrived back from our dog walk today, I discovered – once again – that plants and other debris had somehow become tangled in my hair. After doing a double check to make sure it was not something alive, I have determined this thing might be a dried up Rose of Sharon pod. I’m not sure how that even happened (see Things That Land In Your Hair 7/30/22 for some history), but I guess it’s an indication that I am truly back home.
Rudi suns himself on this sunny spring day, as we move into the beautiful month of May and enter yet another cycle of Views From the Urban Porch to look forward to.
Whenever I find myself walking deep within shaded forest pathways dappled with sunlight and enveloped in a holy hush, it is pretty much a certainty that the same beautiful and moving song will suddenly fill my head. “The Green Cathedral” was part of the holiday assembly repertoire in our elementary school chorus, either in fifth or sixth grade. It keeps popping up and will not go away.
I know a green cathedral
A shadowed forest shrine
Where leaves in love join hands above
To arch your prayer and mine.
The first soprano, second soprano and alto parts still echo in my mind. For some reason, it also tends to bring a lump to my throat – I am not sure if it was the blending harmonies that were so moving, the images of beauty it has always conjured, or the childhood connections I am making, but I almost always feel just a little bit like crying when I think of it.
Within its cool depths sacred
A priestly cedar sighs
And the fir and pine lift arms divine
Unto the pure blue skies.
In my dear green cathedral
There is a flowered seat
And choir loft in branchéd croft
Where songs of bird hymn sweet
While it is usually leafy, verdant tunnels of oak, maple, birch and pine that I am ambling through when the song gets triggered in my heart, most recently it was a walk through a redwood forest with my sister and brother-in-law when the song (which became an earworm) struck. I can say that redwoods and cedar are equally as adequate for the imagery. My sister was unfamiliar with the song – I tried singing a few lines to her, but the emotional constriction it caused in my throat and a slight welling up of inexplicable tears prevented an adequate execution of such. I don’t know why that happened, and almost why it always happens…….. why I am moved by whatever this song brings up inside.
But apparently, this song from childhood school choruses of generations past has moved many. When I tried looking up the lyrics, I kept stumbling upon one blog site after another where “The Green Cathedral” was the subject, the writer filled with childhood memories and deeply touched.
As is not unusual for me, some of the lyrics are incorrectly recalled, and I never have been able to remember all of the last verse beyond a reference to God – possibly because my part at the end consisted of many drawn out “Ahhhhhh” and “Ooooooh” notes instead of words, delivered in a rising crescendo, as if offered up to the heavens.
After locating the lyrics, I hunted down some videos of various choirs performing this song. The ones I found were mostly church choirs, and while the song was definitely the same, for some reason they don’t quite have the same impact, as they don’t sound how I remember; the rich harmonies swirling around me as I stood on an elementary school stage, wearing a dress with a frilly collar and T-strap shoes, singing my heart out to the blur of faces in the audience, hoping some of those faces might possibly be those of my parents.
“Ahhhhhhhh, Ahhhhhh, Oooooooooooo…….”
~*~
The Green Cathedral – by Gordon Johnstone and Carl Hahn, 1921
So many of us get excited by celestial phenomena, and I’m mostly on that train, having repeatedly found myself shivering in my nightgown while standing on a back deck covered in snow – at 2:30 am in sub-freezing temps – in order to glimpse the dark red orb of a lunar eclipse. Or standing out in the middle of the road in the middle of the night, looking for the aurora borealis when it was only a lightening storm (see Aurora – 7/14/2023). Meteor showers. Rainbows. Sitting on the porch waiting for a tornado. So getting geared up for an eclipse was a given, although I honestly had to wonder what all the mega-hype was about surrounding this particular solar eclipse compared to others. While planning on checking it out, I was not particularly over-excited about it and had a tiny bit of Eye-Roll Attitude regarding all the hoopla.
Somehow, it seems that past ones were not generating as much attention….. do you think that’s true? Perhaps the media blitz surrounding this one has been necessary in a way, providing a badly needed shift of our collective gaze in order to focus away from some of the dauntingly difficult happenings occurring on earth; directing our eyes instead to an awesomeness we have no control over in the sky, if only for a few moments. Perhaps it has also been a way to promote tourism and commerce? In any case, it has been an Ultimate Distraction nationwide. I will admit that over the past number of weeks during the buildup to it, I have had this incessant earworm going on and on in my head – “Waiting for the Sun” by The Doors.
Can you feel it Now that spring has come And it’s time to live in the Scattered sun
It’s true there are myths, legends and beliefs concerning the celestial phenomenon. The gods are angry. The sun is being devoured by the moon, or a dragon or a squirrel. The moon is a demon head flung across the sun. Or the sun is sick. Bad omens. Can you imagine what it must have been like in ancient times to experience one unexpectedly – before widespread information and science lent explanation?
from the Nuremberg Chronicle 1493
The first one I experienced as a child was linked to a mildly traumatic – but vivid – familial event, which I mentioned here years ago. (see Circle – 8/21/2017). Those memories were brought up once again during the solar eclipse of August 2017. And yet again this past week.
Waiting for the sun Waiting for the sun Waiting for the sun
During the 2017 one, I stood out on The Urban Porch by myself, marveling with excitement. The birds had suddenly silenced. The light had taken on a strange glow. Altered sunlight filtered through the hanging plants, creating a carpet of crescent shapes that shimmered across the porch floor, while hundreds of dancing sun-moons were cast upon the street, caused by the light streaming through the leafy trees.
Prepared with my trusty spaghetti colander to use as a filter, it was awesome to project tiny crescents of shadows and light.
Yes, it was cool. But I still could not imagine why people were taking hours-long road trips where they would be sitting in heavy traffic, or actually flying to “path of totality” viewing destinations at great cost – risking the possibility of overcast, cloudy skies – for something that would span a couple of hours but only peak for about four minutes.
Waiting Waiting Waiting Waiting
The sun was going to be about 95% obscured where I live, which felt sensational enough for me. Despite an invitation to a local Eclipse Party with friends, it seemed being perched right out on my front Urban Porch – facing west and with a birds-eye view – would be an ideal and comfortable place to be. So I picked up a couple of pairs of solar sunglasses from our local library, brought the porch chair cushions that had been stored over the winter down from the attic, and settled myself outside with a bowl of very yummy leftover farro salad, a thermos of ice water, and a package of Le Petit Ecolier dark chocolate cookies. I was set to just enjoy the day fully indulging myself….. and then my neighbor wandered over.
eclipse solaire et biscuits au chocolat
I don’t really know the newest influx of neighbors very well, although they seem friendly enough. We wave from afar, and if we do run into each other, we tend to make small talk, but that has pretty much been it. My neighbor immediately next door wasn’t planning to watch the eclipse, but her job had been unexpectedly cancelled for the day. Since I had an extra pair of eclipse glasses to share, I waved her over to come watch with me for a while. We ended up spending at least two enjoyable hours together on The Urban Porch, with future plans to go out to dinner. We might not have made a connection otherwise.
During the slow trajectory of the moon, little social moments kept occurring. Another fairly new neighbor from down the street saw us and strolled over to chat and take a peek through my glasses. The mailman was out there delivering throughout the whole event. He said he didn’t have any eclipse glasses, so I invited him up on the porch to look through mine. I’m glad he got to see it. Afterwards, neighbors kept stopping each other on the street to discuss their thoughts and experiences about it. Friends and family called, texted and sent pictures from afar.
Can’t you feel it Now that spring has come That it’s Time to live in the Scattered sun
So we hung out, ate cookies and chatted, while repeatedly putting on and taking off the glasses, exclaiming “Ohhhhh” and “Ahhhhh” and “Wow!” and “How cool!” as ever-larger cookie-bites kept getting eaten out of the sun.
It never became totally dark here, but at about peak a beautiful, thin sliver of a crescent was revealed. The incessant raucous of our resident house sparrows suddenly ceased – save for one oddball that gave a few more short, surprised peeps before quieting. The road was empty of cars; all action stopped. Amidst that weird and almost magical silence, the light got strange, the air becoming cold enough that my neighbor put her sweatshirt back on. There was a palpably odd, physical shift in my head that I can’t quite articulate. I would not say it was “trippy,” but maybe “briefly altered” would be a better description. Maybe it was the light, I don’t know. Maybe it was too many chocolate covered cookies. “I’m getting this sudden, weird feeling,” I said. She concurred – “Me too.”
94.6% – photo by Peter S.
As the moon continued it’s trajectory past peak, the crescent tilted until it looked like a grinning Cheshire Cat smile, lingering long after the cat had vanished.
Cheshire Cat smile
This is the strangest Life I’ve ever Known
The photos that have begun flowing in from friends and acquaintances via email and social media are awesome – even the ones that are not of professional quality still resonate for me. I loved the photo my sister sent from California of the partial eclipse shadow on paper from her yard. I love the photos of all my grandkids together wearing their cardboard glasses, faces lifted to the sky.
None of the eclipse photos I’m sharing here are from my camera, as my attempts were blurry and rather pathetic. A few friends in the path of totality in Texas mentioned how you could see the stars the same way they show up at dusk.
4/8/24 – Fort Worth, TX – Starr G.J.
A social media connection posted this photo taken in the Adirondacks, on Lake Clear, NY, which is where my son-in-law’s family lives. This would have been the exact same view happening from their back deck. In only a very small way I almost wish I had gone up there to see this total, mysterious, glowing dot in the darkened sky……. although I heard the traffic to and from was horrendous.
Lake Clear, 4/8/2024 at about 3:23 PM EST – photo by Karl Rabe
This one was taken by an acquaintance while she enjoyed the magic with her young daughter. I feel greatly moved seeing both of these photos, and was further touched by the brief descriptions of what they felt during those moments. Whatever feelings viewing the eclipse brought out, I would have to say there is something fundamentally primal about it.
North Hudson, NY – Photo by Danielle Kuehnel
Regardless of the hype concerning the eclipse, what I am hearing from others and observed myself was not just about the brief celestial event, but the connections people made surrounding their shared experiences, the bonding that occurred, be it travelling together or watching the sky together in awed silence. Even those who ended up having their views obscured by cloud cover shared a special day.
While there will be other total solar eclipses happening throughout the world in the not so distant future, there will not be another one in the United States for another twenty years. You never know, but I don’t expect to be around for it.
Waiting for the sun Waiting for the sun Waiting for the sun
Waiting for The sun
“Waiting for the Sun” – The Doors – Morrison Hotel 1970
Last week a friend and I made plans to go out for a short walk. I waffled about taking my dog Rudi with me, as I had errands to run afterwards and having him with me would inhibit completing them – although it was clear we both could use the exercise. We have been serious couch potatoes.
couch potato
Like me, he tires a bit quicker these days, so we don’t venture out as far or energetically as we once did. He’s an attentive dog, a good boy (“Who’s a good boy?”). While walking through woods and open spaces in the past, I would only leash him if there were other people or dogs in the area, otherwise he has been free to meander alongside, getting some good sniffing and exploration in. He pretty much stays right next to me without the need for a leash, has excellent recall, and also an awareness that he serves as a (sort of) service/hearing dog, so even if he runs ahead a little bit, he is constantly turning around, checking, stopping and waiting should I fall behind. He never goes too far and never leaves my sight.
Sometimes I would let him loose in a field or dog park to burn off some energy, where he would take off like a speeding bunny, bounding in circles around you until he tired himself out. But over the years he has slowed down and has stopped being interested in running or playing very much, just wanting to sniff and stop to obsessively mark his territory every few feet.
following along
These days I have chosen to be more restrictive of his freedom for a number of reasons. Hawks are the biggest issue. Yes, he is small enough to be lifted by a hawk, and even if they didn’t get too far with him, being struck by those powerful, sharp talons or being dropped is enough to damage or kill. Last year near where my daughter lives, an owl actually attacked and took a small dog. An owl! Second to that are the coyotes, plentiful around here, and which I have encountered. They will snatch a small dog, even if you are standing nearby. Tragically, this just happened to a little dog in my town last year, in their own yard, with the owner just a few feet away. The knowledge of that sad incident actually haunts me.
So back to last week, as I was leaving the house, Rudi gave me an imploring look, which clearly said, “Don’t leave me behind.” Actually, every single time I leave the house I get that “You’re Leaving Me???” look of incredulity, but for some reason, this particular look was in unusually Very Big Print. One look at his face had me (with only the smallest of a sigh) scrapping the after-plans and grabbing a zip leash.
We walked along a well-defined path, which briefly entered a stand of trees and then emerged from the woods, eventually opening up to a wide field. It was there where a wild force within suddenly overtook him.
A crazy case of The Zoomies – the likes of which I have not seen happen to him in a long, long time – ensued. The dog was whipping around as far as the extension of the long zip leash would allow, running circles around me, leaping up into the air and yipping.
There was nobody around but us. I checked the very blue sky for hawks and saw none. And then I released him.
There is something about unbound joy. He streaked off like a jackrabbit, then hurtled toward me at a full gallop. It was the closest thing I have ever seen to a dog outright laughing with delight. It set me laughing too, such overwhelming, contagious happiness. I was so taken aback and fixed in those seconds that I did not even think to raise my camera and take a shot of the moment.
Picture of a different day – not even close
As he swooped towards me again, we suddenly made explosively connected eye to eye contact that felt almost telepathic, a look that could not be mistaken for anything but both exhilaration and love. I cannot explain it, but there it was. In that moment, an intensely vivid memory hit me – I know that look.
It was of my daughter, many years ago,, a time that seems like a lifetime ago. She was just learning to ride a bicycle. We needed some wide open space that was not dirt roads, woods, or big hills to let her practice. So I threw her bike into the back of the car and we took off for the local state park, which had a large, empty parking lot. It was mid-week and nobody else was there. She wobbled. She fell. She got up and tried again. And then suddenly I let go, she took off, and she was riding.
The light of sheer triumph and elation shining from her eyes and into mine was so powerful that I almost cried. The golden afternoon light served to highlight the ecstatic energy flowing from her being. I did not have a camera with me then in order to capture her radiance in that moment. I did take a snapshot of her still-glowing face as she proudly straddled her bicycle – after we arrived back home. But those seconds in time at the parking lot had already passed, dissipating like the briefest of precious rainbows, relegated to a visual image that remains etched into my brain and burned into my heart that will last my entire life.
It might sound extremely odd, but that was the exact look in my dog’s eyes as he ran towards me in the field that day. Radiated bliss. Unbridled joy. Love. Words between people – and animals – are not always necessary. Telepathic magic? I truly believe so. How odd, and interesting; the child, the dog, the same.
Rudi and I have been out on some longer walks a few times since, but he hasn’t had the urge to do any zooming, having resumed couch potato status. Perhaps Spring fever might overtake him some other day, as we cruise into April.
A few days ago heralded the first day of Spring, the Vernal Equinox. We have arrived, and despite a few wistful sighs and moans, this area has mostly gotten off easy as far as a Winter goes. Of course there are still plenty of weeks left to throw us a few curve snow-balls, but overall, it could have been worse.
Crocus and daffodils are popping up in the yard. In one corner a patch of blue Scilla has begun to bloom, a sure sign that things are moving forward.
Migration has begun, chevron formations high above. Birds are singing and preparing nests.
the bluebird of happiness!
Friends and family in locations that are ahead of us weather-wise are already sharing photos of their gorgeous blooms, with the exciting promise of beautiful things to come.
my sister’s cherry blossoms
It is so easy to get psyched with anticipation at the first signs of Spring. That little piece of wild animal remaining within us gets turned on and there we are, head lifted and eyes to the sky, nostrils flaring in search of green scents, our fast-beating hearts awaiting buds bursting forth.
It seems to always be the same, this early tease of Spring here in the Northeast. We think it has really arrived, but it is actually just the Spring of Deception we are experiencing. Fake out!
Don’t pack away those winter clothes and break out the spring-wear so fast……suddenly, a cold snap. Not soon afterwards, temps plummeted into the 20’s and the winds began whipping icy cold as we slipped into the next phase of “The Twelve Seasons of the Northeast” – the inevitable Third Winter.
The 12 Seasons of the Northeast
This morning there was a light film of ice on the branches of My Red Tree, eventually giving way to steady rain, which has been pretty much non-stop all day long.
Just ever so slightly north of here, the snow has returned.
It’s a day for making bean and vegetable soup, having hot cups of tea, and indulging in Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies. Speaking of winter clothes and spring wardrobes, at the moment I’m having a bit of a laundry crisis. It’s a day for dealing with the washing machine, which is suddenly broken.
The washer initially fills up with water okay, agitates, spins out and drains, but when it gets to the Rinse cycle it will not fill up with water again. Instead it just starts agitating with no water in it, a real recipe for tearing your clothes to shreds. So I have to stay nearby in order to catch it when it gets to the Rinse cycle, quickly stop the machine before it begins agitating and turn it back to the beginning of the cycle so it can actually fill up with water again. At that point I need to stop it once more and then move the dial forward to Rinse, where it will agitate again – this time with water in it – and then eventually drain and spin out. Needless to say, this is agitating me.
So it’s just as well I am sticking close to home today to deal with this anyway. Something will need to be done to remedy the problem in the very near future. The machine is twelve years old. I remember once upon a time they lasted twenty years, but nothing seems to even last even a fraction of that time these days. I am dreading the possibility of needing yet another replacement machine because of the difficulty in finding one small enough to fit in this narrow space, and the challenge of getting the old stacker out and another one into the house and up these winding Victorian stairs (See Appliance Decor 1/22/12 for the previous fiasco).
By the end of the week it should be warming again, more flowers will be blooming, the world greening up. Hopefully, something will happen which will allow me to adequately and easily do laundry again. And we can look forward to the next season, the arrival of The Pollening…….
If you pay attention you can already detect the scent of green – I love how the color is synonymous with the fragrance. The trees here are still in their remission, but the promise of verdancy is in the air. In a few corners the crocus has made a welcome reappearance, the first “Hello!” of the year.
It’s been very wet lately, with temps bouncing from the 30’s to almost 60° F, as we spin out of what has been a mostly mild Winter and into the unknown of what Spring will deliver. We are not there yet – this could be a Fake Out Spring, and it’s possible to be plunged back into a frost or even a snowstorm at any time. Early March is always like that, yet we always eventually arrive.
Raindrop-glistened spears hinting of future daffodils rise from the damp border beds.
While my heart is not yet beating with the usual excitement brought on by the anticipation of the upcoming seasonal rotation, there have been small moments of appreciation which have brought on a smile. Last week while loading my groceries into the car, I discovered a ladybug sitting inside on the sun-warmed retractable hatchback cover. Somehow there was a hopeful sweetness in that image. In order not to disturb it, the groceries were placed on the back seat instead, and I drove home with the tiny stowaway. I’m not sure when it had flown in there, or if it had actually hatched somewhere in the trunk, or if there are others. Nothing would surprise me. I keep waiting to see if any praying mantises will be showing up, following the time they hatched and escaped inside my car (see Mantis – 4/22/22 for that saga).
stowaway
High up in the pines, the noisy chatter of a red squirrel draws one’s attention and lends a delightful pop of color to the wet day.
As the winter slowly winds down, I’ve been buying and enjoying interesting fruits, some of which have directed walks down a few memory paths. The weird looking little Lychees always bring me back to my father, who turned us on to them as kids. I put them in the refrigerator to get cold before peeling off the thin outer coverings to reveal the refreshingly, pungent/sweet white flesh within. Each year I have started some Lychee seeds, which sprout and grow for a while, but never seem to quite make it to a viable plant. Maybe worth another try…..
lychee
Both Fuyu and Hachiya persimmons have been enjoyed by themselves and in salads, following a discussion with my sister about the different types. They are each nice, but I’ve decided I like whichever one it is that becomes super sweet and jelly-like on the inside…. I think that is the Fuyu.
I have to admit here that over the last few days I’ve been feeling a little lost in the abyss, the source being a combination of reasons – some that I could probably have controlled, but most are things that are out of my hands. It feels as if a huge pause is occurring in the world, in the universe…. as if we are all Waiting for something to happen, or something to change. On the Verge. In the middle of all of this, there is the insistent urge, nagging somewhere in my core, that wants to get out of here for a while, to be Somewhere Else for just a little while. Is this just me? Does anyone else feel this too? Is it just the seasonal shift?
In an attempt to veer away from that direction, I decided to mentally hurry the seasons along and get in a Spring state of mind with a Spring State of Mind Meal. Last night’s dinner consisted of a mix of both cremini and wild mushrooms that had been foraged and dried previously (morels and black trumpets) in a fresh spinach and creamy mushroom sauce, with a sprinkling of grape tomatoes thrown in, all laced with Marsala. This was poured over spinach penne – which resulted in a super earthy, while also rather wild, green, and vernal meal. I did take a photo, but it lost a lot in translation, so you’ll have to use your imagination here. But it was a taste of something to look forward to, of things to come.
Many years ago while on a flight from Istanbul to New York, I settled in to watch an inflight movie, when all of a sudden the headset I had brought stopped working. While the airline had packaged headsets provided for free use at each seat in order for passengers to listen to music or watch a film, I was unable to use that style (old-fashioned type ear buds with a “Y” shaped cord, which plugged directly from the jack in the seat to the ears). Since there were already hearing aides in my ear canals, I needed something that would fit entirely over the ear.
old in-ear audio headsets
Because of this, I always would bring my own when flying. Mine required batteries, which had suddenly and unexpectedly died. After digging through my backpack and purse and not finding the extra batteries I thought I had packed, I explained the situation regarding the need for over-the-ear headphones to a flight attendant and asked if they had any spare batteries on board. There were none.
The movie screens on that particular jet were not the individual type in the backs of seats, but suspended from overhead and a number of seats forward. They were small, the picture was dark, and captioning was not provided – meaning there was no way I could follow along. Watching a movie would have provided some distraction and alleviated some of the boredom on that long flight of about eleven hours. Actually, it would have also been helpful to be able to hear any announcements that might have been made too. The worst part though, was watching everyone else enjoying the film when I could not, which left me with a tremendous sense of frustration and disappointment – a feeling of being left out and a bit “less-than.”
Following the flight and walking up the isle out of the “not-as-important” economy seats and through business class to exit the plane, you can only imagine how shocked and upset I was to see that there were a number of unused, over-the-ear headsets available for those people in “Business Elite”. While I assume it just was not on the radar of the flight attendant to offer me one of those headsets as an accommodation, it also infuriated me. I stewed about it for a bit. And then I wrote Delta.
old business class headsets – fit over ears
I want to state here that in the past, Delta Airlines has been extremely helpful regarding accommodating my particular disability in other ways, which made it even more surprising that they could not (or would not) help me out in this instance. Their customer care response was apologetic with sort of a caveat – they made sure (probably to cover themselves legally) to point out that inflight entertainment is an “amenity” they provide, but is not guaranteed, nor a part of a ticket, therefore they are not required to provide the accommodation of that headset. They then went on to say there was no violation of a particular code, and that I was “handled properly.” They also offered me a partial voucher for a future flight.
I appreciated both the apology and the voucher, but honestly, the defense regarding “no violation occurring” and especially that I was “handled properly” got under my skin. While I offered that perhaps the flight attendant didn’t think of it as an option, I very much resented that part of the response. I replied that if entertainment and headphones were provided as a free commodity for everyone else on the flight, that it was unfair to exclude someone who could not access it, especially in this case, which was an isolated event. All it would have required was the simple loan of a different headset, of which multiple unused ones were available. Loaning a pair of headphones was an absolutely reasonable, no-cost, no-frills, easy, quick-fix accommodation for a hearing impaired person suddenly caught in an unexpected situation……. and beyond that, it would have been mostly a simple kindness. I would hope that my letter found its way to the proper channels, where it might have provided an awareness and sensitivity going forward.
The thing about hearing loss is that it is an invisible disability, one that affects from the very young to the very old. People don’t notice right away that some sort of adaption or adjustment to the situation might be required. More times than not it is necessary to let them know and advocate for yourself. And often, even when you do that, because there is not something obvious like a wheelchair or a cane, people tend to forget. So you have to remind them – over and over again. It can be both disheartening and exhausting.
Since that incident of well over a decade ago, it seems almost everybody travels with their own headsets now, some of them very high-tech. It is also possible to to stream movies directly into a person’s earbuds – or even hearing aides. Most airlines that provide inflight movies for long-haul flights have individual screens in the seatbacks. Or you can stream it directly into your own phone or tablet. Many of them are captioned, although I have found on the last three flights I was on (not Delta) the captioning did not always work correctly (that is a whole other issue). I think you can still be provided with headsets on flights, although the ones in economy are not very good (over the ear, but with a spongy piece). The ones offered in Business and First class are still big upgrades, of course. Basically, it’s better to bring your own and not have to depend on anything else.
Over all, you would think after all these years that there would have been many more improvements regarding accessibility for people who are hard of hearing. There have been some helpful changes, but disappointingly, that is not always the case. Even though the technology exists, many places do not utilize it or provide them. This is especially so regarding captioning and public loop systems.
Actually, what prompted me to write this airline incident memory from years back is a segue to something that is happening right now. This concerns my utmost disgust and growing tangle with a particular media company – one who obviously and disrespectfully could care less about disability accommodations for their paying customers. The whole story has gotten kind of crazy and might get even crazier. I’ll try and share that shortly.
I’ve got a partial saga written and sitting in my draft folder. It is a convoluted and frustrating story that still has not reached a resolution, which plays into the procrastination. At certain moments, salient points and corresponding sentences will pop up in my mind, and I see them as if they are being typed. But that’s not happening. Instead, visual distractions keep pulling attention away. Pattern. Color. Snippets of life on or around The Urban Porch, within the house, and even far away. Perhaps those fragments just want to find their way onto this page – maybe if I put them down here and release them, I will be able to move on to finishing the task in the draft file.
The house sparrows have remained here all winter. The other day there was such an incessant racket coming from just one very vocal bigmouth, who appears to still be residing within the soffit at the corner of the porch. It poked its head out for a moment, perched on a post of peeling paint and below the drooping remnants of last year’s nest, the clouds above it cotton-ball pipe-puffs of white.
As I walk down the street with my dog, someone keeps watch from an upstairs window, framed in the emerald and turquoise stripes of a neighbor’s joyfully colorful house.
In the kitchen, a skillet full of purple potatoes frying on the stove glows like clusters of amethyst.
Upstairs, a hunk of amethyst crystal sitting on a dresser reflects the sunlight and mimics the potatoes.
Little Rudi in his striped tee shirt lies on the office rug, warming his arthritic bones in sunlight slanting through the blinds.
Sheet pan coconut shrimp with sweet potatoes and spinach is pulled from the broiler. Secondary colors of orange and greens amidst all the C- shapes can’t help but catch my attention.
At the same time I am preparing dinner, my sister is kayaking in a lake in New Zealand, trying to avoid disturbing these beautiful moon jellyfish with her paddle. She sends me this photo and I get lost in their design. Magic Moon Jellies! When first I see the picture, there is a sudden urge to be somewhere else. But I’m looking forward to the shrimp dinner too (which actually came out pretty amazing.)
Another dramatic stone in my bedroom – a slab of labradorite gleams, the striations displaying radiance, luster and texture. It holds its own magic too, a deep forest bathed in moonlight. I periodically walk over to it and get lost just looking into it, letting my mind and imagination wander.
Dark branches atop the Crow Tree become silhouetted fractals against last night’s fiery February sunset.
The evening sky is awash with layers and patterns, mood and color.
It seems everywhere, some sort of design, some detail, is constantly pulling me in another direction, far away from doing taxes, cleaning the refrigerator, or dealing with some of the stuff that is Less Than Pleasant. So easy to look away and find interest in the beauty. But now that some of this has been unloaded here, perhaps these visuals will provide a carpet to ride on towards accomplishing the unfinished.
January is bouncing all over the place in both weather and emotions these days. Views From the Urban Porch have been varied and unpredictable. One day I’m staring at an atmosphere so vibrantly blue that it conjures up tropical skies –
and a day later it is suddenly madly moody and we are heading towards the tundra.
As I stood in the front yard gazing up at the sky like a weird neighbor with her mouth open, lines from a suddenly recalled song came to me, which has resulted in this (somewhat annoyingly twangy) ballad of an earworm running around in my head all week. It’s part of a song friends under the influence of a moment had written so many years ago in our collective youth, the title becoming one of those phrases quoted at obscure moments that would oddly, yet hilariously, perfectly fit the situation at hand – one of those “had to be there” inside jokes that repeatedly would pop up.
Here in the hills
We never had stills
So we took motion pictures instead
One minute I’m standing in a bed of pine needles amidst a barrage of pinecones brought down by gusty, overnight winds, and the next day the porch and Rose of Sharon is festooned in glassy fingers of ice. Dried flower buds, once verdant bouquets, now contrast starkly against the snow.
They didn’t come out
Because of the draught
Ain’t it funny what the weather will do
Rudi, warm in his little sweater, parks himself on a pillow perch on the arm of the couch in order to watch the neighborhood pass by, fiercely growling at all the big dogs behind the safety of window glass.
Those frigid days bring on the urge to enjoy a gift of rose petal jam from Spain on toast –
and the desire to make dark chocolate mousse laced with rum and festooned with blueberries –
or a broccoli, mushroom and cheddar quiche.
But not a day later, temps jump from a morning of 10°F to an afternoon of 53°F and the snow is gone.
This has brought on an incredible urge – and I cannot tell you why – to order many packages of salmiak. If you don’t know about salmiak, it is referred to here in a former post (Salmiak is Salmiak 8/21/2013).
All of these distractions – noting the weather, indulging in food, getting stuck in this particular earworm, and even some middle-of-the-night unnecessary internet shopping, have just been attempts to divert attention away from the fact that people in my orbit have been leaving the earth this month. I feel bewildered and sobered and somewhat numb. In the past few weeks, a very old friend who was not very old and two relatives that were, have passed away. Another is in transition to the beyond at this very moment. We lost my dad long ago in January too. Sometimes my brain forgets for a moment what day that actually was, but my body always seems to remember. Perhaps irreverently, the song continues:
We once had a dog named Fred
We kept him very well fed
Then he got sick, now he’s dead
Ain’t it funny what the weather will do
Right about here this post segues perhaps into a little bit of weirdness, as I share an interesting fact and roll into yet another tangent – statistically (in the U.S.) the month of January has the most deaths out of all the other months! What is rather surprising about these figures is that it doesn’t matter which state you live in, be it a colder northeastern state or a warmer one in the west or south…. the stats come out the same. January.
Funny what the weather will do.
Source – National Vital Statistics System, CDC 2017
There are (only) seven weeks left until Spring. That doesn’t seem so far off at all. Of course, we still will need to go through “The Febs,” but perhaps we will be pleasantly surprised.
Every winter my bathroom window provides some wonderful ice art. Although other windows in this house face the same direction, this is the only one that puts on a show. Some mornings – even very cold ones – there is nothing there at all, yet other times some interesting creations develop, which always piques my imagination. They can only be viewed around sunrise, which causes them to be backlit and glowing. Once the bathroom steams up from a shower, or the sun rises enough to lend heat to the glass, they disappear.
Over the last few years I have occasionally taken photos of them with my not-so-great cell phone camera, which does not lend to precision. Each is a unique work of abstract art. I can’t help but name them, and many have corresponding songs to go with the names.
Yesterday these little wispy forms seemed to be hovering and landing in the trees, returning after a night out. I call it “The Fairies Come Home.”
“The Fairies Come Home”
This morning I woke up to this ice picture, which I call “Embryonic Journey”. You can cue up the Jefferson Airplane song by the same name for one of today’s earworms.
“Embryonic Journey”
Here is one from last March called “Fire on the Mountain” (cue up the Grateful Dead) –
“Fire on the Mountain”
That corner of the window tends to make a lot of mountain ice art – this one is “Crystal Mountain.” I like the way the ice trees in the front are superimposed on the bare trees in the background.
Crystal Mountain
At times I have shared my photos on social media. I called this one “The Runaways.” One friend saw sea creatures. Another commented that they look like “radioactive spiders preparing to attack the sacred palms,” which I found appealing enough to almost change the name. I see escapees of some sort, a couple running away together. (“I Think We’re Alone Now” by Tommy James and the Shondells runs through my mind).
Running just as fast as we can Holding on to one another’s hand Trying to get away into the night
“The Runaways”
Last February we experienced an ice storm that encased everything in glass. The camera was unable to pick up the details, but the world was awash in rainbows. The window that greeted me that morning I named “The Sparkling Valley.”
“The Sparkling Valley”
These birds rising for take off have become “Ice Flock.”
“Ice Flock”
This one recalled a song I heard when I was a kid that I had to look up. The chorus was “Lightning is striking again and again and again and again” (“Lightnin’ Strikes” by Lou Christie):
“Lightning is Striking Again”
Sometimes the picture takes up the entire frame, like here in “Controlled Chaos.”
“Controlled Chaos”
Other times only random, sparse designs occur. This one is “Growth.”
“Growth”
The first one that had caused me to go running for the camera is still my favorite though. I just called it “Ice Feathers” at the time, because that is what they are, although so many different images can be conjured up. There is a lot of drama, mood and internal roiling going on in this shot. It probably deserves a more interesting name. I’ll have to think on that.
“Ice Feathers”
As the bathroom window continues to provide these winter gifts, I am considering compiling and printing them into a little volume, but I wanted to share their abstract beauty here with you as well. What do you see?
~*~
“Embryonic Journey” by Jorma Kaukonen, The Jefferson Airplane – Surrealistic Pillow 1967
“Fire on the Mountain” lyrics by Robert Hunter, Grateful Dead, Shakedown Street 1978
“I Think We’re Alone Now” by Richie Cordell for Tommy James and the Shondells 1967
“Lightnin’ Strikes” by Lou Christie and Twyla Herbert 1966
Well, here is some mindlessly frivolous first-world stuff that I’m pondering this morning while waiting for the washer and dryer to finish their cycles. At what point do you decide that your socks have worn out to the point where they are no longer worthy and become designated as toss-able?
This batch of five pairs – which appear by their condition to have been the ones worn more often (I found it interesting to see this has been my most frequent go-to colorway) – are becoming threadbare at the heels….. but they haven’t become holes yet. The toes are still totally intact. Okay, the turquoise pair in the center are not in good shape and they definitely need to go, but the rest…..I hesitate.
Once upon a time I would have kept favorite socks until both toes and heels were totally poking through. But at this point in life, I have So Many Socks, an entire drawer full, packed to maximum capacity, and really do not need anymore. I don’t ever have to worry about running out of socks. As a matter of fact, my plan is to wear and use up every single pair in this drawer, which will no doubt take years, perhaps a lifetime. So why am I hesitating to throw them out?
So Many Socks!
There are a number of angles to approach this. I think part of the hesitation is that the remaining socks in the drawer are not these same colors that I have been frequently wearing. Or maybe it is that they do actually have some life left in them, which sets off that bothersome voice in my head which tends to nag about Not Being Wasteful. Going down that particular road, I actually considered cutting off the foot part of these and using the fun printed tops to make something.
Candidate #1 – The Firebirds
Somewhere I saw where some crafty person was taking pieces of their used up cool-looking socks and patching holes in their jeans with them, so that the designs on the sock material would be peeking out. Which sounds like a great idea if you have jeans to embellish. But for me that is more of a once-upon-a-time thing I might have done when younger, but will never bother with now. I’m not going to be making anything with cut up socks.
Candidate #2 – Turquoise & Butterflies
As an aside, at this writing the monetary value of five pairs of socks like these is actually about sixty dollars. Since I don’t need to replace them, that’s kind of moot, but still surprising. I think most of my friends would say “Throw those damn socks out!” But a few might actually feel there is more mileage to them.
Candidate #3 – Olive & Butterflies
Pictured are the candidates for tossing. The fact they really aren’t going to fit back in that crowded sock drawer adds to the incentive of letting them go.
Candidate #4 – Lavender Unicorns
True to their natures, my younger daughter feels they have a few more washes and wearings to go, at which point the decision can be revisited. My older daughter says she would toss them but maybe the teal butterflies still have life. These are the responses I would have expected from each of them. But I’m curious as to how others feel about what designates “the point of no return.” Is there a certain personality that would choose either way? Who finds them still viable and Sock-Worthy? Who does not?
So much for musings and mind-wandering. I look wistfully at my little pile of colorful, threadbare socks sitting on the bed. In the time it took to write this, my laundry is dry and I guess I’ll get up out of this chair and move on to folding now. It’s interesting how many meaningless little diversions like these can go through your head in a day. Sometimes I think they help to balance all the other bigger things.
It was Snoopy’s fault, and each time it happens I can’t help but think of him. Because of Snoopy, the nail on one of my big toes only grows to a certain length before chipping, always in the same place. This has been occurring repeatedly since childhood. I noticed it again today and, as usual, his image popped up in my mind.
Snoopy is only one in a long line of Horses I Have Known. He was a stubby-looking pinto, his mane cut short, which caused it to stick straight up in a Mohawk. Not especially attractive, he was a somewhat sluggish school horse – one who didn’t get too excited about much. Good for kids. I was a starry-eyed horsey girl who spent my time at the barns, fields and lean-to shelters of summer camps and local stables, mucking stalls, cleaning tack, grooming horses, riding whenever I could.
Snoopy
It was a summer morning already promising to be sticky and hot, flies buzzing my head and alighting on Snoopy’s flinching withers. We stood beneath the dappled shade of some trees, where I enthusiastically curried his side, hair and dust lifting off his body, floating down and landing on my sockless ankles and dirty white Keds. He was such a zoned out personality that when he moved and put his large foot down on top of my sneakered toes, he might not have even realized it was my foot being crushed beneath his steel-shod hoof. I would like to think he wasn’t just being a brat. He was heavy, very heavy – it felt like all his weight was suddenly being concentrated on one toe as he leaned into me. The seconds seemed to stretch out endlessly – he could not be budged. Eventually I managed to give a shove and pummel him hard enough to move him off my foot. And thus, the ever-breaking toenail for the rest of my life, bringing me back to Snoopy and those days, over and over again.
Thinking about that time opened up a few other horse stalls in my mind, which led down a number of other memory trails. There was George, from the same location and the same time. George was a golden chestnut gelding, a little more spirited than Snoopy. Among the many lessons we learned when taking horses out on a trail ride was that when heading out, if you wanted to open up into a canter or gallop through a field, that was fine. But when heading back in, it was prudent to keep the horses in check, as there was always one who would bolt and tear off galloping at high speed back to the barn, their rider holding on for dear life, while everyone else had to rein their horses in to avoid the same situation.
never canter when heading back towards the barn!
It was one of those times that someone decided to urge their horse into a run as we were heading back, at which point George saw it as a free for all and took off with me atop his back. We were weaving through a tight trail in the woods when it happened. There was really very little space to maneuver him into a turn in order to slow him down, although I tried. George didn’t appreciate this much, attempting to wipe me off against a tree at high speed in response. My knee grazed a tree trunk and the stirrup was ripped right off the saddle. It’s a miracle this stunt did not break my leg.
At that point George stopped and I slid off him, limping as I lead him back up the trail to look for the missing stirrup, luckily located off to the side in some leaf litter. And then he gave me a hard time while trying to scramble back on. Eventually we made our way back, me needing to restrain him from another bolt the entire time. George.
Part of that same crew was Buttons. He was a sweet buckskin and a nice ride, very much my favorite in both looks and personality. I had wished so much he was mine.
Buttons – the only photo left I can find
When I think of George and his attitude, it then leads me to thoughts of Mooch. Mooch resided at the local stable where I used to hang out as a kid. He was part draft horse and absolutely huge. His chestnut coat was a fiery dark red, the color of an Irish Setter. He had a strong, arched neck, flaring nostrils, a hard mouth, a bouncing, high canter, and he wasn’t particularly friendly. When I entered his single stall from behind to tend to him, his ears would immediately pin flat back. Seriously moody – you never knew what he was going to do. I was always extra careful around Mooch. Sometimes I would ride him to lead a class around the ring. You either had to urge him on or hold him in – he was never very easy. But the feeling of power while perched on his high, strong back was tremendous.
During the time of Mooch, a beautiful new horse arrived at the barn. He was a gentle black beauty with an easy gait and the most comfortable rocking-chair canter. The groom in charge lived in an apartment above the stables. We all thought he was the coolest person ever, and I think secretly (or not so secretly) all the girls had a crush on him. He was revered because of his great skill handling the horses and his outrageously fun personality. He decided to name the new horse “Soul Brother,” because they were both black. Brother was a dream horse. Once the groom had vetted him, for a very short time we barn rats had the opportunity to ride the new horse, until some wealthy people bought him for their daughter and he became off limits.
I remember her in her jodhpurs and riding boots, her perfect, light blonde hair beneath her riding cap, leading him out of his box stall, tacking him up with her new saddle. Looking from the position of age now, it feels a bit strange to admit this, but way back then I was suddenly very much aware of class, privilege, and feeling an overall tinge of resentment towards this rich blonde girl with that horse. I can’t recall her name now. The people who boarded their own horses there pretty much didn’t hang out with those of us who didn’t, so there was a have and have-not situation going on to begin with. At the time I saw this girl as stuck up, but for all I know she might have been very nice. Truth is, it would have been my dream come true back then had it been me with that horse. Childish jealousy. Funny what you remember……
girl dreams of a black horse
Throughout the years, many hours were spent in other barns and on the backs of other horses. What I haven’t mentioned here is that in order to spend time in their presence, it necessitated loading up on allergy medications and carrying an inhaler around with me. It meant having to strip down, shower and wash every article of clothing pretty much immediately afterwards. Following a glorious and invigorating bareback ride on a lovely palomino, my jeans coated in horsehair and sweat, the payback meant wheezing with asthma for hours, often into the night. It was a repeatedly no-win scenario, which got so bad that eventually I had to let this passion go.
I just spent the last forty minutes looking for a photo of Snoopy. Once upon a time I had photos of most of the animals that have been a part of my life. All the dogs, many cats, both mine and those of my friends and neighbors throughout the years. Blackie the Squirrel that used to come to the back door and take nuts from your fingers, until he bit my sister and we had to stop feeding him. Snoopy, George, Buttons and Hershey from camp, Mooch, Brother and so many others from the barn, their pictures tucked into envelopes and photo albums. Now I can’t find them.
While cleaning out some of the excesses around this house some time during the past year, at one point I recall thinking, “Why am I keeping all these photos of long ago horses?” I’m pretty sure I tossed them during a purge, and since I can’t locate them, that is probably so. I always do this. It’s almost guaranteed that after I get rid of something, somewhere very soon down the line I am going to want to find it for one reason or another. But I guess it doesn’t matter. You get the idea.
As I look down at my crooked toenail, I can almost smell the dust of that hot morning and just about hear the flies buzzing around us. I can still picture Snoopy standing there with his Mohawk mane, as clear an image as any in my mind, as he steps on my sneaker and I yelp, “Get off my foot!”
January has brought our first real snowstorm. It is so fresh and lovely.
Piette’s House at Montfoucault – Camille Pissarro
The Japanese maple leaves on My Red Tree had never quite let go this past autumn. Now they are heavily laden with fluffy clumps, soon to drop their snow-bombs off on the heads of unsuspecting people (essentially, that will be me).
My Red Tree decked out in ermine
The consistency of the downfall becomes finer, but continues steadily. I wake up early and scoop some from the back railing in order to make the Annual Celebratory First Snowfall maple syrup snow-slushy.
celebrating the first snowfall
The plows have not come through yet. Bundling little Rudi up in his winter jacket, we realize upon leaving the house that the snow is over his head. He stops short at the edge of the The Urban Porch. “Nope!” Little Dog Problems. I stomp through the depth in the front yard, carrying him down to where a zealous neighbor has already cleared their sidewalk, to find a spot where he can relieve himself.
“Nope!”
For me, a snow day means going inward. Winter Solitude. Getting into some cozy clothes. Perhaps a little bit of cooking or baking. I’ll make the weekly Dutch Baby for breakfast – probably a blueberry one. Prepare some more granola for the week. Enjoy soothing hot tea. Read. Okay – guiltily do a few productive chores too – laundry, cleaning the bathroom. As always, fresh, quiet snowfall brings on deeply thoughtful reflections.
They say in the next few days it should all be melted.
I clicked on something. Maybe it has fixed all the subscription issues and blocks on this site. I certainly hope so. Again, I’m sorry to everyone who tried to come here, or tried to comment and couldn’t, or found themselves blocked. It wasn’t me, I swear! I guess I’ll find out if works if I get bombarded with pages of spam again then I’ll know. If I can’t fix it I am actually considering finding a different platform. Guess this is my first goal for 2024…….
Every time it gets to the last days of writing for the year, I visualize a cartoon of myself wiping my brow and saying “Whew! Made it! So here we are again. I’m scrolling back over the posts for this year and will sum up what I wrote, or maybe some things that happened that I didn’t write about. Of course there is all that was never written or never will be. Internal and external struggles. Stories untold. We all have them.
the struggles are real!
January started out with the annual New Years Day gathering of the same group of people that I only see once a year (except for the hosting couple, who are the connection to everybody else), so it’s been an interesting flash book of seeing the changes. I mentioned it here a good while back (Same Time Next Year – 1/4/12) and in a subsequent annual posting. That’s still happening – if all goes well, on January 1st we will all be enjoying a fantastic brunch and catching up on twelve months worth of stories, debates, and updated pictures of grandkids that are saved on our phones. And then I won’t see or speak to these other people again for probably for another year. I think it’s been going on for about twenty-seven years now, at least where I began to be invited, but don’t check my math on that. The one thing this tends to highlight for me always is how time is flying by.
A necessary trip to the emergency room happened following the new year, which is just another chapter of “The Christmas Curse”, also known as “The Holiday Curse,” which starts around Thanksgiving and lasts until a week or two after New Years. It’s a family thing. That issue sort of resolved, but it has left me feeling vulnerable and older. It’s like there is enough stuff to navigate already, I don’t need any new health stuff. None of us do, right?
First month entries included a discussion of the fact that my children don’t read my blog. That has continued to be the case throughout the entire year. When I saw my oldest daughter last week, I asked her about it and she said WordPress continues to not send her notification no matter how many times she has signed up for alerts, and so she kind of forgets that it’s there. The fact is that she is a very busy woman, so it’s not on her front burner anyway. My other child is not as busy, but she doesn’t read it either. I didn’t ask her about it. In my head, I put on my best sitcom mother-guilt face and play a tiny violin as I say “Someday she’ll inherit the printed book and read it after I’m dead.” I’m laughing as I think this. Yes, she probably will, and yes, it’s really okay.
In January I also shared some photos of my “Socks of the Day,” which had been an early pandemic diversion and a lighthearted documentation that highlighted an odd, unintentional collection of socks which have amassed in my drawers. I can report that I have made an effort to not buy any more socks and have requested that I not be gifted any. However, I did receive one pair for Christmas, a custom design drawn by my granddaughter, who has informed me they are “Dead Monsters.”
my new Dead Monster socks
This past year there was the heart-hurting discovery of a senior handicapped dog found as a stray and being housed at our local shelter, whose imploring little face called to me from their website. I might have adopted him – and who knows what other drama – had he not at the last minute ended up going to a more suitable family.
the face that melted my heart
There were a whole lot of nature posts this year. Animals played a part throughout. Hawks and turkey buzzards, the Cedar Waxwing, the battle between the Cardinal and the Blue Jay.
There has been the ongoing nightly meanderings of an opossum in the back yard, which always makes me smile. Multiple raccoons at any given time. One night there was a crazy, scary racoon fight! Skunks waddling through the driveway, displaying different patterns. The upsetting story of a little mouse I found in the hospital parking lot – which did not survive, despite heroic efforts.
The weather this past year went through an array of changes. Drought. Rain. Steaminess. Hail storms. High winds and tornado warnings. One very late night I stood out in the middle of the street in my underwear like some wacko old lady and watched crazy wild lightning happening. At the beginning of June, the smoke from wildfires burning out of control in Canada eerily darkened our skies, driving us indoors to breathe, the sun glowing like a red rubber ball, ominous and upsetting.
The Loud Obnoxious Drunken Toad of a neighbor two houses away was finally, blessedly, evicted after the entire street had to suffer him and his ever-revolving hoard of mostly creepy sub-letters over the last ten years. It was quite the event, with police attending and multiple dumpsters filled beyond the brim with the garbage they left behind. The house was finally sold and someone decent moved in. That might have been one of the best things to happen around here this year. As if a tremendous weight has been lifted, the entire neighborhood is so much more relaxed and quiet, and feels so much safer since they are gone. Other neighbors who were good ones also happened to move away. New ones who seem nice have arrived in their places, although they tend to keep to themselves.
March included a family visit and an encounter with the mesmerizing power of the beautiful Organ Mountains of New Mexico.
Spring in the northeast arrived early, with Scenes From the Urban Porch beginning in earnest. Days on end were spent taking in small details of daily life from my wicker chair, faithful dog Rudi in attendance. Birds building nests and raising their young, plants blooming, people walking by, a visitor here and there. This remained a regular event until the mosquitos got so fierce in the evening and the yellow jackets so aggressive during the daytime that I had to give it a break until the weather cooled off a bit.
There were shifts and surprises in the garden, the ever-changing blossoming marking time.
The blue flag of the earth that ended up on the front of the house eventually faded. I’m not much into house flags, but that one was okay and I would have just left it hanging there, sun-bleached and all. But one day I came home to find it was gone and there was a different earth flag fluttering from the porch in its place. The new one has doves and flowers on it in addition to the earth. Initially I found it a little bit too country kitsch for my taste, but it’s not terrible. I’m actually getting used to it now – maybe it’s growing on me. I guess it’s kind of hopeful. And really, I can’t dictate my taste on everything that happens around here…..
the replacement flag
Summertime was once again spent with three generations together by the ocean. It was a special time. We seem to be getting better at navigating this every year.
One of the most exciting things to occur happened while exploring a number of genealogy venues in an attempt to find my paternal great grandmother, known only as “Bessie.” This became an ancestral jigsaw puzzle that ended with the discovery of my dad’s ninety-one-year-old first cousin, who up until now we did not know existed. My siblings and I took a road trip to meet him, where he showed us photo albums filled with our grandparents, great grandparents and other extended family, shared some familial history, took us to their graves and showed us the former family homes. It was a heart-warming and very important connection for all of us.
missing relatives of long, long ago
I checked off another bucket-list item and finally got to spend a lengthy and wonderful day at Longwood Botanical Gardens.
There were plenty of Earworms happening in 2023. Something would catch my attention and a song would pop into my head and suddenly burst forth. Or I would be typing a few words and those words would bring on a song. Over and over again. I’m not sure what that is about, but it is becoming more and more frequent. Is this a senior thing or just my own brain providing entertainment?
Food – an ongoing topic. It was a year of much eggroll consumption. Many a variety of Dutch Baby was made and enjoyed for breakfast. Caprese Salads began happening in summer and have continued to be a regular on the menu. Dark Chocolate Mousse made with rum occurred numerous times, a decadent event. Repeat menu items included Gnocchi with asparagus or brussel sprouts, or broccoli. Szechuan peanut stir fry. Margherita Zucchinis. Burnt Leeks with Cannolini beans. One pot farro and tomatoes. Different varieties of quiche. Pasta with hot chili flakes and parmesan. Pasta and pesto. Pasta and wild mushrooms. Pasta, pasta, pasta.
Mulberries were gathered from a neighborhood tree to make mulberry crisps, mulberries on yogurt, mulberry pie. Buckets of blueberries were picked and enjoyed in a variety of ways. Shiso syrup was made from the perilla plants in the yard, and plenty of pesto was blended. Wild mushrooms, nettles and ramps were gifted or foraged and turned into all sorts of yumminess. Fresh duck and chicken eggs were shared from neighbors and incorporated into many meals. I ate some crawfish from the river that were offered to me by a stranger who was cooking them up over a small fire and got wicked sick from them (that was a low point)! Herbal sun tea and coffee with cardamom was brewed, to be enjoyed on the Urban Porch. Every week a new batch of granola and yogurt was made to be had with fresh fruit and honey from my brother’s bees.
There were passages – I finally decided to let go of my Gibson SG-200 guitar. It was bittersweet, but long past due. The act of selling it brought up a whole lot of memories and some regrets, which incorporated much more than just letting the physical item go. There were reflections about who I was, who I am now, and what I am not. But I think it was a healthy move.
letting go
During the year a number of Very Big Expenses popped up, which included needing very costly new hearing aids, car repairs and unexpected vet bills for the dog. Selling the guitar didn’t offset too much of it, but at least it was something.
This year when I tried to revisit basket making, I realized I dislike it now as much as I did decades ago. This acknowledgement extended to other areas where I have dabbled. I have conceded those things were just not my things, and that it is okay.
imperfection is okay
I think overall one of the biggest themes of this year was really feeling the true weight of “Being a Senior.” That even though in my mind – or at least in heart – I’m still feeling young, the truth is I am often tired, that my body is not wanting to do a lot of the things it used to do. My back and neck often hurt, as do my hands. But this is not all manifested in the physical either. There is so much I don’t really want to bother with any more. Sometimes I will read something or begin to watch something, or hear some sort of an argument or debate, and feel it’s just not worth getting too deeply into, or worth expending energy on. Some things I used to think were vastly important suddenly don’t seem to hold as much water. Some adventures that I was once eager to experience or used to jump into suddenly don’t seem as enticing as they used to. As I age, I feel benevolent about many things I might not have in the past, and yet dismissive of some things I once tolerated.
I still find it rather startling to see the aged faces of famous actors and musicians we grew up with. How is that possible that, despite the light that still burns within them, all those gorgeous, wild, sexy people have turned into wrinkled, heavy, balding and faded people on the outside? Or the so many who have already died? Then I look in the mirror and see that is me too, even though in my head I am still the same me. Or sort of the same me. I also notice that my friends, despite their age, still always remain looking like their younger selves to me. I see them as they were, as I always knew them. I don’t know how that works or why that is.
I have thought about the sad realization that people my age just become more invisible every year, where what we have to say or think no longer seems to hold as much value or gravity as it used to when we were younger. We spent decades accruing all this knowledge by trial and error, only to find nobody wants any of it from us. It’s sort of like all the cool house furnishings and heirlooms that our children don’t want. They don’t want our knowledge either.
Back in my younger hippie days (now that’s a “senior” phrase right there), there used to be a saying “Don’t trust anyone over thirty,” a phrase coined by activist Jack Weinberg during the Free Speech Movement at UC Berkeley back in the 1960’s. What a surprise that despite our feelings of immortality, it didn’t take long to age past thirty and realize how quickly a mindset can change. What a surprise, huh? I am feeling more than ever the weight of mortality pressing down. Many of my friends have expressed the same.
The Holiday Curse did once again strike the family, although everyone seemed to survive it okay. My brother had an accident while working with a band saw and almost lost his thumb. Of course he let none of us know about it for weeks, but over our pre-holiday lunch you couldn’t avoid seeing the giant bandage. So he offered,“Want to see the pictures?” and of course me being who I am, I said “Sure” – which might have not been a good idea, given I was eating enchiladas at the time; but that’s kind of how we roll. He later got Covid for his birthday, as did a number of his in-laws who gathered together on Christmas.
The Curse continued when The Significant Other threw out his back the day before we were hitting the road. He hates to travel anywhere and isn’t big on group participation, so I think he was probably glad not to have to make the holiday trip. I left him drooling on muscle relaxers in his bed and ended up having to drive out of state to the ongoing family holiday alone – well, me and the dog – spending four very tense hours through three states in my rattly old car, in fog so thick you couldn’t see more than one car ahead of you. It was equally as difficult on the way home, navigating hours of insanely torrential rain, giant trucks going at aggressive speeds, and heavy traffic. I came home and crashed in bed for an entire day after that. Which I think might be another Senior Thing. I remember when my mother was even younger than me, driving hours in traffic to come see her children and young grandkids and then being incredibly stressed and exhausted when she arrived. We used to roll our eyes, but now I totally understand how she felt. I’m there now. Once again, the things you finally understand, a bit too late.
In any case, everyone ended up surviving it for the most part. Things could have been worse, and in the past sometimes they have been. Although there are a couple of weeks to go, so far it has been a light year as far as The Holiday Curse is concerned.
Since October 2023, the world has been plunged into a moral morass concerning the war that erupted in Gaza between Hamas and Israel. It is too heavy to bear, the constant, horrific information in the media. More than once it has caused me to burst into tears. During this season I have tread carefully with friends and relatives around this issue and have kept it out of my blog. We wonder, “How will this ever be able to be resolved?” There is a feeling of hopelessness surrounding it all. I look at the country-kitschy peace flag flying from my front porch and feel inadequate and so very tired, and yet, I want to enter into this new year with hope.
Overall, for me the year of 2023 has been one of laying low. You won’t see me going anywhere for New Year’s Eve either. The only place I want to be is cozy and in my bed.
In a much, much lighter moment, this week I once again attempted to create a holiday pastry dessert for the family. If you have seen my post from Thanksgiving (And Then This Happened – 11/23/23), I attempted to make a puff pastry snowflake, which turned into an Epic Fail. Just looking at this photo again sends me into odd spasms of barely contained laughter.
my epic snowflake fail
So for Christmas I decided to try once again, mostly because I just couldn’t believe I am really that bad at baking. Daughter #1 purchased the correct ingredients. She also sent me a recipe, this time to make a Puff Pastry Christmas Tree, which threw me for a second because I was anticipating the snowflake again. Then she said,”Make it with the kids” and left me with all five grandkids while she took off with Daughter #2 to pick up some items at the store, and probably also to escape in order to spend a little alone time with her sister. I admit for a brief few seconds I felt a wave of unreasonable panic. My oldest grandson sort of helped, although mostly he (and soon the rest of them) were just eating the raw dough (which is a family trait).
This is what it was supposed to look like in the recipe she gave me:
the goal
And this is how it came out:
my results
So okay, although it turned out to be a rather wonky pastry tree that looks like it was made by a kindergartener, it is still very much a vast improvement over the previous Epic Snowflake Fail. The other positive was that this one tasted good. And lastly, the kids ate it so fast that it wasn’t around long enough for anyone to really notice and make fun of it. So I would chalk up this year-end attempt as a neutral win. I will also concede that I am just not that good at baking. And that is okay.
And so, this year’s edition of Daeja’s View comes to a close. I think it is appropriate to sum up the year with the illustration that my granddaughter drew to put on my new socks. I will consider 2023 as one of “Dead Monsters” and move on to the next chapter. Happy New Year to all!
And so we slowly move past the holidays and begin wrapping up another year. There will be a temporary reprieve from the Labels of Guilt – that onslaught of personalized address labels from good environmental causes, children’s hospitals and international aid organizations. More labels than you will ever need in your entire life. The mental moral dilemma nags ever so slightly in the back of my mind; should I use them in good conscience if I’m not sending all of them money? I wonder what percentage of donations these places receive via The Guilt Factor. I’m guessing it must be significant, given the amount of personalized mini notepads, labels and stickers that get mailed out. Over the years I have amassed so many never-to-be-used-but-I-just-can’t-throw-them-out labels in my tiny desk drawer that they often fall out the back and land wedged behind the desk and the wall…. where I don’t want to get down and crawl around trying to retrieve them. Finally, the volume was winnowed down to a few sheets – some with birds, plants, a few with snowmen and reindeer for those holiday cards I forget to send, and a sheet of generic ones.
Labels of Guilt
It is a time for filling out product warranty registration cards and scanning bar codes, should one be the recipient of bar-coded, warrantied items. It is a time of merchandise return labels and making sure not to discard the original shipping materials just in case someone has something to exchange. It is a time of being unable to finish those remaining cookies lingering at the bottom of the tin. Of hovering over those wrapped truffles and knowing even a chocoholic like me cannot handle one more. Of deciding which book to begin, and complete. Maybe of looking in the mirror and saying “Next year I’m going to do better.”
It is a time for memories, for ups and downs. For reflection. There might be stress. There might be travel. There might be none of those things. Maybe this year is busy and boisterous. Maybe it is a quiet time. I’m never sure what to expect anymore. In my family we have something which has gained the title of “The Christmas Curse,” which actually spans the entire holiday season and usually encompasses some sort of complication or narrowly averted disaster. Releasing expectations seems to be the best approach.
I received three writing journals as gifts this holiday. My collection of journals now extends beyond these to one from last year and multiples received in years before that. These notebooks are scattered on shelves, tables and in drawers throughout the house. As a child I kept diaries almost from the time I could write, journaling through high school, college and beyond. Since those diaries mostly were an outlet for sorrow, heartbreak or angst, one determined day I decided to symbolically free myself from said anguish by burning or shredding them all. I’m not sure how well that actually worked, but maybe it’s good I don’t have to relive all of it in print again. Dump on the page and discard.
Once upon a time I carried around a journal or sketchpad in my purse or backpack in order to jot down thoughts and observations, or to quickly scribble an idea, a feeling, draw a visual. Travel diaries full of interpretations and adventures. Journaling often happened in the morning before I got out of bed or right before falling asleep. I have even done The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron a few times and was once upon a time committed to writing Morning Pages.
blank pages for inspiration
As gifts of books with blank pages continued to accumulate, they were designated different uses. One became a long-running collection of wonky recipes coupled with personal vignettes, which was eventually published. One was used for recording dreams. Another contains interpretations of Sibilla oracle and Lenormand card readings. Somewhere in the bottom of a closet there is still a black-covered book of mostly (but not all) black-colored thoughts and memories which began as far back as the 1970’s. But no entries have been made there in many, many years. To counteract that book of dark feelings, I decided to designate a blank journal sent to me by my cousin in 2003 as a Book of Joys. It started out with great intentions. I dug it out and opened it just now to the first page, which says:
“For years I have used these journals to document moments of pain and sorrow. I have done this because it has aided me in the process of shedding the grief. It would appear then, that I am just filled with misery in all my interactions. Not the case! I have found joy in many things, many times, sometimes hidden within the grief. I will use this book to document those joys.”
The Book of Joys has sporadic entries up until 2010 and then it stops. The events are not necessarily things that happened between 2003 and 2010 though. They mostly encompass memories from the past that stuck with me, times where I felt great happiness, bliss, contentment in the moment. Parts of it are fleeting joys that go way back to childhood. I’m sorry I stopped entering those thoughts, because since that time (and even before) there have been hundreds of joyous instances, both small and great, that have never been written about. I think what has happened is I just haven’t taken the time to sit down and write about it when the Joys have occurred because I don’t need to offload those kind of experiences.
cover of the Book of Joys
Maybe I should revisit this journal. Each entry has a title. Some examples: The Bicycle. The Wishbone. Surrounded By Pines. Gustavia Harbor. Make Big Eyes. Wallflower. Quartz and Mica. There are a few discussing the voices of my children. And a number of entries concerning lobster! Apparently lobster has given me some repeated joy over the years! There is even one about soft-shell crabs! Foodie joy! I think writing Joys might be something I want to revisit.
There is a problem though – that problem being that as I age it is more and more uncomfortable to write with a pen for any length of time. It’s so much easier to type out the thoughts almost as fast as they spill from my head. This is probably (well, exactly) why these journals are not filling up, and also why keeping a blog going has been so much easier. But there is something special about saving it on the pages of a book versus a file on a computer.
One of the journals I received this Christmas has a mock-up of the Daeja’s View header on the cover. This gift came from my sister, who actually compiles and has been printing a hard copy of this blog into personal books. The journal is meant to jot down the thoughts I would like to write about as they come, which actually will be pretty helpful, as (these days) ideas fly out of my head and then are quickly forgotten. The other lovely journals perhaps will be used for passwords, lists, sketches, ideas, plans for the future, written vision boards, or maybe for more recipes. We will see. Hopefully all will be a catalyst for further inspiration.
Revisiting The Book of Joys has been helpful in gaining balance and perspective, the symmetry of the shadows against the light.
To celebrate the Winter Solstice and welcome the soon to be increasing light, I picked up a small bag of chocolate treats. I’m sitting here staring at the screen while eating one dark chocolate amaretto-filled cordial after another. It was a toss-up between amaretto or rum. The rum cordials are ending up as a stocking stuffer for someone else, so the amaretto, sans stocking, are what I am stuffing my own face with. The explosion of the inner liquid after the dark chocolate and thin sugar casing is absolutely addictive and clearly not healthy, given the quantity I am devouring. I don’t think the bag will last after tonight – hopefully that will be the end of it. At this volume it is enough to bring your A1c levels to an all new high. I was hoping the sugar rush might push me into expelling all the thoughts smashing around in my head over the last few weeks. It’s definitely bringing out some stuff.
With all of the Big Things that are happening in the world, I keep thinking those issues deserve to be commented on. And yet, the fact is that there are always Big Things happening globally. Sometimes they affect you directly and sometimes it is with degrees of separation. Sometimes they touch only a portion of the world and other times it impacts everyone. There are moments you might think it doesn’t affect you, only to discover indeed it does, trickling into parts of your life with surprising force.
Once upon a time during that Renaissance period of young Boomer-hood, I honestly believed that the combination of ground-breaking scientific and medical discoveries, new technologies, spiritual awareness, a “back to the earth” connection with nature, an explosion of art and craft, sexual and personal freedom, education, truth, love, a little bit of pot, and an amazing wave of the most incredibly exciting music to herald it all in was going to be enough to carry this country and the entire world to a much, much better place. We were going to grow flowers and vegetables, make music and love, live off the land and raise our children in a safe, beautiful utopia.
Boy oh boy, was I naive, but I know I’m not the only one. That whole generational experiment played out to ending up as The Big Fail in many ways. Looking back on it all and trying to pinpoint exactly where it derailed…… I don’t know. Perhaps it was just all an illusion from the get-go, but at the time we seemed to be so full of hope and good intention.
I read and listen to Millennials, Gen X, Y and Z’s rail about what the Boomers have done to them. I can’t help but cringe at the hubris when some wise ass smirks “Okay Boomer,” in response to an older person who has something to say. Maybe it’s outdated or not in touch with current ideas, but is it really necessary to be so rude and dismissive to anybody?
I can’t speak too kindly or in support of those of our generation who were so greedy – who lied and cheated and stole from the rest of us, including their fellow Boomers and those generations that have come after. They ripped all of us off too, and I think we all feel a level of rage towards those in power who have done so. There are just as many Boomers that can barely afford to live, who are suffering without adequate healthcare or housing, who paid their entire lives into a Social Security system that is constantly being threatened. Rot will spread from the bad apples in any barrel.
A while back, a younger acquaintance who is a talented musician and artist – someone I happen to like – made an unnecessarily snarky “Okay Boomer” comment and it really pissed me off. I suddenly felt compelled to remind her (or perhaps educate her, if she happened to not know) about a few things of benefit that those selfish, horrific Boomers have left to her and her friends.
First and foremost that would be women’s rights. I’m sure there are so many things she takes totally for granted without a second thought. Even the simple act of choosing to wear pants to school if she felt like it, or almost any article of clothing, instead of being mandated to wear a skirt, and a skirt of certain length no less. The girls and women who were freezing their legs off walking to school in skirts, and having to sit a certain way in skirts, were the ones that stood up and fought to make that dress code change. How about the availability of birth control (most specifically The Pill) and all the freedom that has provided? And Roe v. Wade? Aren’t you lucky to be able to hook up with someone and not worry that you might have to mysteriously disappear from school to suddenly go live with your out-of-state aunt for nine months. Or some high school boy being forced to marry a girl in class because they were careless one night at a party. Thank the Boomers for making changes to that reality. How about Stonewall? Look it up if you don’t know and thank your gay Boomers for paving the way. And the draft…. the agony of waiting for your number to be called up to go to war. Something not remotely a part of their scope.
I reminded her that even as recently as when Gen-Xer’s were just being born, banks could still refuse to give a woman her own credit card, checking account or a mortgage without a man co-signing for her, until the Equal Credit Opportunity Act in 1974. I reminded her that along with the good things our own parents tried to provide for us, Boomers inherited a whole set of restrictions, social rules, prejudices, unsafe products and procedures, outdated laws, and plenty of weirdness from the generation before us, which we worked to change for the better. Boomers were involved in civil rights. Greenpeace was founded by Boomers. Boomers started the Peace Corp.
How about computers, and the internet that has become your life blood? Boomers.
It is true that Boomers and Gen-Xers (and even many younger people) have failed and continue to fail concerning the environment, although so many still try to do what they can to help. It is ironic that there was such a green movement back when Boomers were in their twenties. Once upon a time we were working on cleaning up the pollution and preserving our most precious resources. Now that is backsliding. Greed and selfishness drive the lack of solutions concerning saving our environment. Yet this disregard is not unique to just the Boomers. There is plenty of apathy going around amidst the following generations too. We are all in this together.
Despite the accusations, there is not one Boomer I personally know who is happy about the state of the world that is being left to our very own children and grandchildren. Do you honestly think any of us wanted this for our kids? I don’t know anyone my age who isn’t worried and upset and depressed about the pollution, the terrifying state of politics, of war, the hate and violence towards each other, the looming threat of environmental disaster and collapse, the quality of our food, the state of healthcare, the lack of safety, the cost and quality of education, the haves vs. the have nots. None of us wants those things for our loved ones and none of us set out with any intention of hurting those we love most in the world, let alone of hurting ourselves during the years we are still on this earth. And yet here we are.
*Earworm of the day:
And so this is Christmas And what have we done? Another year over And a new one just begun
We started out with good intention and lots of hope. There is much beauty in this world and there still can be. If you have children, no doubt you will love them too. And you are going to make mistakes and screw some things up, even if you had the best of intentions. Your best minds are going to have to take the lead, turn it around and bring this in a new direction. Okay Millennial? Okay Gen XYZ? So what are you going to do for the generations after you?
Well, whew! Clearly dark chocolate amaretto cordials have opened a door here. I was going to not post this but I think I’m just gonna let it fly. During these holidays (and always), wishing for peace, love, understanding, and all that other Boomer stuff that is from the heart.
It occurred to me one night after I had crawled into bed….. and then almost every night afterwards. Much in the way a dog will circle and paw until they finally decide they have found their sweet spot and plop down, I climb under the covers, get arranged comfortably, and finally settle in. Then the realization hits; Here I am again. That was the first thought after turning out the light, and it has happened almost every night recently, a real time déjà vu. Here I am again. That was fast.
Has anyone else felt like time is spooling out so quickly? That in the blink of an eye there you are back in bed, the day over and heading into the next? Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Lately, nightly, after tucking into the covers again, I can’t help but feel like I was just there not very long ago. This started me wondering if it was a senior phenomenon, the days rushing by at lightning speed as one heads into the Autumn and Winter of our years. Or is it just a seasonal thing? Perhaps this is happening to all of us, the Universe moving us at Warp 10?
Earworm of the Day –
Drink in your summer, gather your corn The dreams of the nighttime will vanish by dawn
This lead to doing a few searches on why this feels as if it is happening. Of course there is a theory – which I have mentioned in this blog before, after some cerebral (and possibly chemically induced) discussions with friends long ago. So I am not sure if it is an official theory or only our own musings – that as you age, each year becomes a fraction of your life. Therefore, if you are eight years old, a year is one eighth of your life, and endless. But if you are eighty, a year is one-eightieth, which is a very small fraction, thus seeming to fly by.
One speculation suggests that as we age, the processing time in our brains is hindered by naturally damaged nerves, which hinder the processing of neural signals. At least that is how I understand it, which is kind of sobering, but maybe not so surprising.
by ArtisticOriginsart
Something possibly significant I read is that staying in a routine can cause the feeling of time moving quickly, while engaging in different or new experiences changes the pattern and gives the perspective of time slowing down.
There are some routines that are necessary and also comforting in life. We all have them, often done in a certain order. It could be waking up early in the morning and playing New York Times word games before even getting out of bed. Making or not making your bed first thing. Preparing some coffee before anything else happens – or not. Showering in the morning, or maybe only at night. The route you choose to drive to work. The day you do laundry or change the sheets. Setting aside a block of time in the day to deal with bills, or to immerse in something creative. Reading before bed. Watching the news at the same time every evening. Perhaps a daily walk. Whatever it is, there tends to be some air of security and stability in following an internal schedule (of sorts) – to a degree (there can be extremes to this). I think the premise regarding slowing time might be then to shuffle things a bit by breaking the pattern?
Being one who has periodically rearranged my routine in some interesting (and sometimes crazy) ways, I have to admit I haven’t felt too motivated about venturing into the new or unknown in quite a while. Perhaps that is why the “Here I am again. That was fast” cycle of finding myself back in bed for the night so quickly is happening. Maybe it’s time to shake things up. Heading into the winter months probably isn’t such a good time to test this out, but I’m going to keep the idea on the back burner. Always up for a little experiment. And who doesn’t want to slow down time a bit?
And time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me And time waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me
~*~
* “Time Waits for No One” – written by Keith Richards and Mick Jagger, from The Rolling Stones “It’s Only Rock and Roll” 1974
In response to those who have contacted me about the difficulty they are experiencing when trying to respond with a comment on any of these posts, and to those subscribers who have let me know they haven’t gotten the expected email notifications when a new post comes out – all I can say is that I am sorry and throw my hands up in exasperation regarding WordPress and its ever-growing shortcomings. While WordPress has made a few improvements over the years, in other areas it has very much devolved.
I understand how frustrating it is to want to quickly respond to something and find you have to jump through a number of hoops, sign-ups and re-sign-ups, only to be thwarted at the end and finally give up. I appreciate those who have tried. Once upon a time it was not that way, so I don’t understand what has changed. Some comments are now coming through as “Anonymous”, even though some of those comments are from regular, long-time readers who are not anonymous at all, but just end up going that route, as it seems to be the easiest path.
Suspecting it was a problem I created myself, I’ve gone through all the settings, but they seem to check out fine. I’m not into adding plug-ins and all sorts of other whistles and bells and complications. Honestly, I don’t understand all of those details. I’m computer savvy up to a certain limit and after that, well…… I really need a WordPress Expert to help me out and Fix Things. In the past I have tried contacting them and gotten No Response.
As a test, I tried subscribing to my own blog using a different email address, requesting to be notified. I’ve yet to receive even one notification saying there is a new post. Some people are getting them and others are not, and I don’t understand why.
This blog does not generate a whole lot of traffic, which is fine, as garnering a huge readership was not the point of starting it, nor continuing on with it. I’m not into putting this stuff out on social media in order to gain any attention, although every once in a while a post has found its way there through who knows what source. There are sometimes surprises. Lately I’ve been wondering who at the New York Times has been stopping by to read. I get hits on this site from places all over the world – some very unexpected countries – at any given time. Unless I hear from someone, most of my blog readership seems to be shrouded in mystery.
Perhaps there is a particular keyword in the content which causes it; maybe someone is looking at my photos, or somebody somewhere out there far away stumbled upon it and just enjoys or relates to what is being said. Actually, you would not believe which posts tend to get the most attention. I Can Make Poison Arrows Now (7/29/2011) is one of three that gets more hits than any of them! Why???? Do people think there is a recipe in there for that? Does somebody want to make them???? It makes absolutely no sense.
Once upon a time, WordPress used to tell you exactly what keywords were driving readers to a particular post. Now that option seems to have vanished. I suspect you might now have to pay for that feature – which would kind of stink. I don’t want to have a significant monthly expense in order to post on a site that has a very small (but devoted) subscribed and followed readership. This is not a business, this is not my job. It’s bad enough they insert advertisements within the blog now (which I think you have to pay to get removed). They giveth and then they taketh away. Are these deliberate monkey wrenches they are throwing in now to create a case of “you get what you pay for?”
Then there is the question of bots and spam, most of which have come from a particular country (which you can probably guess), but will not name, since that might just end up generating more spam. If you want to block that particular country from spamming you, you have to pay for a plug-in or a separate service to do that. I don’t know why WordPress just won’t build in a feature that just allows you to click a button and immediately block that entire source instead of having to track down and meticulously block each IP address – it’s ridiculous.
But oddly enough, over the past few weeks my spam folder has been totally empty. Nil. I used to get pages and pages of often very obnoxious spam replies every single day, mostly from the same two countries. Right now there are zero comments in my spam box. While it is kind of a relief, I have to wonder if these posts aren’t even reaching the spammers anymore? Go figure……
I follow a few writers on WordPress, but they are mostly high-volume sites who are doing this professionally. Are they encountering some of the same issues? A few people have declared that “WordPress Sucks” and have suggested I ditch them for a different venue. The thing is, this has been my “home” since January 2011. That’s twelve years of writing on this site. It’s comfortable and honestly, it’s not something I’m up for changing at this point.
So I just want to say that I apologize for any difficulties any of you have encountered here, be they from this platform or caused by my own shortcomings. I appreciate those who do like and respond to posts, and especially appreciate those who have gone beyond to make the effort to do try to post a response. I continue to acknowledge those of you who do read and just aren’t the commenting type. Some of you I hear from via messages and other venues. I’m grateful to those who for some reason are not receiving email notifications regarding new posts and still take the time to check the site to see if there is something recent there. I will continue to click around and try and fix things (hopefully not to make it worse).
I’m sitting here at the computer, eating a very yummy but particularly stinky combination of melted goat cheese “brie” topped with last season’s harvest of honey from my brother’s hives, with a scattering of Spanish almonds on top. It is both gooey and satisfying, although perhaps a bit risky to be eating over a keyboard.
This Chèvre comes in the form of a rather large log, purchased at the insistence of our local cheese seller, who – during the seasonal months of weekend farmers markets – is always throwing different (often almost expired) imported products at us. “Try this! You must try that! Here, I will give this to you, trust me, I know you will come back asking me for more!” And so, since he probably will not be making an appearance again until later next spring, buying the intimidatingly large Chèvre log seemed to make sense. Since it is so substantial, it would make more sense to share with family during the holidays, with a ramekin served to each – but I know none of them would eat it. This has resulted in finding myself regularly working through it alone, topped with the recommended honey and imported almonds, while practically feeling my arteries harden with each rather delicious, sweet/tangy, heavily goat-scented bite. I will say though, the cheese man was right – it’s unexpectedly good.
this gooey mess is actually delicious
Staying on the subject of food just for one brief moment more, the morning started out with the somewhat usual Sunday Dutch Baby, this one a pear/blueberry/cinnamon/vanilla and using white/whole wheat flour, since that is what was in the house. My food pics are not professional quality, but you get the idea. With a bit of maple syrup on top, I can attest it was tasty,
pear, blueberry, cinnamon, vanilla
For a brief moment I thought I might actually embark on making some biscotti today (a craving for the last few weeks – must be the season) but that idea flew out the window after taking the dog for a very, very brief trip out to the front yard to do his business in the rain. It’s wet and slightly chilly out, but not as cold as it could or will be soon. Still, damp enough to dampen what little enthusiasm to bake was there.
Out and about in the world and off The Urban Porch; a week ago the Japanese maple in the back yard, which I affectionately call “My Red Tree”, was still holding on to both its leaves and their color. This maple is always the last one to drop.
my red tree last week
By today the leaves have lost their luster, the crimson bleeding out to rust, yet still clinging to the branches.
It won’t be long until they all release.
The gingko trees are finished and have dropped. It’s hard to believe they were ever so sun-gold.
gingko done gone
Meanwhile, I look longingly to the photos my sister sends me of autumn in her part of the world, soaking in some of those wisps of fiery color in order to mentally string out the season a little bit longer – wishing I was there.
I’ve been busily wrapping holiday gifts to send to distant family, and putting together packages for the youngest ones. This week I’ve also given away a number of items to people on our free local Buy-nothing group, which has been both rewarding and frustrating, depending on who you are dealing with. Human nature…. sigh. But that’s another story, maybe for another time.
So many odd memories have been cropping up in my head lately. Have any of you found the same thing happening? Flashbacks of days and people gone by, triggered by a song, a sound, a visual, a scent, a taste, the season, the news. Some things have been so weird that I had to do some internet research to see if they were really true (and they were! yikes!). There were a few “what ever happened to?” wonderings, some of which – after a bit of exploration – I did actually find out “what ever happened to” those people. Many deep thoughts, but none I feel like putting to paper in detail right now. Just floating along with it all and musing on how strange life can be.
Looking over at Rudi, I see the top of his head and little ears sticking out of the blanket, which reminds me of a carrot top poking out of the earth. How much joy he brings me. For the rest of this evening I think I’ll get cozy like Rudi, which is the perfect thing to do on a wet December night.
It’s that time of year again. I don’t know where this list originated, but it’s a great one concerning holiday spirit (or any time spirit), and something I make a point of sharing every year. An important reminder about keeping things in perspective. Be the light.
“Are you OK?” “You’ve been so quiet.” “What’s going on?”
A few people have noticed and asked, not just about the sudden absence of posts over the past few weeks (after there having been so many), but concerning an overall lessening of any type of communication coming from this corner. Even though plenty of abstract thoughts have been filtering through my head, I haven’t been able to articulate them enough in order to write any of them down. Something will go around in my mind, then suddenly it’s “meh,” and it floats away. Concurrently, I haven’t felt like going anywhere, while simultaneously wanting to go far away from here. There is way too much to say and yet absolutely nothing to be said. Energy better spent elsewhere has been wasted scrolling around the internet, playing word games, reading only parts of things, going off on tangents, down rabbit holes.
For some reason, while I’ve been getting lost looking at these distractions, there has been a recipe that repeatedly keeps showing up in my social media feed, which is an attractive holiday chocolate puff pastry that resembles a snowflake. Why this thing, what the algorithm is which causes this particular recipe (and similar versions) to show up is unclear. But it has found me. It contains only four ingredients and is supposed to be “easy” to make. Easy has lured me in. Since Thanksgiving was going to be spent at one of my daughter’s homes in a much smaller configuration than in previous years, it might be nice to attempt making this simple yet complicated-looking puff pastry to contribute, along with the usual pumpkin pie.
I want to make this
Notice the word “attempt” being used in relation to baking. The truth is that I don’t like to bake, which is a subject that’s been mentioned a number of times in this blog. I love cooking and the flexibility that cooking allows. Baking is just a bit too rigid for me. It requires Patience. It involves Directions. Too often I’ve interjected a bit of flexibility into my baking, which I suppose is something that will work if you are good at baking to begin with. But I am not, so these meanderings don’t often end well. Past frustrations, among others, included The Hamentaschen Fail (March 18. 2014).
Further thoughts on this caused me to reflect on a time many years ago, when an adept baking friend who made holiday cookies and confections annually to give as gifts hesitated to share a certain recipe with me. As I recall, the reason was because she felt it was her signature thing to do…..perhaps she was concerned I might make them and gift them to the same people (although we had no real overlap of friends), or that if I shared it with others then they might start making them and gift them to someone she knew. I forget the details, but she need not have ever worried, because that kind of thing is so not in my wheelhouse. With good reason, aside from brownies, I never have and never will make any cookies or confections for anyone as a gift. Ever.
So these extremely easy to follow, step by step videos of how to make a chocolate puff pastry snowflake kept popping up, with their lovely twisted filo dough points. It must be a sign, those points pointing to a Thanksgiving treat that will impress the family. Looks fancy but ridiculously simple and kind of fun. Because it appeared a bit fragile, I bought all the ingredients and brought them to my daughter’s house to assemble and bake there.
baking goals
Although I followed the instructions exactly, stopping the video at each step along the way, it became apparent a scant few minutes into this project that it was going horribly wrong. There are supposed to be lovely, tidy, even twists of white dough radiating out from the center. But this dough would not cooperate, it kept breaking, and the chocolate kept bleeding through. This is what it looked like before going into the oven – which is nothing like the soft, doughy out-turned arms demonstrated in the videos. Mine resembled a giant, squashed spider. Each time I look at this photo I can’t help but crack up laughing, while secretly thinking, “What the hell is wrong with me?”
the assembly is not cooperating
“Perhaps when it bakes it will puff up or something,” I said (rather hopefully, while not really believing it) to my daughter. She was really good about not making fun of it and kept an almost stoic face…..but I did catch a look, and all of a sudden I could not stop laughing. As a matter of fact, I was laughing so hard that I almost (yes really almost) peed my pants. I am serious – there is no time in recent memory that has brought me to that level of hilarity. It should have gone into the garbage, but at that point I was still holding on to a shred of hope that it might magically transform somehow. So into the oven it went.
And then this happened – few minutes later my son-in-law informed me that “We have a situation here” – that situation being the copious amount of dark smoke that suddenly began billowing out of the stove.
chocolate pastry snowflake fail
At this point, tears of laughter were running down my face. The house was filled with acrid smoke. The snowflake did not puff up, although it came just short of totally bursting into a ball of flames – despite the fact it had not even approached anywhere near the recommended baking time. The squished, burnt dough-spider went into the trash, but not before we all took photos of it.
Because I just could not accept the fact that my easy, four-ingredient, chocolate puff pastry snowflake was a massive fail, I actually attempted to make a second one. It didn’t burn this time, but looked almost as bad. Despite how unappetizing #2 appeared, we tasted it and it was okay (I guess), but not all that impressive. Certainly not worth trying for a third.
I laughed the entire time I was writing this. I’m laughing now. Perhaps something this ridiculous was necessary in order to reset my head.
The week has brought forth a number of seasonal changes and fall-scapes. With something just short of a flourish, the Halloween decorations were happily removed from The Urban Porch ™ very early the following morning – so ready to have them gone. The webs and plastic spiders are cleared out, the ghoul and skeleton are stowed up in the attic, where no doubt they will suddenly startle me at some time much later, when I happen to go up there again searching for something and encounter a grinning skull.
Since it didn’t rain and was not brutally cold on Halloween night, the neighborhood was pretty busy. I sat outside on the porch in my winter coat for a few hours with a huge and quickly emptying bowl of candy propped in my lap, alternately distributing the goodies and stuffing my face with M&M’s and Snickers bars to the point of almost nausea. You would think I would learn by now.
Skelly was propped so it peered out the window and looked toward the porch with glowing eyes.
Observations for this year – most of the costumes were not as spectacular as in the past, but there were a few good ones. Most notably, the kids were way more polite than in previous Halloweens. The little ones were all smiling, calling out “Trick or Treat!” and waving. Everybody, even the older kids that arrived later, were pleasant and said “Thank you”. The parents were friendly. Nobody was pushy or grabby. Nothing was broken or stolen either.
While the littles carried small plastic pumpkins to collect their booty and many had pillow cases (memories of my own youth), it seems using a backpack to hold the candy haul is a popular vessel, especially with the older ones. Some of those packs were overflowing.
One of my younger grandkids insisted he wanted to dress up as a traffic cone. I was skeptical, but I would say it ended up being a favorite.
back view of his costume
The autumn leaf season has peaked and is fading; the trees have begun to drop their leaves en masse, while October-scented woods still hold some hazy parcels of color to enjoy. A heron perches by late fall greenery near a brook.
heron by the brook
On our walk, Rudi and I admire the last gasps of color reflected in the pond. He takes his “job” seriously, stopping and waiting for me to catch up to him on a trail blanketed in ochre.
Rudi waits for me to catch up
In the neighborhood, bright lemon and butterscotch fans of gingko leaves carpet the sidewalks and street, lending a golden feast for the eyes – but an olfactory insult where the nuts have fallen and broken open, perfuming the air with sporadic whiffs of gingko-vomit.
Our neighbor’s cat holds court while she basks on the sidewalk among fallen oak leaves in front of their house, laying claim to her property while casting a seasonal picture.
Night visitors have returned to the back yard and are quite active. A small tribe of raccoons and one waddling resident opossum seem especially interested in the empty paint and compound buckets sitting out back by the barn.
checking it out after dark
determined
The other night a pair of skunks paraded around the driveway in tandem, creating a “W” pattern.
blurry, parading skunk duo
In anticipation of the first frost, the porch plants of summer were either brought inside or discarded, depending on their health. Unfortunately, I forgot the large remaining pot of basil, most of which didn’t make it. The fig tree dropped its last leaves, was cut back and brought indoors to winter over.
The Burning Bush has deposited a fiery carpet onto the ground, its red berries remaining behind as ornament to the next season.
November. Tonight we set our clocks to “fall back” again as we fall back into longer hours of darkness and colder days. Time to put gardens to bed, gather our blankets, take out the soup pot and prepare for the upcoming time of hunkering down.
Has anybody else experienced the dead-end adventure of trying to navigate through an AI generated automated maze, where you cannot contact a real human being, and felt OK with that?
The tipping point came when I was required to have a referral faxed over to the audiologist in order to get an updated hearing test so I could to purchase new hearing aids. “No problem,” I said with assurance. And away we go.
Let me back up here by mentioning that the medical practice which I have been going to for decades has undergone four different takeovers with four different names, each one becoming more grandiose than the last. The first was named after the town where the original practice was based. The next incarnation was named after the entire region that their ever-expanding offices were located in. The third one had a whole new name which indicated that they “care”. The most recent takeover has a rather pontifical moniker, which gives the impression that they are the best choice. Each new merger presents itself with pomp and promises as to what they will be providing, yet each seems to be offering less in the humanity department. Each one absorbs more and more of the smaller, local practices, until there are now essentially two major players running the medical show in the area where I live. Every time the next acquisition occurs, it becomes more depersonalized.
Throughout these changes, most of the practitioners, and especially my longtime Primary Care Physician, have remained constant. There are some very good practitioners, that is not the issue. Up through incarnation #3, you were able to call the phone number that led to the desk of the head nurse who works alongside my doctor. Her name is Diane. She is amazing. She is so busy that you usually got her voicemail, but if you left a message for Diane, she would always get back to you. If I needed a new prescription, an emergency lab test, an appointment made or changed, a form filled out or even had a question, Diane was there. Diane made sure any necessary information got to my doctor. And if there ever was an actual issue, my doctor has always, always called me back. I cannot express my surprise and gratitude that I have actually received unexpected calls from my PCP if she was concerned – even if it was 9pm at night on a Saturday. This is remarkable. That is pretty much incredible quality of care coming from a practitioner.
So I needed a simple referral for the hearing test – this is an easy thing – and called the phone number for Diane, as I have been doing for many, many years. But instead of Diane’s message, it suddenly now trips to the main number for the entire big pompous-named 4th generation conglomerate, which is not even in the same building as my doctor. I dutifully followed the menu options in expectation of being led back to Diane, but it won’t let me get there. I do this again. And again. And again. I try all different menu avenues in an attempt to reach Diane, but it’s not happening. Please, oh please, just take me to Diane. The disembodied friendly woman’s robot voice keeps instructing me to either go back to the main menu or go to their website and make an appointment – which I don’t need – via that black hole called The Patient Portal.
Thankfully, I am already signed up for The Patient Portal, which, honestly, I have found to be rather useless. They have some of my information, but not all of my medical information. Some of it is incorrect. When you attempt to correct it, it won’t let you. And when you try to find out something in particular, that info inevitably is not to be found there. But I obediently go to The Portal anyway and eventually find my way to where you can send a message in order to procure what you need and they will get back to you within 48 hours. I do that. And then I never hear from them again.
I really need the referral, the appointment is coming up. I call a relative in the medical field to see if they can just fax a simple referral over to the audiologist for me. Something like, “This lady is mostly deaf, she needs a hearing test.” But their particular practice does not fax referrals, they can only be sent electronically. And the audiologist is not set up to take electronic referrals, they only do it by fax. Back to square one.
The brilliant idea to contact one of the specialists that I usually see for a checkup only once a year to ask for a referral occurs to me. The specialist I choose belongs to a different giant medical conglomerate takeover, which has an equally bad reputation of not following through on things. Yet with great luck, I get the voicemail to an assistant who actually calls me back and arranges to fax my referral so the hearing test can happen and the hearing aids can be procured.
Many weeks go by, and then one night out of the blue I get a phone call from my wonderful primary physician, who is very upset that she never received any of those portal messages until now. I vent about the frustration of not being able to get a live human being on the phone, of being disconnected from people in a practice that you depended on to be there, the hell of being caught up in an endless loop of disembodied voice recordings, the loss of being able to get to Diane, since they circumvented her phone extension. She tells me these big businesses use AI systems now. Nobody is happy about it.
I had heard rumor that my doctor will be retiring in the near future, as will the nurse. I tell her I need to get on a waitlist for a new primary care physician, and so sadly I will not be staying with this pompously-named, indifferent, impersonal practice anymore. It is a sad and heavy conversation and we both express profound regrets. We go way back – she has been treating me with quality and respect for decades.
I had to wait eight whole months until I could get a first appointment to establish with a new physician, who is in the other big medical conglomerate. This doctor has not been in practice very long at all and is younger than my children. This other medical behemoth is also known for similar problems and I’ve heard the complaints are just as many. As someone stated to me quite succinctly a few months ago, “They all blow.” But I am hopeful it will work out OK. It might. And there really is no other option.
In the meantime…….
I had injured my shoulder. The orthopedic practice in this area is a huge one that pretty much has the monopoly, with locations throughout the state. I look up the number on their site where it says Contact Us and call for an appointment, instantly getting thrown into The AI Loop From Hell. You cannot reach an actual receptionist to make the appointment. They keep referring you to their website, which I reluctantly head back to and locate the scheduler page to make an appointment. You choose the specialist you need, it brings up their availability, you choose the day and time and enter it. So easy! I do that. Yay, it goes through!
Maybe a minute later I get a text on my phone confirming my appointment – for a different day and a different time than I had signed up for. You cannot answer the text, as it is generated by something that does not accept a response. So I go back into the website to try and correct their error – but there is no way to correct the incorrect appointment, it will not allow it. So I try calling the practice to get a human. But you can’t get a human, you keep getting the AI robot telling you to go to the website. You can try different options on the menu, but they all take you back to the same place. If you try hitting O or #, yelling “Representative”, or if you scream at it (have you ever screamed at a phone menu in frustration? I’m guessing yes….) it disconnects you.
Eventually, after calling multiple times and trying in multiple ways, through multiple disconnections, I did get a live person at the Appointment option (actually “live” is stretching it; she sounded like she just rolled out of bed and it was a bother to answer the phone) who told me I needed to go back into the website and cancel my appointment first in order to make a new appointment. Why that is I don’t know, but I was told it was “Not Allowed.” Could she please then cancel my appointment and make the new one while we were together on the phone? Apparently she couldn’t – or wouldn’t. So I had to cancel my appointment on the website and then go through the whole dance again to try and get a live person on the phone a second time to make a new one. Eventually it was corrected. Eventually I saw the orthopedist, who is a very nice and competent guy. I told him about the ridiculously frustrating experience of trying to get to see him, at which point he shrugged apologetically and confirmed it’s a problem and everyone was aware of it. He did not indicate any changes would be made though. He treated my shoulder and all was okay with that. Until I got the bill.
The bill did not reflect the fact I gave them a copay on the day of service. I paid with my credit card. I have my receipt from the card and also their receipt of the original bill they handed me at the time. And yet the balance due on the bill they mailed me was wrong. So I called the number on the bill for Questions About Your Bill….where I got back into the same AI loop. Because you cannot get there from here. I went around. And around. And around. It would randomly disconnect me and I would call again. I tried every option on the menu. It referred me to their website. I went to the website where you could contact them in writing about your bill. After writing what the issue was, I hit SEND, but it would not go through. It kept telling me that the CAPTCHA was not working. It did not indicate anywhere how you could make the CAPTCHA work. I googled “CAPTCHA not working” and found this was something on them that I couldn’t fix. I did this for about twenty minutes, filling out the same form over and over again, as if something was going to change, a hopeless proposition. Got back on the phone and into the Loop From Hell once again. That useless, pleasant voice that goes nowhere. I screamed at it. YES! NO! and other things not so nice. It disconnected me. An hour of this.
If you read my previous post, you might see that one of my goals is trying to practice Patience. I was really trying. I really was.
Finally it seemed the only way to deal with my bill was to actually drive over there in person and confront a human face to face. The thought of waiting on a line at a window in a room full of people to try and find someone to correct my bill, when the billing office wasn’t even in the same county as the practice I use. was not an enticing one and could have very well been fruitless. As a last ditch effort I called the ortho practice again, hitting every extension, until by some miracle a live person picked up. She wasn’t from billing but she said she would get me there. I begged her not to put me back in the loop. She said don’t worry, this is from the inside. And finally I was delivered to someone in the billing office and my bill was corrected. I had Arrived. She had to listen to my frustration. I’m sure it wasn’t the first time she’s heard this, because I am hearing the same complaints from almost anyone I know that has needed to contact their providers, no matter what group they belong to, in different states throughout the country.
This is an epidemic of indifference.
This experience had me stewing for days. Maybe I’m stewing about a lot of other things in the world and this was just the tipping point. Maybe I’m just wanting to get up in their faces because I can’t do anything about anything else going on in the world. Maybe confronting this is not going to do any good anyway. We are all becoming just a faceless number. Do their CEO’s know that you can’t reach their practices in order to make an appointment? Do they know that you can’t even reach someone in order to pay your bill? I decided to look up Who Is In Charge of the orthopedic practice and let them know that.
When you go on their website, you have to dig pretty deep to find out who the big enchilada is, but I eventually found it through an internet search. It happens to be one of the head orthopedic surgeons. From his photo on their page, he sort of looks like a reasonable guy. There is no option to send an email to anybody on there, so I wrote him a letter, specifically addressed to him, outlining my experience, and the frustration not only of myself, but many others (if they looked at some of the complaints on their ratings they would see the same issues stated there). I wonder if he even saw the letter or read it. I wonder if he even cares so long as they are making money, which they certainly are. If so, I doubt I will hear back from him. If a response does arrive – which so far it has not – it would not be a surprise if it was written by ChatGPT or some other AI generator.
What is interesting is that whenever I do end up being able to have some sort of dialog with a live person who can direct my call or troubleshoot an issue, when the experience goes off pretty seamlessly or within reason, I am so incredibly grateful. It happens. But it is happening less and less.
I understand that help is difficult to find these days. Apparently many practices are running on almost skeleton crews. They don’t want to pay people to answer the phones or field questions, they don’t want to pay people a living wage and benefits when they can pay a company to provide a system of automated prompts and responses on the front line in order to deal with their patients. Perhaps they can’t find qualified applicants. Maybe nobody wants to come in and work at a desk behind a glass window for forty hours a week. I don’t know. All I know is it feels like one more example of our isolation, our removal from each other, another degradation of basic human connection and care.
Not too many days ago a friend and I were lamenting to each other on the phone about how the autumn foliage is not as dramatic, that the absence of serious color is a bit disappointing. How everything is either still a lackluster green or brown already. It’s getting cold, it’s almost November! Having the gift of a vibrant, spectacular Autumn always seems to make moving into the long winter days ahead so much more bearable. How it will be a bummer if it doesn’t happen. Blah blah blah, whine whine whine….
Earworm of the day, The Byrds version of “Turn Turn Turn (To Everything There is a Season)” :
To everything turn, turn, turn There is a season turn, turn, turn And a time to every purpose under Heaven
So we went out in search of turning trees, and we did find some beneath an electric blue sky, with an indication that more was on the way. Perhaps not as vibrant as last year, but still enough foliage vibration to tweak the soul.
finding some gold
a spot of color under electric blue
As we walked along a path, multiple garter snakes warming their bodies on the sun-heated gravel wriggled quickly away into the grass as they felt the vibrations of our footsteps moving towards them.
The wooly bear caterpillars (Isabella Tiger Moth caterpillars) were all over the place. I don’t think I have ever seen so many in one area at at time. The folklore concerning the severity of winter being predicted by the length of the black and red colored bands on its fuzzy body actually is just that. Apparently what the coloring indicates is age and time spent feeding during the growing season. The width of orange band in their center actually exhibits how much they have grown. They also become more red as they age, losing more of the black coloring each time they molt. Given all the scientific facts, I still sort of like the myth, which falls into the same category as the February groundhog and his shadow.
Wooly Caterpillar (Pyrrharctia isabella)
Yesterday my daughter and I headed south on the thruway together in order to attend an event. Even though it was gray and raining, we passed entire areas filled not with brown trees, but with turning leaves. It just so happens the color is happening There right now, instead of Here. While it is not necessarily Here yet, hopefully it will make its way north in the coming days. It’s happening. It always does. Perhaps this is the time to exercise a little bit of Patience.
NYS Thruway vibes
A time to rain, a time to sow
In previous posts I had expressed frustration that the figs on my little potted fig tree on The Urban Porch were not ripening. And yet, they finally did, slowly and one at a time. I think there might be one last remaining one that should be ready to pick at any time. Maybe even tomorrow. Patience!
A time to plant, a time to reap
Today I walked out the front door to see the dogwood and maples by the side of the house making the transition, the Japanese Maple in the back doing its annual deep purple, and the Burning Bush on fire – as it always is without fail each year.
Patience. The goal (and challenge) as autumn fades and we move towards winter, will be exercising Patience.
~*~
“Turn, Turn, Turn” (To Everything There is a Season) – verses taken from the book of Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, arranged by Pete Seeger 1959, covered by The Byrds 1965.
There is too much to say and nothing to say at the same time concerning the painful state of the world these days. We are on visual and emotional overload. My rants on this blog (and there have been a number of them, with more on the way) are not political rants. I don’t engage in politics on social media either. There are words written far better than I could ever articulate or understand on these subjects, words covering all opinions, words on every side of an argument…..and those arguments tend not to come to any good. My focus here, this week, today, is on finding coping mechanisms and diversions in order to not melt into a puddle of angst. I think a lot of us are trying for that lately. And so I will just keep on with sharing those things, finding salvation in the small, the mundane, the light in that.
The Urban Porch, like everything else around here, is a-clutter with “stuff”. The dying hanging plants have finally been removed and replaced with colorful pots of mums in order to enhance the Autumn vibe. Now the mums are dying too, I’m not sure why. Neglect? Psychic trauma? Multiple pots of almost dead mums adorn the railings, lending an air of the macabre.
Every year at some point during any particular season, people will remark how “this year is different” or “what an unusual/weird year of weather we are having”. It is odd to see lilacs blooming again in October. The poppy leaves in my front yard are poking through the grass. Irises are sending up points again. This has probably happened in years past – we just somehow tend to forget about those years. There is no “normal” anymore, it seems, but perhaps there never really was a “normal” to begin with? The abnormal is the new normal now.
So here it is mid-October in the northeast, and at least where I am, so far there is no significant foliage color happening. Most of the trees are either a dull green, turned brown, or are dropping brown leaves. The pathetically bent little sugar maple that was planted last year in the median has three leaves that are at least coloring up to expectation, contrasting nicely against the sky. I am hoping that the Fall foliage situation in the valley is just on a delay and that it will still occur. We could use some of that glory. It might feel a little bit magical to have a gold and orange Halloween, with a warmish evening and a bright waning moon, if only for a night, wouldn’t it?
a few hopeful leaves
On the porch, the hibiscus continues to make a new flower here and there. The light and shadows give O’Keeffe vibes to this bloom.
Speaking of Halloween, I was just planning on putting up the annual creepy ghoul that peeps from behind the porch post. It is small and usually gets twisted around or becomes detached from where it was taped on. That has been the sole decoration for many years. No effort involved.
the annual ghoul
But then my neighbor, the one who has decided to up his Halloween decorating game (both outside and inside his house; you can peak in his windows and gaze upon an eerie scene) gave me his extra bags of fake spider webs to decorate The Urban Porch ™. At first I was averse to accept them, after reading that birds can become entangled. I let him know that, and so he has them only up against his windows so birds will not fly through them. However, the house across the street has them draped all over their bushes, which has lead both of us to walk by regularly, checking to make sure nothing has gotten trapped. Returning home with the bag, I then decided – against my better judgement – that this will be the year I will finally do something spooky to this house besides adding a pumpkin and the ghoul taped to the porch post. I wrapped some of the web around the bannister and draped some along the windows.
To the webs in the door I added a few plastic spiders that he had also shared, and a giant tarantula, making sure that the webbing was not arranged in any way that could trap a bird.
I went back inside to get the small ghoul out of the attic to add to the scene. It was not ten minutes later that I found a bumble bee stuck in the webbing on the railing. With care I gently worked to free its feet from the clingy web, yet it did not appear to be alive and dropped to the ground. I felt terrible. And then I started crying. There was a clear awareness that I was crying about other things besides the bumblebee – the bee was just the proxy for everything else.
Please don’t send me emails and comments eco-lecturing about the use of faux webs on Halloween. I feel bad enough. I’ve learned a bunch more about them since finding the bumblebee. Even if you use them inside, they are pretty flammable. And they are not biodegradable. After this year there will not be any more webs.
It has been in the 40’s at night and chilly in the morning, so the bees are slowing down and the bumblebees specifically are starting to die. For all I know, that could have been a dead bee that fell off the spirea plant right next to it and stuck to the web, although I am not making any excuses for my faux pas. However, I am finding bumble bees that appear to be frozen in suspended animation all over the place this past week, some of which have been taking naps tucked within the petals of the zinnias, which is kind of sweet; not moving at all until the day warms up a bit and they get the energy to move on.
napping bumble all tucked in
Yesterday afternoon I found a honey bee taking a rest on a zinnia too. It seemed unable to move. Honey bees go back to their hives to winter over. Hopefully this one would get there before the evening temps dropped too low.
resting honeybee
Next to the resting bee were a few geometric zinnia buds that resemble mosaic beads, natures jewels.
Squirrels are busy gathering their stores, running back and forth across the street with bright green, tennis ball-sized black walnut hulls in their mouths. My daughter found this little mouse-let in her neighbor’s yard. Its siblings nearby were all deceased, and there was no mother in sight. Based on my previous sad experience with small rodent rescue (see The Value of a Life -7/19/23) she knew there was not a good outcome for it, gently leaving it under a hydrangea bush. This of course set my emotions all over the place again. Bee. Mouse. Humans.
I don’t want to watch the news, nor watch a heavy movie – nothing that contains violence or loss or corruption. Nothing that has anything happen to an animal or a child. I want to get lost in a fiction book, but do not want to read any novels that contain those components either. The saturation point has been reached. I am looking for even the smallest cracks of light.
Back to the porch; weather permitting, on Halloween I will don my wolf hat and sit outside in a chair next to my new friend Skelly – another addition to this year of doing things differently – handing out candy to whatever little ghosts and ghoulies may come to the door. That, and enjoy the sugar-rush of all that candy (which most likely will be left over and which I will finish off within days). That’s the plan, at least for right now.
Some minor updates and musings to share following the last post. This one goes all over the place, just because.
All of the the invasive, toxic White Snakeroot with its scribbly looking flower heads was pulled up. It came out with very little effort. Uninvited mystery plant be gone! Feeling accomplished enough to move on to the next outstanding task, I grabbed a basket, gathered up some of the Red Shiso leaves and steeped them to make Aka Shiso juice and syrup.
gathering Shiso (Red Perilla) leaves
The purple leaves gave up their color, and with the addition of a little lemon juice the liquid turns a bright magenta. Lightly sweetened with agave syrup, this was a very refreshing drink over ice, especially since it suddenly got pretty warm again this week. Some people like it with seltzer (or vodka) added to it. I just had it plain.
Shiso juice over ice
The Aka Shiso was enjoyed with a side of Italian red pepper Teralli, which are little wheat/breadstick rings native to southern Italy. The contrast of the tangy/sweet juice with the savory pepper Teralli was an interesting snack.
Teralli can also be dusted with sugar, which goes nicely with a cup of coffee, spiced chai or hot tea. They are not overly sweet.
Next on the update is (sadly) the disappointing ending concerning my brand-new percale sheets. I was so looking forward to sleeping on crisp, clean, cheery-looking sheets. Opened the package, threw them in the washer to get off any excess dye or whatever chemicals they might have been treated with. Gently tumbled them dry and made the bed. Admired the contrast of the dark red flower print against the white background, juxtaposed against my apple-green blanket. The anticipation of sliding between those sheets was palpable, with the expectation of experiencing an overwhelming sense of comfort, freshness, and perhaps eliciting some pleasant childhood memories from the recesses of my mind.
What I was mentally prepared for was that wonderful feeling you get sleeping on nice percale sheets in a good hotel. Or in my mother’s house long ago. My mom used to iron her sheets. Really. Sleeping in a bed made up of my mom’s freshly laundered and ironed cotton sheets provided one of the most wonderful feelings of love and well-being in the world. I mean that.
Unfortunately, that “Ahhhh” moment I so hoped for didn’t arrive. It was odd that when when I ran my hands over the folded sheets, they felt smooth, but lying on them was like trying to sleep on a bed of fiberglass. It was beyond horrible.
I’m no stranger to percale. They do tend to need a break-in period. The more you use and wash them, the softer they get. However, I never experienced anything this drastic. These were fairly well-known name-brand sheets from a long-standing company. The thread-count fell in the normal range for percale. And they were so cute. Because I really wanted them to work, I spent a torturous night of non-sleep on them.
The following morning required a little research on scratchy percale sheets, and cotton percale in general. Percale is a type of weave in a crisscross pattern. It leaves a finish that is strong, smooth, breathable and long-lasting. It is great if you are a hot sleeper, good for hot-flashes if you are so inclined. (As far as why a senior would still even be talking about getting hot flashes, I sometimes surmise it must be related to some massive karmic hell to pay from a past life).
This was the first time I experienced percale as being so rough, but apparently that is not uncommon and there are hacks and fixes for the problem. You can add a cup of baking soda to the wash water and a half-cup of vinegar to the rinse. If you can’t dry them outside on a clothesline, tumbling dry with dryer balls or tennis balls will also suffice. Site after site claimed that by using this method, one could look forward to those scratchy percale sheets being rendered soft and smooth. So yesterday morning I stripped the bed and did all of those things, washing them alone with plenty of water, the baking soda, the vinegar, the dryer balls. Made the bed up again and looked forward to a night of blissed-out cotton percale dreams.
It made no difference at all. It still felt as if sleeping on sandpaper. Nobody really wants to be stripping the sheets off the bed in the middle of the night (much less a second time within twenty-four hours) but there was no way a night of sleep was to be had wrapped up in these prickly, itchy things. So off they came, and the old tried and true reliable sheets were put back on. While this was happening I was thinking the last time I pulled the sheets off a bed in the middle of the night was for one of my sick children when they were small. And that was a very long time ago.
By morning, the cranky, sleep-deprived decision was made not to invest any more time or energy laundering, testing and changing, with the hope these hell-sheets would become something they clearly weren’t. I folded them up, drove back to the store and returned them. As the woman at the checkout took them from me and placed them on a shelf behind the counter, I admit I felt a bit sad to see the pretty little flower pattern go. In case anyone wondered, they were Laura Ashley sheets, which back in the day used to be known both for their prints and for their quality. Very disappointing.
the replacement set
I replaced them with a different set of sheets – 100% cotton, but not cotton percale. A slightly higher thread count and a brand I was familiar with. And they were on sale, so at least yay to that. The pattern doesn’t thrill me as much, but they will be okay, and I have a rather cool looking bed blanket (with its own kind of cool back story) to throw over them. Brought them home, took them out of the package, only to discover they stunk like…well, “poo” would be the polite word. Seriously? I have never smelled linens with such an unpleasant odor. The word “stench” might apply here. What are they doing to these sheets these days that cause strange feeling and smelling finishes on them?
Washed them, did the baking soda wash and vinegar rinse routine for good measure. Thankfully, they came out feeling and smelling clean. These will not go on the bed until next week, but hopefully they will work out, because I just can’t do this again.
my cool-looking blanket to go with them
Not everybody cares that much about bed linens or towels, and many might find this little trip down the bedding isle a bit boring. But I will state that many of us absolutely love our dishtowels, our sheets and bedspreads, pillows and bath towels – those textiles that surround us, adding mood, accent and comfort to our lives.
Speaking of the word “stench”, this morning I was at a physical therapy appointment (healing a shoulder injury) and could not help but notice the entire large main room smelled like patchouli oil. I am guessing somebody at their appointment had it clinging to their clothing from past applications, because why would anyone wear perfume to PT? Actually, it was not a “stench”, that’s not quite accurate. It did not smell bad because it was not heavy. I admit I like the smell of patchouli in light doses and didn’t really mind it today. I can imagine though that it might have bothered some people in the room, especially a room designated for exercise. When I typed the word “stench” in a paragraph above in relation to the smelly new sheets, it did remind me of some previous unpleasant Patchouli Incidents of years gone by (see Hiding the Patchouli 1/28/2011), thus the segue.
Meandering off track some more and in an upbeat development, another two figs ripened (and were eaten) from the tree on The Urban Porch ™. More appear to be on the way.
Speaking of food, the Dutch Baby of this week was peach-blueberry-vanilla, with maple syrup. If enough figs happen on the tree, I might try adding figs to the next one. I’ve been making one almost every weekend for breakfast and will probably continue that until I get tired of them.
peach blueberry Dutch Baby
The weather has been gorgeous, if a bit warm. There are a few houses on the street that have been upping their game as far as Halloween decorations. My favorite so far is the tasteful spookiness that one of the neighbors did to his c.1720 stone house. At night every window glows with an evil red light from within. There are bats on the front door. A skeleton dangles from above. A rat is caught in the spider webs. Another property a few doors down is in high gear overkill, which is probably going to delight the trick-or-treating kids. Their lawn is filled with life-size plastic crows (I really would love some of these), climbing skeletons going up the walls and onto the roof, massive spiders, gargoyles, tombstones, webs all over, creatures that light up, and some kind of motion-activated eerie voice that caused the dog to levitate off the ground the first time we walked by it. He also was taken aback by a sign around the corner that has a scary pumpkin face painted on it, which happened to be at his eye-level. That was one big “nope” for him.
Maybe I’ll get a pumpkin. I mowed the lawn, and then Rudi and I sat on the porch for a bit while I drank my iced Ako Shiso, mentally willed the figs on the potted tree to ripen, and gazed out at the newly tidied grass. That is, until a yellowjacket chased us inside. I guess they aren’t totally gone yet.
September quickly steps aside, leaving us with those cool nights where having the window open just a bit provides for a good sleep under cozy blankets. The other morning the heat actually kicked on, just for short while. I bought a new set of crisp percale sheets, although perhaps flannel might have made more sense for the upcoming months.
autumn/winter-colored sheets
In case there was any doubt, a quick stroll around the yard confirms that Fall is well on its way. Late Autumn flowers and weeds are a-bloom and lending their farewells. Along with the grasses and trees, much of it has already gone to seed.
The hot-pink spikes of petals rising up from deep eggplant-purple leaves of Shiso is an unexpected surprise, supplying quite the pop of color. Shiso has arrived in my garden for years, but I’ve never noticed it blooming so brightly or profusely. Last year was a lackluster showing. This year they are everywhere. Shiso propagates by seed – perhaps there will be more appearing in the yard (and all the neighbor’s yards) next summer. Maybe I should harvest it now and do something with it. In the past I’ve made pesto, a juice drink, and also a syrup with the leaves, which probably should have been harvested by now. Will it be any good at this point, or too bitter? Can I even get motivated for this? Lots of questions. It’s raining at the moment, so no decisions need to be made. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe…..
Shiso (Perilla frutescens var. crispa) in bloom
Powdery mildew dusts the dying leaves of Echinacea. The spikey, dried flower heads create a mood much different than presented weeks ago.
Peony leaves display tributary-like patterns as they fade out.
White Snakeroot has appeared in abundance near the back patio. It was not planted and has never been there before. This is a toxic perennial that must have arrived on the wind at some point, and will need to be removed.
White Snakeroot (Ageratina altissima)
Insects have artfully created rag-tag skeletons in the leftover leaves of Solomon’s Seal.
The Sedum is fully in bloom now. Bees gather in numbers around a particularly bright cluster, nourishing and storing before serious cold sets in.
Two of the figs on the little fig tree, which is still outside on The Urban Porch ™, are actually beginning to gain a bit of tint. Perhaps at least some of them will ripen, my doubt and impatience all for naught.
It had been an odd summer – despite many hot days, the basil plants never reached any significant height, nor did they flower or bolt as usual.
Dangling skeletons and ghosts, giant black spider webs, pumpkins and other accoutrements of Halloween have already begun to make an appearance in the neighborhood, a good month before the holiday. This week I made a butternut squash soup and some baked apples to confirm the season. Maybe it’s time to sweep the remnants of a summer gone to seed off my porch.
Impatience is not the greatest trait to have in general. When it comes to the creative processes involved in crafting or art, impatience can make things especially disheartening. The struggle with this is a real and ongoing one for me. Having a vision is one thing, the execution of such is quite another. Depending on the project, frustrations with the process, dealing with the imperfections and the gradual (or sudden) lack of joy in the process can sometimes become overwhelming. When it comes to anything that requires precision, things can get rather stressful. At some point everything comes to a halt and the project gets dropped. Apparently this is not an uncommon phenomenon.
Every once in a while immersion into a project occurs deeply, where the attention is so concentrated, that you can actually get outside (or way inside) your head, as if on another planet. When that level of hyper-focus happens, it is a satisfying surprise, its own type of drug. It has been an ongoing search (a yearning) to find the outlet that can reliably put me in that zone. People I know get into such a headspace while working on a car engine, making music, planting garden beds, creating jewelry, working with fiber, assembling a collage, building a porch. For me, it has been a long, long, journey through different waters. Sometimes it happens with gardening. A few times during some free-form sewing. With drawing. But to achieve that state with any regularity, so far the closest I have been able to come to it has been while putting words down on a page.
Earworm of the day:
A-tisket a-tasket A green and yellow basket I wrote a letter to my love And on the way I dropped it, I dropped it, I dropped it
Patience. Focus. How many times I’ve experienced the intense discomfort felt when trying to paint a room. I am actually unable to paint the walls of a room or the outside of a house without weeping. I can happily paint pictures on a wall, but ask me to roll out color or cut in around a window with a brush and I want to jump out of my skin and run away screaming. And if I have to do it, if I started it and it needs to be finished, it becomes a torturous experience, with sloppy, sub-par results. I have actually broken down and sobbed while painting a kitchen and the trim on a house. I both admire and envy those who find the rhythm of rolling on paint relaxing.
There are the people who color within the lines and those that color outside of them, and there are some of us who do both. It’s not as if I’m incapable of coloring inside the lines, it’s just that sometimes what gets colored within them cries out to be embellished, or becomes strange-looking, or not so tidily executed within those lines. Shading and pattern often needs to happen. Sometimes going outside of the lines leads off into a whole other tangent, creating something on the edges of the page. It’s not always pretty, but that’s where it leads. There is a bit of a life metaphor in that.
This proclivity was happening back in kindergarten and it still happens now. The mandala coloring books for adults that my children tend to gift me every few years, meant to be meditative and relaxing, are mostly that way only under certain circumstances. These books seem to be great while talking on the phone, or coloring in the physical company of someone else while having a conversation, like a great big doodle book. But just to sit there and do it without the dual distraction doesn’t work; the marriage of the visual and auditory enhances the focus.
Thinking back to childhood, there were a few times when my Nona tried to teach me to knit – over and over again. The dropped stitches. The bulges. The creation of what looked like multiple sock heels in what was supposed to be a smooth scarf. The ripping out. The knots. The tears. This was not fun. I stopped doing it, and felt like a failure for not catching on.
Many years later, my grandmother-in-law, Nana, attempted to pick up teaching where Nona left off. I would do a few rows and mess it up. She would say “Rrrip it out and do it again.” So I would start all over and mess it up again. “Rrrip it out.” Do it again. “Rrrip it out.” And again. “Rrrip it out,” while I would be stuffing down the scream wanting to burst from my lungs. Finally, we both gave up.
I can’t knit
Since that time, a co-worker taught me to do the most basic crochet stitches while we were away at a conference one year. That was a bit more relaxing, because when you have to “rrrip it out” (I can still hear Nana) at least it is easy to backtrack and recover what you lost. With those basic stitches I have learned to make headbands. Lots and lots of headbands and only headbands. When attempting to make an actual hat though, they all come out square on top, looking like the mortar board hats for high school grads. So it has just been headbands (or maybe you can call them “neck warmers”), until I tired of that. It is really enjoyable to go into yarn stores and wool festivals to look at all the beautiful colors and patterns, the gorgeous home-spun, and fantasize about the potential for what could be. I have eventually learned that “fantasy” is they key word, as opposed to “reality,” which might indicate a level of maturity, or acceptance.
Was it needlepoint or cross-stitch? The cool-looking Alphonse Muchas pillow cover was started with great enthusiasm. That one was about one-third completed before I had a meltdown and was finally able to admit how much I hated doing it. How can people find this relaxing? I have a friend who makes beautiful stitched pictures and samplers that I gaze upon with much appreciation. I doubt I could get much past the letter B doing one of those. The Muchas pillow top sat in a shoe-box for years, with the intention of having some renewed energy about it. Every time I took it out I would just shut the box and put it away again, until finally the unfinished piece and all the yarn for it was given away to someone who would hopefully do something with it.
the intended pillow failure
This happened on and off, over and over again with quilting. An idea would form in my head. All those beautiful fabrics to collect, the amazing, inspiring quilt-artists. And then, the impatience. The crooked cutting. The points that don’t match. The tremendous urge to color outside the lines. I had a quilting fail/success story that spanned over thirty years; a repeatedly stalled project that was finally finished “with a little help from my friends” at the midway point in its evolution. Can you imagine taking thirty years to make a quilt for your children? They were grown and had children of their own before that one was finally completed. After that experience, I doubt I will ever attempt a quilt again.
I dropped it, I dropped it Yes, on the way I dropped it
Then there is the bun basket, which brings me to how this post got started, and the earworm part of this tale. I am not sure if it is called a “bun basket” because it is meant for carrying buns or maybe the shape of it is rather bun-like. An old friend – who I had never considered particularly crafty – got into making these, which she called bun baskets. On doing a little research, I think the style is considered an Amish egg-gathering basket. She made a really nice one for me (which I still have decades later) and back then invited me to try making one myself. So I bought all the materials and started in earnest on my very own bun/egg basket. It was going along beautifully. It was taking shape pretty much exactly like hers. I had a bathtub full of the wicker reeds soaking. Yet suddenly I became so tired of doing it, so bored with doing it, that I put it away “to finish later”. Which turned into years. A half finished bun-basket and all those coils of reeds, clamps and supplies in a big box, every once in a while re-discovered, only to be stashed again, until the project was given away.
the original bun basket made by my friend
Last week I was at an event where the opportunity to take a workshop making a basket out of cattails was offered. This sounded appealing – so enticing that I somehow almost forgot about the former bun-basket fail. When recalling that basket-making had not been my forte in the past, I reasoned that perhaps things had changed over time.
There are ten of us sitting at a few scattered tables with a vibrant, clear-eyed, rosy-cheeked, enthusiastic young instructor. She went from person to person, starting us off creating our basket bottoms with long strands of wet cattail leaves divvied out to everyone. Off to a great start, mine was looking pretty hopeful. This was going to be fun.
The process remained somewhat exciting, until the bottom was finished and the rows needed to rise up in order to create the sides. That is where I somehow started making spaces and holes and dropping sections, exactly they same way I dropped stitches in knitting. The other nine people in the room were going along pretty nicely, their baskets developing at a steady pace into recognizable shapes, each unique but also well executed. Mine was already shaping up to be a disaster. Either it was turning into a flat placemat, or when I tried to bring up the sides, it would become too tight and begin to close in on itself like a ball. The young, clear-eyed and very sweet instructor took time to stop by my chair numerous times to help me correct the problems. Despite that, enthusiasm began to wane. At one point my basket got so messed up that I called out, “Something bad is happening!” and more than once she had to undo what I had done (“rrrip it out”) and get me started again in the right direction. Then she would move on to attend to someone else. At some point the uncomfortable realization dawned on me that I had become “That Student”. You know how sometimes there is one person in the class (any class) that just doesn’t seem to grasp the concepts? To my horror, that person was me.
And on the way I dropped it.
The class lasted between three and four hours, where we were expected to complete our own basket in its entirety. At a little bit past the halfway point the meltdown began. I was welling up with tears, which I kept wiping away so nobody would see. Here I was, an adult, a senior for Pete’s sake, crying with frustration because I could not create a decent basket like everyone else in the class. And suddenly it hit me; the kid sitting at her desk in school, incessantly tapping her feet against the chair to songs in her head. Distractedly filling spiral notebook pages with comics. Doodling in the margins of the test handout instructions. Not doing the homework. Not following the pattern. Not sticking to the recipe. My Attention Deficit.
At the end there were just two of us left in the room. Everyone else had finished. A fairly new friend who had been sitting next to me and had created her own rather appealing, good sized basket was trying to bolster up my feelings. The instructor came over and quickly, deftly, without even looking down at her own hands, took my basket and completed my last row so that I could take over and wrap up the finishing edge of the top. Even with that easy task, I made a few errors and needed to back-track.
When it was finally completed, it actually didn’t look all that horrible. It is small – it fits in the palm of my outstretched hand. Compared to the others, it was rather pathetic. But standing on its own, if one of my children or grandkids had brought something like this home I would praise them and put it on the fireplace mantle in a place of honor. Supposedly as the grasses dry, the basket will tighten up a bit, making the holes and spaces appear not as haphazard. The very kind instructor assured me that over time I will come to cherish my wonky little basket for what it is.
I placed it on the fireplace mantel, in support of my inner child.
A-tisket a-tasket my green and yellow basket
~*~
“A-Tisket, A-Tasket” – a children’s rhyming game 1879 in U.S. The jazz version with enhanced words co-written by Ella Fitzgerald and Van Alexander was recorded by Ella Fitzgerald with the Chick Webb Orchestra in 1938.
Mid-September. I’m awaiting a burst of productivity to occur, but it’s not happening.
Earworm of the day, recorded by Jimmy Cliff in 1971:
Sitting here in limbo But I know it won’t be long Sitting here in limbo Like a bird without a song
It has been a mostly stagnant week, spent waiting too long for necessary phone calls to be returned, holding off on plans that have been contingent on the confirmation of other obligations, which has resulted in everything ending up in a giant stall. I really dislike being scheduled for appointments in the middle of the day, which often derails any other objectives because of the timing.
Adding to this annoyance is that my shoulder still hurts following some previously aggressive weeding gone awry. This new situation – which disappointingly has not quickly resolved – is leaving me feeling a bit fragile, afraid to make certain moves – feeling a bit “senior,” and not liking it much. While locked into this temporary limbo, it would probably be prudent to take advantage of the situation and tidy up some of the multiple messes surrounding my space. Instead, I wander from pile to pile of stuff, no real interest in dealing with any of it. I could easily spend the day on the couch playing games on my phone if I didn’t force myself to mentally lurch myself away from it.
So instead, there have been brief forays out to The Urban Porch ™ to watch thunderheads build and morph into a series of interesting shapes, until the wind picks up, blasting rain, twigs and other debris, sending the dog and I scurrying back inside.
The fastidious spraying of a peppermint oil mixture may or may not have thwarted the yellowjackets from their interest in hanging out on the porch. Perhaps they have found more desirable places and people to annoy. It could be their cycle is winding down and has evolved to something else. Or maybe it has just been a lucky lull in the action and they plan to return. For now, there has been a reprieve.
Everything is wet, but we anticipate a nice stretch of clear and refreshing weather for the upcoming week, hopefully spurring on some much needed motivation. Days are perceptibly shorter now. The Autumn Equinox is approaching.
These almost-Fall colors bring on twinges in the heart, a small foretelling of what Autumn always does to the soul (for me, at least), a sort of delicious melancholy. We are not quite there yet, but soon…..
The sedum continues to gain blush.
sedum working up to its glow
The dogwood is resplendent with bright red seeds.
Dogwood in seed
. Chrysanthemums bring warm cheer to every corner.
Ivy has decided to creep along the porch stairs. It should probably be cut back, but I’m kind of enjoying the shape and color as I step over it, for now.
Wild Day Flowers pop up in the weeds and raise their bluest of blue petals above the messy fray that had begun as hopeful, tidy garden beds not long ago.
day flowers
Rain has brought out a variety of colors and textures.
The potted fig tree, which has spent all summer on The Urban Porch ™, has actually produced more figs than in previous years. So far they have not been scavenged by any marauding squirrels, although that could change. I’ve counted eleven figs – eleven!!! – which is rather exciting for this little tree. Unfortunately, they appear to be in a suspended, unripening state at the moment – every single one is small, green, and hard as a rock. They have ceased to progress, which is also a first for me. I am hoping something will change in that regard.
hurry up before it gets too cold!
On the food front, honestly, all I feel like doing lately while in this limbo state is eating salted caramel ice cream. Right out of the container, just me and a spoon. Yesterday my sister-in-law (thankfully) sent me an easy, quick recipe (quick and easy being the desirable, operative words here) that uses the abundance of fresh zucchini and tomatoes available now, which was a welcome injection of nutrition and a baby step towards actually doing something productive. In case you are lacking in the motivation department lately, you might want to try this for dinner, so I’ll share it here. It’s kind of like a Margherita pizza except on top of a zucchini.
Cut zucchini lengthwise. Brush with olive oil. Sprinkle with salt, pepper and garlic powder (or you can used fresh garlic – I used garlic powder for the easy as possible version). Slice tomatoes and lay them across the top. Sprinkle with grated mozzarella or parmesan cheese, or a combo of both (I used both last night. Sister-in-law made with only parmesan, with happy results). Throw some sliced basil on top. (I’m betting oregano or any number of different herbs would work fine – either dried or fresh). Bake in 375 F degree oven for about 30 minutes so the zucchini is soft.
easy and yummy meal for the unmotivated
It was really tasty – I ate three of these. I think next time a nice crusty bread or a small side of pasta or some grain (SIL thought maybe cut them up and throw them over quinoa) might round out the meal a bit. It felt like a little bit extra of something was needed in order to totally fill me up. But it was pretty much effortless and yummy, so it’s going into the rotation.
On top of a pile of papers, which are sitting in front of this computer screen where I sit typing at the moment, is a “To Do” list with a number of “chores” on it (which have mostly not changed in months). There are three items crossed off and nine long-standing items that should be dealt with. Only one of those things is actually really important. I’m trying to take the first slow steps out of limbo by digging out this list from the bottom of the mess of papers. Hopefully the incoming autumn will provide fresh incentives and reduce the stagnation swirling around my brain this week.
Sitting in limbo, sitting in limbo (limbo, limbo, limbo) Sitting in limbo, sitting in limbo (limbo, limbo, limbo) Sitting in limbo, sitting in limbo (limbo, limbo, limbo)
* “Sitting in Limbo” – written by Jimmy Cliff and Guilly Bright, released by Jimmy Cliff in 1971
What a beautiful, breezy, blue-sky day! I sit here on The Urban Porch ™ with Rudi, watching the busy proliferation of bumble bees, honey bees, black wasps, Blue-winged wasps and swallowtail butterflies hovering about. There are all sorts of smaller flying things I have yet to identify flitting around the potted plants too. The bees alight gently on the Rose of Sharon to gather pollen or poise around the hanging Lobelia, which seems determined to survive, despite one side of it being totally dead.
Rudi lies at the top of the porch steps like a small, fluffy Sphynx, eyes closed, nose slightly lifted, taking in the pleasant day.
The butterflies touch momentarily upon the cosmos before floating off on a puff of wind. Everything feels copacetic, everyone appears to be in harmony….. all, save one.
Somewhere in the recesses of my memory I can recall a friend stating, “Yellowjackets are assholes,” and I have to admit, in my experience that seems like an accurate assessment. Just about any time there is an encounter with one, that thought goes through my mind.Here we are on this lovely day, everyone is hanging out and getting along – except for this one jerk of a yellowjacket. It has been a malignant lingerer here for the better part of a week; I imagine it is the same one. Territorial, menacing, annoying, as it zig-zags crazily around my feet or dodges too close to the dog’s face. I am not eating or drinking anything out on the porch (although I would like to) and am not wearing any creams or perfumes. Neither is the dog. And yet, it persists.
Often in the past I have (carefully) gathered raspberries from bushes that were alive with honey-bees and never felt threatened, as they were busy doing their own thing, moving among the small, white flowers while we respectfully shared the spaces.
the mellow honeybee
Years ago I had a friend who had allowed a number of black wasps to inhabit her living room. They would come and go through the open windows all summer and pretty much keep to the ceiling. I found this bizarre, and can admit was always a bit uncomfortable with these “roommates” while visiting her place. But apparently – as far as I know – everyone seemed to get along without issue.
While attending a yoga retreat one summer, hoards of giant Cicada Killer Wasps had made a multitude of individual ground burrows in a large expanse of lawn right outside the studio doors – doors that remained open during class. Have you ever seen one of these things? They are visually nightmarish – a couple of inches long – daunting to look at, to say the least. The philosophy of the holistic facility being “live and let live,” we practiced our mindfulness amidst these massively large and somewhat scary-looking creatures, which busily climbed in and out of the sandy holes they had created all over the grass, then entering and exiting the classroom, where they would find their way upwards and bounce up along the high ceiling. It was challenging, and yet probably a good exercise during Savasana (resting pose) at the end of practice, trying to divert your mind and accept their startling, yet benign presence.
Cicada Killer Wasp (Sphecius speciosus)
The fact is, the honey and bumble bees, most black wasps, and the cicada killers are not looking to bother you unless you step on them, grab them or threaten their nests. But the yellowjacket is a different story – truly the asshole – who will hassle you, pursue you, sting you, and sting you again – for no apparent reason at all. Well, it thinks it has a reason, but clearly it doesn’t bother to rationally assess the situation first before violently overreacting.
There is a different one (just one, and I am assuming it’s not the same one, but who knows?) that hangs out in front of the house next door. When I walk past there with the dog, inevitably when he stops to do his business it will suddenly appear and begin its dance of intimidation. I noticed a number of them briefly took over control of the Rose of Sharon mid-summer, outnumbering the honey and bumble bees, but at that time still mostly just minding their business. But lately they seem to have given that up and have become invasive of personal space. Last weekend on the way to the farmer’s market, a neighbor just coming from there warned that the area was suddenly aswarm with them, mostly concentrated wherever baked goods and fruits were being sold, although not exclusively. Last summer, while walking uptown and nowhere near where I would think any of them would be, just out of the blue I was stung on the hand. It is the kind of sting that just keeps on giving, and that you don’t forget. Assholes!
Eastern Yellowjacket (Vespula maculifrons)
After complaining about my repeated encounters with The Asshole to a fervently ecologically-minded relative who defended them, stating they are beneficial and integral to the ecosystem (and yes, I am quite aware they are all part of the balance…..but…but..but…) I decided to at least do a little more research on them beyond the obvious. Clearly they were named “yellowjackets” due to their yellow and black striped body (as a child I actually thought they were called “Yellow Jacks”). They are a type of wasp.
So what are they good for? In addition to seeking nectars and fruit, they are carnivores and scavengers. They are sometimes dubbed “meat wasps.” Earlier in the life cycle of the yellowjacket, they eat spiders, caterpillars, grubs, aphids, flies, and feast on other protein, like dead insects and road kill. Later in the summer or early fall is when they go looking for sugar and become a real nuisance, when they will come after your lunch, desserts and drinks. They will invade your hummingbird feeders too. Their aggression heightens.
They exist in a caste system of Queen, Drone and Worker, with nests which are celled and created of chewed wood and plant fiber. They do possess some level of insect intelligence. Supposedly they are able to figure out, learn and share information with the others about certain locations and when it is prime time to show up at a picnic site, instead of lingering around in the morning or afterwards when nothing is going on. They will arrive on schedule at an outdoor restaurant just around lunch time in anticipation. They really know how to crash a party.
Their radius of venturing is about one mile from their nests, which tend to be underground, or in rotted wood or logs, or within attics and walls of buildings. The ones who do the stinging are the females – I’m reading that a colony can consist of about two thousand (2000!!) to four thousand (4000!!!!) or more females, and they have been known to grow to fifteen thousand (15,000!!!!!) – kind of a disturbing thought. If you swat or kill one, they are capable of emitting a pheromone that will attract all the other yellowjackets to come to their aid and attack you in order to defend their nest. Outrunning them might be difficult and they very well might chase you up to a mile. Unlike a honeybee, it is not one sting and done – they can (and will) sting over and over multiple times. Most of the fatalities in the U.S. as a result of stings are from the yellowjacket.
Researchers from the University of Michigan developed tests which revealed that along with honeybees, wasps are able to employ facial recognition, not only in order to identify the faces of other wasps, but of humans. That’s pretty freaky (and sort of unnerving) stuff. They will remember you.
Some birds make yellowjackets part of their diet, as apparently this insect which eats protein is subsequently high in protein. Catbirds, Blue Jays, Cedar Waxwings, Sparrows, Tanagers, Purple Martins, Warblers, Bluebirds, Cardinals and Woodpeckers are some from off that list. More reason to love birds! Racoons, skunks and bears tend to be their natural mammalian predators. I think opossums might be also. I haven’t seen our usual resident night visitors in a little while, but knowing this, I eagerly invite them to come around again as soon as possible and feel free to do some digging.
How cool is this Shrike with a hornet? photo by Leigh Prevost
So back to the porch….after days of being discouraged from sitting outside due to this nuisance, I decided it needed to be actively thwarted. It was time for this jack to hit the road. I certainly wasn’t going to swat the thing and bring out the angry masses, and I didn’t want to break out the heavy duty wasp spray, instead opting for some natural herbal disinfectant containing essential oils like peppermint and thyme that happened to be in the bathroom, which I spritzed around whenever it started getting too close in an attempt to discourage it.
At first that seemed to do the trick, as it took off. But eventually it returned, lingering uncomfortably close to the hem of my pants, brushing my ankle with its dangling legs. It had been encouraged to leave, it decided it wasn’t going to leave, and at that point I decided enough, it was me or it. So I sprayed directly at it, which didn’t appear to deflect it at all. This thing was on an inner mission. And so I kept spraying the herbal spray at it until it finally wasn’t moving anymore, then flicked it off the porch. I guess it never sent out any pheromones, because luckily, none of its clan arrived. I am hoping tomorrow there will not be another one to step in and take its place.
But you know, I felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Although I list yellowjackets up there even ahead of mosquitos, scutigera centipedes and horseflies as major “Nope” insects on my personal roster of intolerable things, I still felt badly about it…sort of. What’s more, in a brief, surreal, Twilight Zone-type scenario moment that played out in my imagination, I thought, “What if this was actually some kind of harbinger from the beyond, some kind of soul, or someone I once knew, trying to make contact and send a message?” Well, I don’t really believe that, but it’s a pretty awful “what if” kind of thought, isn’t it?
(Hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more) (Hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more) What you say? (Hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more) (Hit the road Jack and don’t you come back no more)
~*~
“Hit the Road Jack” – written by Percy Mayfield 1960, recorded by Ray Charles 1961
The late August flowers growing around The Urban Porch ™ are a haphazard medley of tangerine, apricot and marmalade shades, interspersed with fuchsia, magenta and bubblegum pinks – all of it entangled in a mass of weeds gone rampant.
Amidst the weeds, the Obedient Plant (also known as False Dragonhead) has been far from compliant. Part of the mint family, it spreads throughout and has taken over everything in its path. While I enjoy the spikey flowers, the rest of the plant is kind of an unattractive mess.
the disobedient Obedient Plant (Physostegia virginiana)
Obedient Plant/False Dragonhead faces
I have been laid low and flat on my back during the last few days, following an afternoon of very aggressive yard work, taken on as a means of burning off some anxiety and frustration about all the money I just had to put on my credit card (see previous post “In Five Days” 8/22/23 for those ridiculous details). This mostly consisted of yanking out an onslaught of Jerusalem Artichokes that began as two and turned into a forest, and some other stubbornly rooted unidentifiables that could barely be moved. While all that tugging resulted in very little visual difference, it succeeded in ripping up my shoulder and upper back pretty badly, culminating in an emergency orthopedic visit – just one more charge to add to the red-hot credit card. Everywhere I look there is overgrowth – it is difficult to ignore the urge to bend down and pluck out a weed here and there – but there seems to be no choice now but to finally let it go for the season. The Universe intervenes.
Clusters of phlox have popped up here and there, just about finished. I still nibble a few petals every once in a while. They add some nice color to a salad (see Eating Phlox 7/26/11).
Phlox
A surprise wall of Pepto Bismol pink morning glories appear to be holding the back fence hostage. Many years ago I had planted a deep purple variety by the back stairs, unaware their psychedelic looking blossoms were actually more like a bindweed, an open invitation to a coup. Now they are showing up everywhere. I’m guessing the shift in color must have something to do with the pH of the soil. These are quite invasive; making a kazillion seeds, they send their tendrils out to wrap around and strangle anything in their path. I think they are called Ipomoea purpurea. As you are pulling them out, their tiny seeds rain down everywhere, insuring another season of survival.
Speaking of taking over, the trumpet vine is totally out of control and has also been very difficult to eliminate. I can’t believe I’ve created this situation. At least last year it was filled with interesting blooms that resembled red-orange goldfish. This year it only made one flower, but has branched out everywhere at a rapid rate, sending out a mass of roots which anchor themselves firmly into the earth, entrapping the wheelbarrow leaning against the fence in what seems like a matter of days. I imagine if someone stood still long enough, they could become imprisoned in its leafy clutches.
trapped!
The spring before last, the wonderful hero neighbors that removed the bat from my bedroom (see Things That Land In Your Hair, 7/30/22) had sent all their friends “Happy Spring” cards containing a seed packet of mixed flowers, which I had forgotten about until this year. Not sure if anything would still come of it, I tossed the seeds into the median where the corn had grown last summer. A lovely combination of Cosmos, Zinnias and Calendula has made a cheery showing (popping up amidst more weeds).
Cosmos
Zinnia
Calendula
The deep pink Rose of Sharon that has sheltered the porch is just about finished, but the white ones are suddenly bursting with flowers and bees.
The Blue-winged Wasps have returned, bouncing around the hostas, although their numbers are much less this year – they seem to prefer the high grasses of the yard next door. Crickets have emerged and can be seen scurrying through the lawn. There must be a yellow jacket nest somewhere nearby – they have chased me off the porch a few times and one aggressively followed us part way down the street while walking the dog. The farmer’s market is suddenly filled with them too – nasty little things, hanging out and harassing you by the baked goods.
Little Sun Gold tomatoes growing on the porch in pots continue to produce. Their sweetness is probably the closest thing to sugar that a tomato could possibly be.
Any day now the green tufts of sedum will begin to blush, lending their hues to the early autumn palette.
The woods continue to provide a display of colorful and interesting fungi. The glow of little orange cinnibar mushrooms reminds me of red efts.
Cinnibars (Cantharellus cinnabarinus)
In case anyone doesn’t know what a red eft is, here you go. I happen to be extremely fond of red efts. Seeing one always feels like a tiny bit of magic. Same beautiful orange as the cinnibars! So lovely!
little red eft
Here is a cool-looking young Amanita – just to admire and leave alone. I think it might be a Yellow Patches or Yellow Wart Amanita (Amanita flavoconia). So striking to come upon!
Yellow Patches Amanita
Inside the house, beauty is to be found in a bowl of donut peaches. Donut peaches are a favorite that is anticipated every year.
But mostly this has been my view during the last few days leading into the last week of August…..the back of Rudi’s fluffy head and his sweet little ears, as he lies across my lap in bed. We have both been laid low, and oddly enough, we were both prescribed the exact same (somewhat useless) medication. You know how they say dogs become like their owners and owners become like their dogs? Some truth in that…
It’s almost astonishing that my credit card has not warped and melted from all the use it has gotten over the past week. The “tap” feature on it suddenly stopped working during the last number of transactions, which may or may not be coincidental. I’m surprised the bank hasn’t frozen it yet, pending investigation for suspicious use. In five days I have racked up ten-thousand dollars ($10,000) of unavoidable, necessary purchases.
At some point in the future that might not sound like a lot of money, but right now on this day in time, at least for me, that is a whopping big sum, especially to be put down so quickly and unexpectedly. I realize this happens to people, and for much, much more…..the sudden breakdown of a heating or septic system, the need to replace a leaking roof – if you happen to own your own home, the ongoing maintenance can throw you into a financial hole. The consolation is that at least you are left with something tangible and lasting that becomes an investment into your own property. These five day expenditures popped up one day after another. Somehow it felt different than the surreal experience of sitting down and signing your name to a giant, scary mortgage for hundreds of thousands of dollars, or even taking out a new car loan. I’m not sure why, but even though this amount is significantly less than a house or a car, perhaps it is because those are things which will last for a long while, are investments, something that can be resold in the future, and that when you enter into that kind of an arrangement, you are at least making an exciting choice, the purchase is anticipated and not a surprise.
This will lead into the topic of inflation. For perspective on inflation, when I was a teenager buying my first car (and really, I’m not that old), a brand new compact car cost about $1919. Even paying that in installments, it was doable, and realistic that someone – even a teenager – could actually buy a new vehicle without getting buried in debt. My used car was even less than that. Today a new car of the same size runs somewhere between $25,000 and $30,000. I can’t even imagine where prices will go from there, or how the average person can afford anything. But anyway, right now today as I post this, ten thousand dollars you didn’t plan on dropping is kind of staggering, and staggering I certainly am.
It started on day one with the dog requiring an emergency veterinary visit, and then there were a few follow-up visits after that. That rolled out to almost $1000……so far. I have been asked, in case anyone else wonders: No, I don’t have veterinary medical insurance on the dog. When I adopted him he was not a puppy, and he already had some health stuff going on, so pet insurance was not really an option – at least not an affordable one. I feel there is no choice in this. When you take on the responsibility of an animal’s life, you take care of it the same way you should take care of one of your own children, period.
On day two I had to take my car in for service, as it had been making “a noise” for a while. Because I don’t hear well, although aware it was generating some kind of sound, I didn’t realize just how loud and persistent it was until a number of other people began to express concern about “the noise.” So I brought it in to deal with what turned out to be multiple issues causing a few of the loud sounds, and at the end of the day drove home a less noisy (but still not quiet) car – running up another almost $2000 more on my credit card in the process. I try to rationalize this by telling myself “look how much you saved by not spending $28,000 on a new car.” This is supposed to make me feel better, but so far it’s not quite doing the trick.
While waiting over a number of hours during that day for the interventions required to lower the decibel level on my car to be performed, I met a former coworker for a cup of coffee. She shared with me that she had recently had cataract surgery, and that she could not get the proper cataract replacement lenses she needed that would also address her severe astigmatism because the insurance company would not cover the Toric astigmatism IOL (intraocular) lenses, which they consider “cosmetic.” Because she would have had to pay a considerable amount out of pocket to to cover this, she ended up getting less effective lenses than what she needed. On top of that, she then would have to purchase new glasses to work with the new cataract lenses, since the old ones were no longer a viable prescription. But she would have to wait a while before she could get those glasses because the time period for when she got her last pair had not yet expired, and insurance wouldn’t cover the new pair. As she told me this story she sat there tilting her head and squinting, as she was not seeing as well as she should have been.
The reason she chose to forego this additional out of pocket expense for the Toric intraocular lenses to address astigmatism was because at the same time, her husband was purchasing a badly needed pair of hearing aids that cost thousands of dollars – which are also considered “cosmetic” by the insurance company and are not covered. They had to make a decision, and she chose to pass on the better lenses she really needed – ones that would be permanently implanted in her eyes – so that her husband could finally hear. I cannot tell you how deeply saddened and also enraged this left me feeling – not for her choice to sacrifice her own needs to benefit her husband, but for the fact that the insurance situation and lack of decent medical benefits in this country forced her to make this kind of a choice at all.
a “cosmetic” intraocular lens
Synchronistically, the very next day I had an appointment to get fitted for new hearing aids, which I have been stalling on (for years) because of the high cost. A pair of hearing aids are made to last anywhere between three to five years. Sometimes you can try and stretch it so they will go beyond that, but really, they wear out, hearing changes (mine for the worse), and they make advances in technology that you can always hope will be more helpful. It was way beyond the time that I needed new ones. Also, I don’t have anything as a backup in the event that they fail, break, or get lost. In the past they have occasionally stopped working at some of the most inconvenient or inopportune times. This has rendered me suddenly and almost totally deaf, and it’s been a horrible and sometimes very scary experience to find yourself abruptly shut off. Given that, it has created a constant, nagging bit of anxiety in the back of my mind, knowing everything has been depending on these miniscule plastic housings which are smaller than a peanut shell, which contain teeny microphones, amplifiers, digital processors and microchips. What could possibly go wrong?
OK, I guess this is where The Rant truly begins.
So yes, the appointment, which had been scheduled weeks in advance, happened to fall right on the heels of the dog and the car. The hearing aids are $6800 for the pair. Six-thousand-eight-hundred-dollars.They are not covered by insurance. As previously stated, insurance companies consider hearing aids “cosmetic.” Are you getting this? “Cosmetic.” Like anyone would say “Hey, I think I need to go out and get me some of those cool-looking hearing aids to match my dress.” I think this is absolutely criminal.
“cosmetic?” are you kidding me?
A few friends have sent me articles about recent federal changes that provide for over-the-counter “more affordable” hearing aids that have been coming out on the market. Unfortunately, I am not a candidate for those, as my hearing loss is both uncommon and severe. I am also not a hearing aid newbie, the beginnings of this hearing loss journey occurring back when I was a young mother – I’ve been wearing them for over thirty years and I know what works for me, what doesn’t, and how to use them to the best advantage I can. Having tried a number of different brands, there is one particular brand that fits best for my loss, and it is their higher end processor that gives me enough clarity to navigate at least some of the world, some of the time. They are made by Oticon. As of this date, the latest generation to come out is called the Oticon “Real.” For what they cost they should call them Oticon “Real-Expensive.” Their profits must be through the roof.
I could go on to tell you how my Medicare Advantage Plan offers hearing aids for less by using a “middle-man” company. I could get into blasting the middle-man company, which I have been in contact with numerous times and which have been useless. Everyone on their list of local participating providers that I reached out to either don’t carry Oticons, or worse, some of those on the list provided by the insurance company are saying they don’t even participate with my insurance company! The last time I spoke to the middle-man company with my concerns, a “supervisor” was supposed to call me back – but never did.
I could tell you how an internet search brought up these hearing aids at what looked like a much more enticing price. But there are catches and loopholes, risks and even hidden costs in doing this. Ordering hearing aids off the internet is not a good idea for me. Having access to a licensed audiologist who can troubleshoot problems, make adjustments when your aids won’t pair to your phone or if a channel suddenly goes out, someone who can alter your settings to deal with ongoing fluctuations in your hearing, insure and repair your aids for the first three years, and someone who is available to get you in almost immediately……this is imperative.
To throw things even further into the abyss, my wonderful audiologist, who I had been seeing for decades and who worked closely with me to address the challenges of programming for “severe, progressive, bilateral reverse-slope hearing loss”, retired and moved out of state. So I had to start all over again with someone new who is familiar with the odd patient who has RSHL. Which hopefully will be the start of a beneficial relationship, but it just made the entire week feel a bit more difficult. I knew they were going to be expensive, but when I was told the pair would be $6800, the earth shifted for a second and I felt a slight wave of vertigo.
To break it down, the weekly cost of having these hearing aids over the three year period is $43.58. I have to pay $43.58 a week to be able to hear. Maybe a little less if I can make them last longer. Paying for the “privilege” of hearing. This is criminal.
It got me thinking more about my friend who had to make the sacrifice concerning her vision. Or about people who have to pay high prices for medication out of pocket because the pharma companies charge so much and the insurance companies don’t want to cover the drugs they are prescribed, thus being forced to accept a substitute that is not quite what they need. Or being in a position where they cannot get the prescribed medication, or a certain cancer drug (or the operation, or whatever it is they need to stay alive and functioning). There are so many horror stories out there.
I have another friend whose health and quality of life became greatly impacted when the insurance company decided to discontinue covering one of his medications that had been somewhat successfully treating his COPD. As if the right to breathe is not a human right.
Have any of you ever taken half (or less) of the maintenance medication you were prescribed because of the cost? I can’t tell you how many people I know take less and are hoarding their meds to cut down the cost or to make it last, because they are afraid someday they will not be covered and they will run out. So many of us depend on med samples from our providers to help bridge this gap.
Health care in this country is pathetic, and despite all the “promises” made by all parties and all administrations over all the years, it has not been fixed. I honestly wish that those responsible in these companies (and in our government) would personally end up being the victims of their own self-serving decisions and laws, not just regarding health care, but over a number of issues. I wish they all had to suffer the same consequences they have bestowed on others, and on those less fortunate than they are. OK, I’m stopping this part here instead of veering off into a major political rant.
The last time I bought hearing aids, I sold off all my percussion instruments except one in order to help defray the cost. I look around the house now to see if there is anything I might sell to soften the blow of the new ones. The price for a pair five or six years ago were about $1800 less than they are now. Inflation for these devices has hit a whole new high.
I realize ten-thousand dollars in five days is just a blip for some people. And while it is a bit of a surprise hit for me, the truth is that at least right now, I can (slowly) pay for these hearing aids without going into serious debt. I’m OK. I am not destitute. I’ve been putting away about $100 a month (although maybe I should have been putting away $200) for a long while now in anticipation of this day arriving. And (unfortunately) I will have to keep doing this in preparation for when it’s time for the next pair too, unless things in our healthcare system change.
After the hearing aid appointment, I went food shopping and filled my car with gas, adding another $200 onto the credit card. At this point I figured “what the hell” and bought myself a lobster roll for $8.99 in the deli section, just because – which I admit was oddly consoling.
That ten grand was supplemental income for a year. It could have been used for two entire “bucket list” vacations abroad. Or airfare for multiple trips to visit family who live far away. Or spent on some other enriching experience. It could have been a significant down payment on a new car. It could have gone towards a year of rent or mortgage. Or it could have been used to help someone else.
Right now I am rather disgusted, yet simultaneously able to put this in perspective; accepting and very grateful of the fact that – at least at this writing – I am in the fortunate position of being able to provide medical care for my dog, that I can still drive around in my old but now-less-noisy car, and that for the next three-to-five years I will sort of be able to hear some things, in addition to having my old aids as back-ups should anything go wrong. Everything is really OK. I’m lucky and I know it. Really. I guess I just needed to vent.
In a few more weeks the school busses will be back on the roads again. Meanwhile, the kids are buzzing with anticipation as they await the news of who their teachers will be this year. It feels almost surreal how quickly this summer has spun out, autumn coming at us like a ship on the horizon, moving swiftly toward the shore.
The deciduous trees have taken on a duller, sort of olive-y green “it’s almost over” look, which heralds the near-end of the season. Already the Burning Bush (Euonymusalatus) growing by the driveway is showing pops of red. It feels way too soon for this…
During the warmest part of an afternoon, the electric whine of a lone cicada can be heard. But the nights have been filled with a newer, much louder, jingle-bell cacophony – the dominant note not unlike the repetitive sound of a buzzer being pounded when the game show contestant knows all the correct answers. This deep sound rises noisily above the incessant and discordant chirps, croak, and beeps made by the rest of the chorale.
Out on the The Urban Porch ™ the hanging plants pathetically struggle on. Every time I think about finally removing them, they throw out a few more hopeful flowers, as if asking for another chance, so I guiltily leave them be. They are not an attractive sight, adding a sad tinge of seediness to what had earlier been an appealing visual. Actually, the entire porch is desperately needing a good sweeping, having become cluttered and gritty, losing much of its “hang out” appeal from earlier in the summer. The avoidance tactic is not to go out there as often. Just in case anyone missed it in previous posts, I very much dislike sweeping. Perhaps some less-humid morning I will get to it. Perhaps.
Late as it is, the potted fig tree has finally begun making a few tiny figs. Hopefully they will get large enough and come to full term. So far the squirrels have not stolen any. Every time I look at them, I silently will them to hurry up and ripen, but of course everything happens in its own time, if at all.
Hurry up!
Black-eyed Susans have popped up all over the back yard.
The random, surprise, single vermillion Gladiolus that suddenly appeared two summers ago in front of the porch – and then didn’t return last year – has now unexpectedly arrived again. Just the one. I don’t recall planting it. This has prompted the simple, repetitive, Earworm of the Day – “I’m So Glad” – a blues tune written by Skip James and recorded by Cream (Fresh Cream, 1966). Now you can have it playing in your head too!
I’m so glad I’m so glad I’m glad, I’m glad, I’m glad I’m so glad I’m so glad I’m glad, I’m glad, I’m glad
This is the time when Joe-Pye-weed arrives, blooming along the roadsides and medians, bees and butterflies alighting upon the tall, dusty-mauve clouds of flowers. For some unexplained reason, I have always liked saying the name of this plant. Joe-Pye. Joe-Pye. Joe-Pye! The rabbit hole I went down today trying to find out who Joe Pye actually was has taken many directions. While there have been numerous legends, the most recent and most likely valid conclusion points to a Mohican sachem (tribal leader/chief) by the name of Joseph Shauquethqueat, who lived in New York State and Massachusetts during the late 1700’s and early 1800’s. What his actual connection to the plant was remains up for debate.
Joe-Pye-weed (Eutrochium purpureum)
In the cultivated fields, golden sunflowers nod their heads and dot the landscape with dark eyes, their fractal faces bending toward the light.
Not yet opened, the artichoke-shaped buds reach their raised fists toward the sky.
Colors of late summer are discovered on the woodland floor as well, smoky bugles emerge from electric green moss.
Black Trumpet (Craterellus cornucopioides)
A small bouquet of Black Trumpets, gathered to add to an omelet….
Unfortunately, my original foraging spot produced only a scant few chanterelles this season….
Chanterelle (Cantharellus cibarius)
However, another spot that had not even one mushroom last year ended up yielding many. There seems to be no clear explanation for exactly why this happens and no guarantees of when – or if – they will appear.
The deep purple of blackberries add to the late-summer palette.
This morning I awoke to a Creamsicle glowing dawn. As the sun rose and the apricot sky shifted to a soft, dream-like blue, a fan of clouds overhead created striking mackerel patterns that caused my heart to beat faster in appreciation. I was driving and did not stop to take a photo, but I found this one that is similar. August skies have their own special drama.
Mackerel sky – Getty Images/Stock
The days are perceptibly shorter now. Tomatoes, fresh corn and peaches abound at the farmer’s market, pointing us to autumn, as summer moves close to being over. I expect any time now, the migrating geese will let us know.
“Her name was Bessie”. That’s the only thing my father told me about his paternal grandmother, and that was only after I asked him about my great-grandparents. He mentioned there were a couple of uncles, both of which disappeared “I think somewhere in Pennsylvania.” He had a photo of one of the uncles. I don’t know how well he knew his grandmother or how often he saw her. He must have been very young. That was all I had to go on.
His father had died when he was a little boy. Following that loss, my dad grew up without knowing the paternal side of his family. His widowed mother had no interest in sharing any information and clearly showed no interest in maintaining much contact with her deceased husband’s relatives, nor even sharing her own history. There was a reluctance, and perhaps a whiff of past scandal, a reason why there was no contact. Whenever I asked her to tell me about the family, the response was always “I don’t bother with all that, it’s the past”.
Being one of those kids who grew up with lots of “Where did I come from?” and “Who were those people?” and “What was their story?” questions, it was not surprising when my father gave me the assignment to “Find My Family” (or more specifically, find his family), gifting me a genealogy workbook about discovering your relatives and making a family tree. That task was requested many years in the past, before the availability of internet searches and DNA testing – when it meant writing letters in different languages to municipal offices and churches in foreign countries, trying to translate elaborate, cursive handwriting with a travel dictionary in hand. To further complicate, many immigrants entering the United States ended up having their names misspelled, modified, or totally changed either by immigration agents or by their own desire to appear more “American”. It was an exercise in frustration that I ended up putting aside.
My dad passed away years before the availability of internet genealogy sites and genetic testing exploded, opening the floodgates for sudden appearances of unknown relatives and sometimes exposing unexpected revelations on identity. Sadly, he never got to enjoy the treasure trove of relations I eventually did find on his reluctant mother’s side; an entire village of people actually, who landed in the United States and Canada and now span the width of both those countries. In addition to this information, I gleaned a few juicy stories; this in spite of Grandma F. refusing to share her past.
But there was no sign of any Bessie, nor of anyone else on his father’s side. No trace of the missing uncles. There were a few distant DNA matches to me that did not respond or went nowhere shortly after I reached out, and that was it.
Eventually I found who I thought might be Bessie (it appeared she was known by four different first names and three different last names, in two different languages) on a few ship manifests, along with the names of who I was pretty sure were her sons and a daughter, which helped to add identification. But the trail died out pretty quickly after that. Periodically I would enter what I thought might possibly be one of Bessie’s other names into a search engine, but repeatedly brought up nothing.
And then one day during a mindless, idle moment, I tried it again, and *Boom*, suddenly there was a photo of a gravestone with her name on it – or what I thought might be one of her names – along with the name of her husband, who would be my great-grandfather. Pieces of the puzzle started to click together. The grave was in Pennsylvania…..
I called the cemetery to inquire and was told that plot went so far back that they would have to poke around through old books in order to see if they could locate any information about it, but if they found anything they would get back to me. A number of weeks later I received a call from the nicest woman, letting me know a few people in the office had worked together to do a search and pulled out the original files. I gratefully sent them some chocolate.
The grave had been purchased by someone with a last name I had never heard of. This stranger was buried in the plot along with my possible great-grandparents, in addition to one of the missing great-uncles, a woman who was probably my great-aunt, and also another man with an unrecognizable name who appeared to be great-aunt’s husband. It seemed “Bessie” was also registered under a few different names in their office files. So next, I did a genealogy search on the name of the stranger who had purchased the cemetery plot. It turns out he had been the first husband of my great-aunt and the first to go into the grave. A further search on his ancestors revealed they had a son who was now in his 90’s. Although I had never heard of him, this 90-something year old man appeared to be my father’s actual first cousin. With more research via the amazing, invasive internet, I found the phone number of someone who might be him, took a chance, and called. He answered.
It turns out his grandmother, a woman who he had lived with growing up, was my great-grandmother – who happened to be known by four different names and nicknames. One of those names was Bessie. Boom!
New Found Cousin grew up having no idea he had these first cousins. He knew he had an uncle – my grandfather – but nobody ever told him he had cousins on that side of the family. The reason why probably gets back to Grandma F and her “estrangement” from her in-laws. New Found Cousin was beyond thrilled with the sudden connection. We had a few enlightening phone conversations, filling in the blanks about familial personalities, health issues and other backstories. He said he really wanted to meet. This is where different points of interest in my life converged and it evolved into something more.
Regular readers of this blog know my penchant for nature, flowers and gardens, mushrooms and foraging. So it made sense that decades ago, having stumbled upon a fascinating photo of giant waterlilies (with six foot diameter leaves!) displayed at Longwood Gardens, it warranted further investigation into this eastern botanical site. It was an easy decision to add this enticing destination to my ongoing Bucket List. Yet despite the desire to visit Longwood for over thirty years, every time it seemed as if it might happen, the plans never materialized…. or fell apart before getting off the ground.
giant lily pads at Longwood Gardens
Longwood Gardens is in Chester County, Kennett Township, Pennsylvania, which also happens to be the area where New Found Cousin is from. Oddly enough, New Cousin installed the heating and cooling system for the Orchid Room at the botanical gardens many, many decades ago.
This area is also known as the” Mushroom Capital of the World” because about 65% of the mushrooms (that’s 500 million pounds a year!) grown in the United States come from there. It turns out a number of my extended family worked in the mushroom houses. They were (and some still are) mushroom growers or involved in the industry, which has expanded from white button mushrooms to all sorts of exotic cultivated varieties.
Chester County is where Bessie, along with my great-grandfather, great-aunt and great-uncle, their spouses and children lived. With the convergence of all these signposts, needless to say, a Road Trip was in order.
My brother, sister, sister-in-law and I drove down there and met with our New Found Cousin and his Very Lovely Wife. We were sorry his children, who would be our second cousins, were not available that day to meet. We brought photos for him and he brought an album filled with a wealth of old pictures, some going back to the early 1900’s. Bessie was a musician who came from a family of professional musicians and luthiers. She had also been a seamstress, her husband a tailor. New Cousin told me they made all the family’s clothing.
Bessie and their chickens
Photos in those days were not a regular event and often were reserved for special occasions. Given that, it is interesting to see them all dressed up in their “good” apparel, made with their own hands, at what must have been an event requiring finer clothing. I am wondering if some of these photos surrounded a family wedding.
G-G Bessie with kitten
G-G Bessie in her fine dress c.1919
Another of my grandfather, in dress pants and a crisp shirt, holding a draft horse.
There is one of great-grandfather with his big moustache, hat, suspenders and teacup ears, an aura of my own father about him that would reflect further on in generations that had yet to happen. Another on what was clearly a very important trip to The Statue of Liberty. And Bessie with her guitar, her husband, two of her four children and three of her six grandchildren gathered around her. Given the clothing and fact there is even a photo, perhaps it was a Sunday afternoon party or celebration together. Of course I can only surmise.
And there are even pictures of a young, reluctant-to-share-history Grandma F, years before she was a widowed mother, standing with her also young sister-in-law (New Cousin’s mother). Yet another with her husband, my grandfather R. Like little mushrooms emerging from the dark, I’m discovering more and more surprises brought to light. I guess Grandma F didn’t quite escape “all that in the past” after all.
New Cousin had Bessie’s birth certificate, and my great grandfather’s military conscription papers, which revealed the names of their parents! They were folded up, faded and creased. Over lunch, I made copies and photographed as much as I could from his old album. And then we followed him to the cemetery, where we found ourselves standing at the foot of our great-grandparent’s actual plot. It was interesting to see which one of their many different names they had chosen to be engraved on the monument. Her name on the stone was Bessie.
We are one of those weird families that has always taken photos standing around “the gravestone” during cemetery visits, and so it was no different and quite natural for us to do that here. I think New Cousin and his Lovely Wife might have been a bit surprised, but they went along with it and he joined us for a picture, although I think he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to smile or not, given the location.
After that he took us to the house the widowed Bessie and their family had shared. A whole lot of them lived in that little house! The current owners actually invited us in so we could see it and feel the ancestral vibe, should there be one. I don’t know if I felt any vibrations, but it was rather cool to stand in the living room on the original wood floor where they once dwelled. The now-updated house sits amidst fields of corn, shaded by towering maples that were planted by New Cousin long ago…
back then
We spent a long afternoon with our New Found Cousin. It was a very moving and thrilling experience for him. He didn’t want to say goodbye. There was a strange feeling of connection with people who had been virtual strangers. Having faces and stories brings these ancestors to life – so much more real than just names on a document. The opportunity to ask questions and spark the memories of this very clear and active nonagenarian has been has a rare and fortunate gift for all of us.
The entire next day was spent at Longwood Gardens with my siblings, another check off the Bucket List. We walked around for over six hours, having a wonderful, fun-filled, exhausting and fulfilling experience.
Although the cooling and heating system has no doubt been upgraded since Cousin installed it many years ago, we took photos inside the Orchid Room in his honor.
Being in “The Mushroom Capital,” it was a thrill to find mushroom-related entrees like “Chicken Fried Lion’s Mane” on a restaurant menu. We concurred that we might have tasted one of the best cream of mushroom soups ever.
Finding Bessie has put closure to some mysteries and at the same time opened some new doors. It has also fulfilled my father’s wishes – albeit belatedly. He would have been amazed and greatly loved knowing about the missing pieces of his family history. It is sad he is not here to enjoy these revelations. Because I have found Bessie, there are now some new trails to follow leading to her brothers and their families, which may reveal even more gems in the future, should I want to pursue it.
While my own children have mentioned that these discoveries are interesting, they are nowhere near as focused concerning the family genealogy. I am hoping that someone from the next generation will eventually pick up the thread. I will say in many ways, Finding Bessie has been a synchronistic adventure which has put closure on a long-standing mystery, while gathering bouquets of ancestral flowers.
Repeatedly throughout the day, I move from the air conditioned space that has provided relief from the heat and step out onto The Urban Porch ™ in order to leave the chill and be enveloped in the warm, bathwater density of the outdoors for a few moments. At first it feels pleasant, but eventually the thick, cloying atmosphere is enough to drive you back inside.
I don’t understand how it can be that during the heat of mid-July, and with all the drenching rain we’ve had, some leaves high up on the maple Crow Tree have already begun to turn.
but it’s only July!
In the early morning hours before it gets too steamy, there has been a lovely floral scent on the warm breezes, not unlike wild summer roses. This propels me out into the street in search of the source – only to find it is emanating from a combination of flowering plants on my own front porch, the blend a harmonious perfume.
Humidity builds to the point where it finally releases in a crazy barrage of hail and rain – the temperature drops about fifteen degrees. While driving, visibility became almost zero, intense enough to require pulling off the road in order to wait it out. A brief reprieve – as soon as it ceased, the temperature rose again.
waiting out the crazy storm
Then at home, more water, more rain. Sitting on the porch with a sister and the dog, we watched lightning flash and sheets of water blow in patterned waves across the road, until soaking gusts of wind sent us running inside to dry off; somehow our laughing shrieks reminiscent of our mother.
Even with the humidity, on the hottest of days we sought even more water……a beautiful display of fountains was enjoyed during a family excursion.
water jetting toward the sky
It was another sweat-fest of a day when, at the insistence of a friend, I overrode my aversion of swimming pools to at least stick feet into the aqua water of her backyard oasis. The older I get, the more I find just immersing about up to the ankles is usually sufficient enough to cool off. So we sat on the edge of the pool and swished our feet around. You know the heat had to be pretty bad for me to do that…..
this is as far as I’ll go in
Shortly, we headed to see family on the coast with visions of balmy sea air, only to find it was just as lush and steamy there too. Yet over the days, as the moon was waxing, the air began to slowly and beautifully clear.
On to the shoreline, for more cooling of the feet!
preferring the edge of lapping seafoam…..
And more clearing of the atmosphere, until the skies were a crisp, fresh blue, as we bade farewell to July.
Is that just wet sea-breeze in my eyes, or is it tears of recollection, as I watch my grandchildren play at water’s edge? It moves me to memories of other times, in another life, my children, now parents themselves, playing on island beaches in their own sweet summer bliss.
Hello, August.
Must just be water in my eyes, as we watched the super moon rise.
daeja's view 
My Big Apologies for the WordPress Difficulties
In response to those who have contacted me about the difficulty they are experiencing when trying to respond with a comment on any of these posts, and to those subscribers who have let me know they haven’t gotten the expected email notifications when a new post comes out – all I can say is that I am sorry and throw my hands up in exasperation regarding WordPress and its ever-growing shortcomings. While WordPress has made a few improvements over the years, in other areas it has very much devolved.
I understand how frustrating it is to want to quickly respond to something and find you have to jump through a number of hoops, sign-ups and re-sign-ups, only to be thwarted at the end and finally give up. I appreciate those who have tried. Once upon a time it was not that way, so I don’t understand what has changed. Some comments are now coming through as “Anonymous”, even though some of those comments are from regular, long-time readers who are not anonymous at all, but just end up going that route, as it seems to be the easiest path.
Suspecting it was a problem I created myself, I’ve gone through all the settings, but they seem to check out fine. I’m not into adding plug-ins and all sorts of other whistles and bells and complications. Honestly, I don’t understand all of those details. I’m computer savvy up to a certain limit and after that, well…… I really need a WordPress Expert to help me out and Fix Things. In the past I have tried contacting them and gotten No Response.
As a test, I tried subscribing to my own blog using a different email address, requesting to be notified. I’ve yet to receive even one notification saying there is a new post. Some people are getting them and others are not, and I don’t understand why.
This blog does not generate a whole lot of traffic, which is fine, as garnering a huge readership was not the point of starting it, nor continuing on with it. I’m not into putting this stuff out on social media in order to gain any attention, although every once in a while a post has found its way there through who knows what source. There are sometimes surprises. Lately I’ve been wondering who at the New York Times has been stopping by to read. I get hits on this site from places all over the world – some very unexpected countries – at any given time. Unless I hear from someone, most of my blog readership seems to be shrouded in mystery.
Perhaps there is a particular keyword in the content which causes it; maybe someone is looking at my photos, or somebody somewhere out there far away stumbled upon it and just enjoys or relates to what is being said. Actually, you would not believe which posts tend to get the most attention. I Can Make Poison Arrows Now (7/29/2011) is one of three that gets more hits than any of them! Why???? Do people think there is a recipe in there for that? Does somebody want to make them???? It makes absolutely no sense.
Once upon a time, WordPress used to tell you exactly what keywords were driving readers to a particular post. Now that option seems to have vanished. I suspect you might now have to pay for that feature – which would kind of stink. I don’t want to have a significant monthly expense in order to post on a site that has a very small (but devoted) subscribed and followed readership. This is not a business, this is not my job. It’s bad enough they insert advertisements within the blog now (which I think you have to pay to get removed). They giveth and then they taketh away. Are these deliberate monkey wrenches they are throwing in now to create a case of “you get what you pay for?”
Then there is the question of bots and spam, most of which have come from a particular country (which you can probably guess), but will not name, since that might just end up generating more spam. If you want to block that particular country from spamming you, you have to pay for a plug-in or a separate service to do that. I don’t know why WordPress just won’t build in a feature that just allows you to click a button and immediately block that entire source instead of having to track down and meticulously block each IP address – it’s ridiculous.
But oddly enough, over the past few weeks my spam folder has been totally empty. Nil. I used to get pages and pages of often very obnoxious spam replies every single day, mostly from the same two countries. Right now there are zero comments in my spam box. While it is kind of a relief, I have to wonder if these posts aren’t even reaching the spammers anymore? Go figure……
I follow a few writers on WordPress, but they are mostly high-volume sites who are doing this professionally. Are they encountering some of the same issues? A few people have declared that “WordPress Sucks” and have suggested I ditch them for a different venue. The thing is, this has been my “home” since January 2011. That’s twelve years of writing on this site. It’s comfortable and honestly, it’s not something I’m up for changing at this point.
So I just want to say that I apologize for any difficulties any of you have encountered here, be they from this platform or caused by my own shortcomings. I appreciate those who do like and respond to posts, and especially appreciate those who have gone beyond to make the effort to do try to post a response. I continue to acknowledge those of you who do read and just aren’t the commenting type. Some of you I hear from via messages and other venues. I’m grateful to those who for some reason are not receiving email notifications regarding new posts and still take the time to check the site to see if there is something recent there. I will continue to click around and try and fix things (hopefully not to make it worse).
Thank you all for being there….
~*~
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