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.
Just happening to glance down while heading towards my car ended up derailing any other plans I had hoped to accomplish yesterday afternoon. Following a medical appointment and walking across the hospital parking lot, a small movement on the pavement caught my eye. Bending down to see what it was revealed what appeared to be a miniscule, young mouse, staggering and writhing around on the ground.
With surprise, I looked around to see if there was a mother mouse, or any more babies around, but there was just the one. A yellow jacket was aggressively hovering over it, perhaps laying claim to an anticipated future lunch. I wasn’t sure what to do. It was close to 90 degrees out and the pavement was very hot. Knowing I couldn’t just leave it there to be fried in the blazing afternoon sun, stung by hornets or even run over by a car, I looked around to see if there was any grassy area or shade nearby that I could at least move it to, but in this large city hospital parking lot there was none.
How did it get there? Perhaps dropped by a bird…or maybe it had rolled out of a nest that had been housed within the engine of a passing car? Either way, here it was now, landed at my feet. So while saying aloud to myself, “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I bent down and scooped the little mouse up with my folded appointment discharge papers. I had to swat away the territorial and probably enraged yellow-jacket that came after me, as I quickly ducked into my car.
The mouse did not appear in very good shape. I don’t know how long it had been lying there, but it was clearly dehydrated, its little eyes were sunken, and its fur was so stiff and dried out that small tufts were flaking off. It must have been in pain, yet it kept moving around and flipping over, still fighting to stay alive. Finding a small, empty tin of Trader Joe’s green tea mints in the car, I put the mouse inside in order to contain it for the ride home.
But it looked so pathetic and uncomfortable as it continued to roll around in there, so I dug through my purse until I found a tissue to line the box. And then we hit the road for the drive home.
At this juncture I would like to say a little bit more about this mouse, and about mice in general. I don’t care for them at all. Having experienced a few childhood failures with having rodents as pets, I can say with quite certainty that mice are just not my thing. In that way I am very unlike my sister Charlotte, who had a beloved pet rat which she allowed to roam freely through her home, and who cried copiously when it passed away.
I have plenty of outrageous mouse tales to share (see “Would You Like Some Mice With That” or “The Other Car” for just a few past examples). If there were mice in my home, I would not hesitate to set mouse traps. Beyond the diminutive size of this poor little guy, there was nothing cute about it, as it was in terrible, almost cadaverous shape. While saddened at its condition, had there been a shady patch of grass or woods nearby, I probably would have left it there to the fates of nature, where something might have eventually eaten it, ala circle-of-life. But to leave it on that hot asphalt to suffer and be scavenged by hornets while still alive was just too cruel a scenario to allow. So I took it with me, figuring if it did not survive then I would just bury it in my yard when I got home.
The mouse remained alive and active, twirling around in that small container for the entire hour-long ride, at which point I started making calls to people who might know anyone who rehabbed small mammals. The next three hours were spent doing searches and making phone calls, beginning with a call to a friend who had a friend who rehabbed squirrels – unfortunately she was in the middle of moving. A list of certified local wildlife rehabilitators from the DEC (Department of Environmental Conservation) website was consulted, which I discovered is pathetically outdated and limited.
I called or texted fourteen (yes, that’s 14) people. Some of those numbers were no longer in service or were now wrong numbers. One who answered said they no longer were rehabbing wildlife. One texted me a lead which proved to be a dead end. The majority of them only rehabbed birds or larger animals. One person who did not take rodents gave me suggestions and information on care of orphaned mice and pointed me to a certification site to become a wildlife rehabilitator myself (which I do not want to become). All of these rehabbers are volunteers, probably with regular day jobs. The one local person that appeared to be a hopeful texted me that she was out of town at the moment.
While this was going on, the little mouse was relocated to an empty box of Klondike Bars with a padding of paper towels. I wet a cotton ball with a bit of water and it grabbed onto that and started licking the moisture from it. I gave it a raspberry, which it clung to, trying to pull liquid. You can see it is about as small at the first joint of my finger.
I called the local SPCA, who could not help and just shared the same DEC list. I called my veterinarian’s office, who also gave me the exact same names I had already called from the list. I posted the situation on a couple of social media sites and was mostly given the same DEC lists yet again. A few people highly recommended one particular rescue organization, but upon calling them I only got a message machine stating they said they would call me back…… nobody ever did. I then called the DEC directly and spoke to the person in charge of Wildlife, who told me that mice are just considered vermin, therefore people don’t rehab them. It occurred to me that people probably were thinking I was some crazy old lady, putting out all this effort for a dehydrated mouse-let. Was I?
So the realization finally dawned on me that I had just become responsible for this tiny thing, which would need to be fed every few hours. Had I even wanted to take this on, it presented a problem, as I was not going to be around and available to invest myself in such a project. In the meantime, some Pedialyte, a super small dropper, and maybe some goat’s milk was going to be needed in order to rehydrate it and keep it alive while pursuing other solutions. Leaving little Mouse-let in a safe place, I grabbed my car keys and was was heading out in search of those items, when suddenly one of the rehabbers I had messaged texted me back.
She said she was already fostering a few fawns and some other animals, so she could not consider taking the mouse. But she gave me the name of another organization in another county to try calling. So I did that. This establishment did not rescue mice, but the person at the desk suggested someone at a veterinary practice who did. So I called them and wonder of wonders, they said “Bring it in”. I cannot quite express the feeling I experienced hearing those words.
Mouse-let and I got back in the car and drove an additional forty minutes or so to a veterinary office. We were greeted by friendly staff and a wonderful, caring doctor, who invited me to “give us a call tomorrow to see how your mouse is doing”. So I handed over the mouse with gratitude.
good-bye and good luck little one
The drive home sans mouse included a rush of tremendous relief. It is possible that it’s too far gone already to save, and might not even live through the night, but at least it would have been surrounded by care and an attempt to provide comfort. There is the reality that even if the mouse does manage to survive and be brought back to health, eventually it would be released back into the wild – with a good chance of being immediately snatched up by an owl or a fox. Yet somehow this feels more acceptable to me than suffering an agonizing death in a blazing hot parking lot.
This got me thinking about the value of a life. Why do some have value and not others? Nobody wanted to save a tiny mouse. A rodent. Vermin. Had the circumstances been different, had there been a cool, grassy area to place it on, I would have left it there and not gotten into this convoluted adventure. Where does compassion begin and end? What makes one being considered worthy and another not? I would have easily killed the hornet if it wouldn’t leave me alone, but not a bee. Or taken a swatter to a horsefly that got into my house and was dive-bombing my head. Yet I would save a spider and relocate it outside.
I do not want to get into any debates concerning ethics here. I am not vegan, and while mostly vegetarian, at this point in my life I will still eat fish and rarely but occasionally (and OK, with a twinge of guilt) indulge in a BLT sandwich or an infrequent chicken marsala. I don’t condemn those who choose either path. But I gave all of those things much thought on the drive home. Where does one draw the line? What here, if any, is the lesson?
The mouse spent a total of eighty miles in the car with me, not counting the extra twenty or so miles it took to get home after dropping it off. We drove through three counties and burned a significant amount of gas in the process. Three hours on the phone and internet were spent looking for help, and I had to abandon the plans I had made for the afternoon. Was it worth it? At that moment I would say yes, it was.
This morning I called the veterinary office to check up the the mouse and was told that sadly he (or she) did not survive, so there is really no happy ending to this mouse tale. While hopeful, realistically I didn’t expect there to be. Still, I admit my heart hurt a little as I hung up the phone. I also admit I have a bit of a lump in my throat as I type this.
I ask myself again now, was it worth all the effort? And again, without getting into any rhyme, reason or depth of explanation, I would still have to say…. yes.
If anyone in the immediate neighborhood had looked out their window shortly before midnight last night, they might have seen a woman standing in the center of the street in the middle of a lightning storm, wearing only a long tank top and her underwear. That was me.
last night’s lightening strobes
I had been lying in bed in the dark, enjoying the stormy, rather wild light show going on outside the window, when a text came through from a friend – “Omg i can see the northern lights!! Did u see? Look North. It’s them!” At the moment she happened to be sitting over 150 miles south of where I was. I figured she was most likely getting a version of the same crazy lightning storm we were instead, because it was cloudy and this state is probably too far south for the lights. But she insisted the incredible and strange, soft pink glow with ongoing flashes was the Aurora Borealis caused by solar storms that had been mentioned in the news. In addition, one of our local neighbors had sent her a video of what was happening up here, which she then forwarded to me. Which still looked like the lightning storm, but she was so excited that I stopped insisting otherwise, not wanting to rain on her magic.
Well, I love intense weather. And just in case there really was an Aurora, I would welcome the opportunity to see one again. So even though I was pretty sure this was just a very visual lightning storm, I had to go check it out.
Way back in the days of my early twenties, I was making one of a few cross-country drives with my Then-Boyfriend and later Then-Husband, mentioned previously in this blog as “Howie”. Late at night after the first leg of the drive, we stopped at a road-side motel somewhere in Ohio to get some rest. It was a rather cold night. After settling into the room, Howie went out to grab something from the car, only to quickly come back in saying, “Come outside, you’ve got to see this!”. I was really tired and very ready for sleep. I didn’t want to leave the room and go back out into the cold. But he kept insisting, so finally I grabbed my jacket and stepped outside behind the motel, which faced a field and a very black sky. As my eyes adjusted, I could suddenly see shifting curtains of shimmering light, glowing in electric green – the mesmerizing and awesome Northern Lights. We stood there for a while and watched them. But then, foolish and cold twenty-something me wanted to just go back in the room and get some sleep, not totally comprehending the rare gift of such a sighting.
this is similar to what I saw behind the motel in Ohio
The vision of it has never left me though. Many decades later, I had asked Howie if he remembered seeing the Aurora Borealis over the field behind the motel in northern Ohio. He stated he had absolutely no recollection of it. This both astounded and saddened me. How could someone ever forget seeing something like that? However, giving further thought to this, there is the fact that Howie is color-blind. He cannot see the color green at all. It is conceivable that while he saw the shifting light, he surely was not seeing the luminous, dark neon glow that I was. Given that, perhaps the impression would not have the same impact. The other explanation could be that Howie has possibly erased a lot of memory where it concerns his Ex, or perhaps he did not want to validate a past shared experience. That would be kind of sad, and I hope that wasn’t why. Or maybe he’s just losing some memory cells all together, the way most of us are beginning to by this age…….
So back to the big lightning storm and my friend insisting the Northern Lights were happening – I hauled my cozy self out of bed and went running downstairs, out the door, off The Urban Porch and into the middle of the street, just before midnight, facing north, lightening flashing all over the place – an old lady wearing just a tank top, panties, and a pair of rubber gardening clogs. There was a lot of rather impressive, rapid lights strobing and that was it. So I sat out on The Urban Porch and appreciated the light show for a while. It didn’t dawn on me how ridiculous it must have looked, standing in the road like that, until I walked back into the house and smiled with the amusement of it. I don’t know who, if anyone, saw me…..honestly, I don’t really care. It’s the freedom of aging…..a growing lack of inhibition, or maybe just a slow, slipping dance into eccentricity…..
watching last night’s lightning storm
One thing I did think about last night was how much I wished there was someone who would join me in the spontaneity of jumping into the the car at some crazy hour to find a good vantage point – in order to marvel at a lunar eclipse, the Northern Lights, the Milky Way, or a field full of fireflies. No way the S.O. is going to do that, and motivation sort of wanes when you’re doing it on your own….
On the subject of fireflies, as of mid-July the showing has been rather sparse compared to other years. A few blinking and sparking their love signals to each other here and there, but not the firefly orgy I was hoping for.
This week the mosquitos appear to have thinned out a bit. One can hope that trend continues. Last year we had an abundance of bumble bees in the yard but very few honeybees, which was worrisome. So it was a happy discovery and good sign to find that the Rose of Sharon was filled with honeybees, entering deep into their flowers with their little bee-butts sticking out, then emerging dusted with pollen.
The Rose of Sharon has finally exploded with blooms, as have the Hostas, and all variety of bees do seem to be enjoying them. Many years past, both of these plants were some of my least favorites. The Hostas were boring, the Rose of Sharon bush had a weird, upside-down broom shape that didn’t appeal to me. It’s funny how admiration for each has changed over time. The interplay of shading, texture and value of the Hostas; the late-summer punch of color, apian attraction, and the privacy the larger Rose of Sharon lends. Somehow it’s not unlike acquiring a taste and appreciation for spinach or mushrooms that you once disliked as a kid.
blooming hostas along the walkway
Rose of Sharon bursting forth
The bumble bees are especially enjoying the lavender.
bumble and lavender in the grassy, weedy garden bed
The many photos of flowers I have posted on this blog may have given some the impression that the yard and gardens around here are pristine. Indeed, someone mentioned to me that my gardens looked so good. Here is the honest revelation – I have pretty much stopped weeding. Everything is overrun with grass and weeds, and my porch plants are a mess.
The Sungold cherry tomatoes in pots are hardly prolific. I’m not sure why.
And while I have managed to keep the Hibiscus alive through a number of years now, it is only making an occasional flower here and there. Each one lasts about a day.
The potted fig tree has made giant, gorgeous leaves, but not even one fig! It has spread out so much that it is not going to easily fit back in the house this winter.
There is a nice patch of Echinacea, but what you can’t see beneath is the ground overgrown and choked with weeds.
While walking around the neighborhood with the dog and passing many homes recently bought by the pandemic-fueled influx of transplants, I could not help but notice how much energy, time, planning and money some of these people have been putting into their landscaping. There are some really nice gardens to admire. They are not the only ones – there are a handful of longtime neighbors who heavily and happily throw themselves into making lovely plots. It is admirable and rather humbling, leaving me feeling my own front yard “View From the Urban Porch” is rather pedestrian. Yet at this point, the desire to tackle it doesn’t exist.
The hanging plants on the porch have taken a sudden, pathetic veer towards death, despite ample watering and feeding. I should probably take at least one of them down. Talk about lazy…. so there is some full disclosure for you. Sometimes things are not all they appear to be…..
probably no coming back for this one
The House Sparrow babies that are nested above the dead porch plants have begun to fledge.
A female cardinal looks down from above – perhaps judgmentally – as I climb into my car in order to flee my weedy yard in pursuit of other distractions.
Down the street, a neighbor’s chickens are laying overtime, creating a friendly invitation to relieve them of some eggs.
my future breakfast
I happily accepted that sidewalk-chalked offer, with some blueberries in hand to share. And brought some for the new person who just moved in next door too…..
So to sum up last night, I didn’t see the Aurora Borealis, although I may have added some local entertainment to the neighborhood, had anyone been awake and looking out the window that late. I have gotten to thinking that we all add a little spark and flash to this place; human light shows shimmering our colors.
It’s really the humidity that can get to you more than the temperature. Just in case that clammy, uncomfortable feeling isn’t enough, the frizzy hair barometer is letting me know it’s in the upper ranges. A quick check confirms it’s almost 60% humidity at the moment, and while it could be worse, it’s still too yucky for me. The Earworm of the Day is “The Heat is On” by Glenn Frey circa 1984.
The heat is on On the street Inside your head On every beat
It’s a luxury and a blessing to have air-conditioning, yet I still find myself taking periodic breaks to walk outside and sit in the very warm, kind of damp breeze. Unfortunately, those breaks are shorter than they might be, due to the moths.
What is with these moths? Starting today there is a sudden explosion of tan moths flying all over the place. There haven’t been any stripped trees or infestations of caterpillars and their droppings caused by the Spongy Moth (previously known as the Gypsy Moth) in this immediate area, although I’m told by some friends who live about fifteen miles from here that they are being plagued by them. The moths are bumbling around and bouncing into you, flying in crazy trajectories, but they don’t alight, so I really haven’t been able to get a good look at one and absolutely determine if it is them or another kind….although most likely it is. From what I understand, the larger, lighter colored female moths don’t fly, so it would be the male moths careening all over the place searching for females to mate with.
Male and female Spongy Moths – Photo by USDA APHIS PPQ
Many years ago, so long ago that it was back when I was in my twenties, we lived through a most horrific Gypsy Moth (now Spongy Moth) plague. They stripped all the leaves and killed the trees that were too new or too weak. What was thought to be a constant rain falling was the relentless, surreal sound of their droppings as they hit the ground. Every surface was covered with those tiny black balls of caterpillar shit. It stained everything. It turned the pools, lakes, any standing water, outdoor furniture, cars – everything – brown. Any sort of picnic or outdoor activity was pretty much out of the question. The stuff would fall on your food. In your hair. Everywhere. Just standing still, the caterpillars would actually start crawling up your body. They laid these spongy yellowish-white egg masses (thus the new moniker) all over the place – on tree bark, in crevices of house shingles, on tables and chairs. We were wrapping the trunks of the trees with sticky tape to try and save them, pulling off caterpillars and scraping off eggs everywhere as best we could. It was a horrible, sci-fi type scenario, but it only lasted that one year and then it was gone. I’ve heard they have been back in surrounding counties over the years, but since that time I haven’t experienced them again. Could these pheromone-seeking, spiraling moths be a harbinger of a future infestation for the following year? If so, life on the Urban Porch as we know it will not be happening next summer.
This morning early, before the heat became too much, I checked on one of my old mushroom spots. I didn’t find any mushrooms at all, and I have a feeling that even if some appear later, there is not going to be much, if any, in that particular place this season. Sometimes it’s like that; you have a banner year or a bust year. However, the woods were filled with crazily flying moths there too. There were so many that it was a rather freaky experience.
my chanterelle haul in better years
Moving from the moths and onto local wildlife, we have a family of raccoons that make an appearance during the pre-dawn hours. There is a pair that often comes through the back yard together. A few nights ago a mother with six cubs paraded down the driveway. But after that I have only seen her with three of them. Not that having a pack of raccoons hanging out here is necessarily welcome, but something happening to them would be a very sad thing. Last week one of my neighbors reported that over a ten day period, a few racoons and a litter of skunks were found in his yard and a few other yards, dying from something possibly toxic. This set off all sorts of alarming conversations and questions – was someone poisoning them? And if so, who?
Whatever it was, it appears to have ceased. I have been routinely checking to make sure the “regulars” who come through here are still present. I haven’t seen the big, fluffy, mostly white skunk for a while, so I am a little concerned about that one. The scent of skunk is in the air, but these days it’s difficult to tell which is animal and which is someone vaping weed out on the street. There is a possum hanging around and then the raccoons and the babies. Perhaps only some of the cubs come out at a time. The other night there was just one, slowly following the mother, who kept stopping to turn around and wait up for it.
mom with three out of the six cubs
Blooming around the house and on the street this week we have pops of orange color. Sneezeweed is growing against the foundation.
Sneezeweeed (Helenium)
Butterfly Weed is along the sidewalk.
Butterfly Weed (Asclepias tuberosa)
Orange Daylilies are opening near the front porch and all along the roadways.
Daylily (Hemerocallis fulva)
The Bee Balm has appeared, as usual, around Fourth of July. They always remind me of fireworks.
Bee Balm (Monarda)
Boom! Monarda fireworks
The Gooseneck Loosestrife is bowing its goosey necks. These guys tend to spread and take over pretty quickly if you don’t watch out…..
Gooseneck Loosestrife (Lysimachia clethroides)
Stalks rise from the Hostas, flanking the walkway, like crowds waiting for a parade..
Hosta spikes getting read to bloom
And the first buds from the Rose of Sharon prepare to burst forth…
On the cooking front there is not much excitement to report. It’s hot. I’m unmotivated. Meals have consisted of one tasty dinner out with local friends, then takeout Chinese food (with eggrolls!). Next was a quick visit to the corner Japanese place for Spider Rolls. That should probably cover my dining out quota for the rest of the summer. Corn chips and salsa. Watermelon. Tonight it’s probably going to be some kind of salad. Same local friends sent over some deliciously decadent home made lemon bars that will probably send my sugar through the roof.
On the subject of lemons though, I have to share that I splurged and bought myself a “gadget”. Well, actually, more of a “kitchen implement”. It’s a citrus zester! A fancier citrus zester than I had imagined a zester might be, but then, I wasn’t really looking for one. It was all by itself, just one, hanging on a hook with an assortment of other kitchen stuff that I noticed as I walked by a wall display. Since I’ve been zesting lemons like crazy lately, I figured why not? I came home and zested away. And it was such a pleasure! I don’t know what took me so long. It’s amazing how something like this can make one feel so happy….
whoo-hoo!
The other new kitchen implement was procured recently using a birthday gift certificate to an herb shop. Along with a few herbs and spices, I bought a mortar and pestle. Many years ago I had one, but it disappeared amid multiple moves. Sometimes I like to crush up a little cardamom and add it to the coffee grind. The aroma evokes something very déjà vu for me…..
That’s about it for this afternoon. I just stopped to take Rudi out and a rather yummy, albeit warm, bath-like breeze kicked up, making the heat a bit more bearable and signaling the possibility of rain.
The heat is on The heat is on The heat is on Oh, it’s on the street The heat is… on
The wildfire smoke has returned. Perhaps that has something to do with the lessening of the late afternoon mosquitos out on The Urban Porch ™ . I’m not sure if that’s the case, but it could be possible. While standing in the shower and thinking about mosquitos and attraction, I started thinking about blood types, the theory that some blood types attract mosquitos (varying opinions on that), and then on to the different types of blood, the universal donor and who can receive transfusions from who. From there, contemplations moved on to organ donations. All of these thoughts of course were going off in a rapid-fire series of segues.
Apparently, people who are the universal donor (Type O) statistically end up much longer on an organ donation waitlist because if an organ from a Type O person becomes available, everybody else can receive it, but Type O’s can only receive Type O. Therefore, more Type O’s die waiting for a transplant. Or so I understand it, which is kind of a bummer if that’s your type and your situation.
From that sobering thought (while still in the shower) I started thinking about kidney transplants and that if one of my kids needed a transplant, how I would definitely offer a kidney – although I’m not sure anyone would want or could use my old kidney, given my age and health history. But….if they needed it, of course I would gladly hand it over.
Moving on from there, I started thinking about living kidney donors in general. Like let’s say you donated a kidney to some person, and somewhere down the line that person ended up on life support for some reason, maybe a fatal accident. Provided the kidney they got from you was not damaged, could they take the kidney you donated and put it back into you? Could a person get their old kidney back if it was no longer being used? I know, this is a really odd question (and not one that has anything to do with me at all), but I just wondered if it was even a possibility. I would think if it was possible, the rejection rate might be lower since it was your own kidney? Suddenly I wanted to know this – I guess that is the science nerd part of me.
To quell the curiosity, after my shower I actually Googled organ restitution and found out some interesting things. A kidney can be recycled (so to speak) – a donated kidney can be donated more than once! So if a recipient of a donated kidney died and they had designated themselves as an organ donor, and if the kidney was still good, you could use that kidney again in somebody else who needed it. About getting your original kidney back – putting ethics aside in this hypothetical scenario – ethically a person could not ask for their kidney back from someone who is alive and still using it (that would be bizarre…I wonder if anyone had ever tried to do that). But let’s say the person offered to give you your old kidney back or was on life support about to be disconnected – yes, theoretically your old kidney could get put back inside you and it would function.
One would think that the rejection rate of having your own kidney back would be pretty low. But apparently there are other factors that could complicate things; damaging the fragile kidney during the procedure, the presence of immunosuppressant drugs that were used in the previous recipient to prevent rejection, scarring in the original donor that occurred after their kidney was first removed, and other medical reasons beyond.
I know, that was a pretty weird rabbit hole to go down, but (for me) an interesting one. If anybody ever wondered, there is some info for you to ponder.
Back to the smoke situation, it’s hazy and humid out. At the moment it doesn’t smell that strongly, considering today the air index reading is in the Unhealthy red zone. There are things I could be doing….there are massive amounts of rampant Trumpet Vine on the back fence that has taken over and really needs to be cut back or removed. I’ve been invited to meet friends for some outside hanging out and later out tonight for food and some live music. While the part of me that spends some significant time alone feels that it would be mentally healthy to get out, see people and do something, the reclusive, anti-socialite part of me doesn’t really want to leave the house.
Last night I tried a new recipe, “Burnt Leeks with Cannellini Beans”, which was originally vegan, except I kind of un-veganized part of it. It was really good, I just went downstairs to eat the leftovers on onion rye toast for lunch. Also yesterday I picked more mulberries off the local tree and am thinking about what different things can be done with them. This past week I made a mulberry/blueberry crisp using some of the mulberries and the remaining frozen blueberries picked with a friend last summer. I admit I ate most of it right out of the pan and smiling while standing at the counter with a spoon. And right now I’m breaking off some pieces of Appalachian Wild Chai artisan chocolate. It is all too easy to just sit here, complacent with a lack of inertia. There is a tendency to use food as an excuse to stay home. Then I chastise myself for not pushing myself to get out more. It feels as if I’m starting to get bird habits – in bed as soon as it gets dark and up with the sun. I recall my mother being like that. Wonder if it is a senior thing.
I envision a colorful graphic in my mind that has a pie-chart with arrows swinging between the high humidity, high-smoke, low-mosquito weather section, the food, book, TV and movie section, the internet-scrolling useless information section, and the human interaction/social section. It remains to be seen where the arrows will land today.
The start of the last week of June has brought on the humidity and my hair is a-frizz. Along with the frizz, the heat has rapidly ushered in the next wave of flora. A number of people have been sending me photos or commenting on social media about a certain tree which is flowering at the moment. “What is that amazing smell?” “Oh my God, this scent is heavenly!” I don’t need to see a photo to know what it is, as this is the time the Linden blooms.
Like a dearly departed friend, I miss my Linden tree. It has been a few years now since the beautiful Linden in front of the house had to come down (see Linden for the whole sad saga). Missing is its grandeur, the shade and privacy it provided, the birds and wildlife it sheltered. But most of all I miss the insanely intoxicating honey-sweet scent of its blooms every June. I actually have considered driving around town to look for one to inhale.
Linden flower from my old tree
But there are plenty of seasonal finds happening this week to help fill the void and buoy the spirits. Without a discernable scent but providing clusters of peppermint candy-looking blossoms, the Mountain Laurel are presenting themselves, decorating entire rocky hillsides.
Mountain Laurel like peppermint bark candy
Across the street there is a huge white hydrangea filled with puffy clouds of blooms. They make a bright picture from a distance. Of course, I had to inspect them up close; each cluster is a separate painting of shadow and light.
deep into the Hydrangea world
There was a bit of bird drama on the front lawn just off the porch. I’ve mentioned recently about the abundance of Northern Cardinal couples – they have been vocalizing and making daily appearances. There is a nest high up in a large Rose of Sharon that may or may not be theirs. Rudi and I had just stepped out of the house for a quick walk when there was a tremendous clatter of branches and screeching in the bushes and against the house.
At first I though something fell, or that it might be a cat stuck in a tree. Suddenly two Cardinals and a Blue Jay came bursting forth from the leaves and almost smashed into us. They then headed back into the bush, where a raucous battle ensued, the male and female cardinal presumably (and fiercely) protecting either eggs or hatchlings from a thieving Jay. They were moving so fast and frantically that it was difficult to catch more than blurs of color with my phone camera, but you can still see what was going on. So intense was their fighting that they paid us no heed at all as this played out directly in front of us. They chased the Jay out onto the front lawn and then up to the chimney of the house next door, where it finally took off. Whether it had taken a stolen egg or chick with it, I am not sure.
Female Cardinal on the left, Jay in the center, male Cardinal on the right. Fierce battle going on.
The fight continues until the Cardinals finally chase the Blue Jay away
Last summer I had witnessed a Blue Jay snatch a new House Sparrow hatchling right out of a nest off the porch (see Wildlife on or About the Urban Porch). The sparrow parents had been greatly alarmed. Aside from acknowledging the whole “circle of life” scenario, it was still a bit upsetting to see. I’m hoping these cardinals managed to get the interloper away before he made off with any young ones. There does not seem to be any activity in the nest up in the Rose of Sharon, so I am not sure if that was even their nest to begin with. Or if it was, perhaps it has now been abandoned.
Speaking of birds, one of my bird-addicted friends has been almost desperate to see and photograph a Cedar Waxwing. They are definitely around and can be heard here and there high up in the trees, but have eluded any visual sightings. At the conclusion of our walk the other day, she finally got her wish. I have to admit I was also rather thrilled to get a glimpse. That tufted crown on top of its head!
finally – the elusive Cedar Waxwing!
Today was hot and humid, with the anticipation of many days of rain ahead. A couple of brief forays out to the Urban Porch were made – brief being the operative word here – it was just too muggy. I brushed out the dog, who is shedding such massive amounts of hair that you could probably create a whole new dog out of the fur that was removed. I mowed the grass with the idea of getting ahead of what might become a quickly growing rain-fed lawn this week.
Today’s indulgence of summer-related foods: lots of cold watermelon. Watermelon is right up there with some of my favorite pleasures in the world. While I contemplated getting an eggroll, it ended up that for a hot and steamy summer evening dinner a Caprese salad (layers of mozerella/tomato/basil/balsamic) and a really tasty quinoa/black bean/avocado salad with oranges, pomegranate, cilantro and a garlic/lemon dressing was the way to go. That took care of the extra naked, zestless lemons sitting in the refrigerator from the last cooking blitz. It is one dish that will probably be worked into the rotation. Oh, and half of a mint chocolate chip Klondike Bar for dessert, just because…..a temporary indulgence until a different craving comes along.
If it really does end up being a week of rain, it is probably also going to be a week of the usual repeat preparations (making yogurt, making granola) and doing a few things I really don’t want to do but that very much need to be done. Like vacuuming. Did I mention once (or twice, or many times) that I really hate to vacuum? I really do…..
Almost July already! It all seems be moving awfully fast…..
Back out on The Urban Porch this morning with Rudi, there is a mild breeze with a tinge of humidity in the air, a lovely place to be until either the sun moves and heats up this side of the house, or when the driller killer mosquitos appear.
In the meantime, I sit here typing, enjoying the view and drinking iced tea with splash of oat milk. The tea was sun-brewed the other afternoon right here on the porch. Usually I make an herbal iced tea, but the last two times it has been regular black tea. This is the second time using this particular brand of tea and the second time it is giving me a weird kind of a buzzy feeling in my face. It’s very odd…… I’m wondering if there is a high caffeine content or what?
buzzy sun tea
The air has been filled with the sound of Northern Cardinal calls. There are a number of bonded pairs throughout the neighborhood. But the primary action lately has really been between two avian gangs, the House Sparrows and The Starlings – almost a West Side Story scenario going on here, The Sharks and the Jets, each claiming their turf with pushy displays of bravado and chutzpah.
West Side Story – Sharks & Jets
The House Sparrows are so emboldened at this point that they barely move out of your way as you are walking. Yesterday the dog almost peed on the head of one of them, a sparrow so busily pecking at something in the grass that it only hopped a mere few inches aside and ignored the stream. They continue to swoop back and forth among the hanging plants, between a second nest they have built on the other side of the porch. There is a give and take, a pushing forward and back on the ground space they occupy with the starlings, the sparrows seriously bossy.
The Starlings are a bit more wary. In vocal groups of five or six, they will hunt for grubs in the yard or on the grass near the sidewalks, but they will keep moving a few yards ahead of you, never letting you get too close. While walking Rudi yesterday, I observed two of them in the crosswalk playing bird soccer, batting a dead Grapevine Beetle back and forth between them.
This must be the season for Grapevine Beetles, as there was also one on the porch this morning, flipped on its back and madly twirling around. Just as I was about it help it out, it turned itself over and took off. It was quite a bit smaller than the gargantuan one that hitched a ride on my head last year (see Things That Land in Your Hair).
come on buddy, you can do it!
flipped and about to take off
Speaking of porch insects, this Multi-colored Asian Ladybeetle (aka Harlequin Ladybird) was hanging out on the Rose of Sharon. Apparently they come in a multitude of patterns. I’ve only seen the one so far. It was a shimmery copper, with those wild looking feathery mouth feelers.
Multicoloured Asian Lady Beetle(Harmonia axyridis)
Speaking of the insects, so far it has still been just a few random fireflies blinking around here. I’m hoping they will come out in full force soon. Maybe tonight they will decide to do a Solstice dance.
Surrounding the porch, the next set of blooms is up at bat. Bursts of purplish magenta emerge from the soft sage-colored leaves of The Wooly Lambs Ears (Stachys byzantina)).
Bees are drawn to the Spirea, which is now flush with flower.
And a few Corn Flowers planted by the tiny new maple are lending some blues.
Tiny yellow stars on the Lady’s Mantle (Alchemilla mollis) have opened.
Mint is coming up with the promise of watermelon/feta salad and Moroccan mint tea.
In celebration of the Summer Solstice I had a sudden burst of inspiration and decided to try a few of the recipes I have been saving. Last night for dinner it was Chilled Avocado Soup with Crunchy Garlic Oil to start off, and Smoked Salmon Salad with Farro and Goat Cheese as the main course. Both had a “summery dish” sound about them. There is enough soup left over for lunch today, which will be a nice treat. If I get super ambitious tonight, I might try Chile Crisp Fettuccine Alfredo With Spinach.
This morning I celebrated Solstice by making a Lemon-Blueberry Dutch Baby for breakfast. As an afterthought, substituting some of the mulberries from down the street in place of the blueberries might have made it super seasonal, perhaps a Mulberry-Vanilla Dutch Baby instead. Maybe I’ll take a walk and pick a cup to make another one tomorrow. The mulberries are not as stable as blueberries and don’t keep for very long. In the meantime, there are now a couple of naked lemons sans zest sitting in the refrigerator from two of those recipes that probably should get used up somewhere.
Today must be graduation day for some of the elementary school kids. Dressed up more than usual, they are walking past the house with their parents, who are also dressed up. They are all smiling, some carrying flowers. When they get to part of the sidewalk a few houses down, they can jump over chalk drawn lily pads.
Happy Summer, live from The Urban Porch ™, where at this moment Cardinals call to each other, the Earth Flag blows around on a warm breeze under sunny skies, people wave as they ride by on bicycles, and a fluffy old dog provides sweet company.
The smoky skies from the Canadian wildfires had kept Rudi and I off The Urban Porch ™ and sequestered inside for a number of days. Once they cleared, we were especially eager to get out and about.
At first, with the relief of breathable skies, I planted myself right back out and into my porch chair, watching the ever-entertaining show go by. But lately I’ve been wandering afield a bit. Up first was the search for the Bobolinks, one of many on my favorite bird list. Wearing a bright cap of yellow, with flashes of white and black on wings and back (that’s the males) and a twinkly, melodic song, they swoop delightfully across grassy fields during their courting season. This year I was hoping to catch their return again.
one of last year’s Bobolinks
Much to my disappointment, for some reason there was not one Bobolink to be seen. The field was blowing with beautiful waving grasses, the season was correct. It appeared to be the ideal situation to see them. Perhaps the smoke had set their schedules back a bit? Or maybe I had arrived too late for the event.
It was a gorgeous day with dramatic clouds. The wind blew sweet with the scent of clover, grasses, and something floral I could not identify.
searching for Bobolinks
Milkweed was just starting to come up. Birdsfoot trefoil was blooming.
Pipevine Swallowtails flitted about, barely alighting long enough to be appreciated.
There were a number of Red-winged Blackbirds in the vicinity. One put on an entertaining display, fluffing out his wings to show off bright epaulets.
Show-off! – photo by KS-V
At the last moment before leaving the field, suddenly a Bobolink, and then another, could be heard somewhere deep in the grasses, one in a tree. They weren’t doing their courtship dance – they must have already been nesting. It’s nice to know they have returned again this year.
On another day, my brother and his wife visited for a few hours. They like to go to antique shops, flea markets and garage sales – they call it “picking” – and greatly enjoy finding old things and then working on restoring them together. It is their mutual hobby, just done for themselves. There is something sort of endearing and enviable about that, and about them. I have joked in the past that at times their property looks a little like an antique miniature golf course! So I took them to a few places where they might discover small treasures and projects to do.
They did find some things that excited them….. along with the sobering discovery that many of the fun finds from “back-in-the-day” now have ridiculously jacked-up price tags attached to them. And I do mean ridiculous. Almost rudely ridiculous. I used to enjoy these places myself. Nowadays I mostly just look – the stuff inside this house is like a flea market in itself and I really don’t need any more of it. It’s also pretty amazing (and a bit disconcerting) to find that a lot of these things considered “old fashioned”, “antique” and “vintage” are the very things you grew up with. You see something and it triggers all sorts of memories. Then you almost want to get it back. Nostalgia is certainly a powerful hook.
They also keep bees for a hobby. It is not lost on me that the two of them are much like busy worker bees themselves. I would have sat around and hung out on the porch with them for a bit, but they were all very Go-Go-Go.
my brother’s busy bees
Because I spent the day with them, I missed the annual Gemini Party with friends who celebrate their Gemini birthdays together at their riverside bass hole. This is a different, younger, and more eclectic mix of people than the group I’ve been seeing annually for over thirty years (see Same Time Next Year). I didn’t realize until looking at some old photos that I’ve been attending this event for about nine years…. some of the people I only see once a year when they are there. It has been lovely to reconnect with those I know and like, keeping a thread of association over time. There is something about the continuity, the rhythm of consistency and the rites of a season. I guess this has become one of those things. But I did stop by the following day to put my feet in the water and catch up with a few stragglers who had stayed overnight.
the Bass Hole
While having a quiet walk and talk along the river with my friend who hosted the event, we came upon a couple sitting not far from the water, having themselves a picnic. They were cooking up a pile of crayfish (or crawfish, if that’s your word) that they had caught among the rocks.
Talk about nostalgia; catching crayfish brings me back to a very old place, being maybe seven or eight years old, riding my bicycle alone to “the brook” and finding crayfish there; catching them, studying them, and then letting them go. There is also the disturbing saga of my children’s crayfish that I wrote about a few years back (see Crayfish/Karma). The picnickers offered us a taste of their cooked catch directly from their smoke-blackened fingers. My friend scrunched up her nose and politely demurred, but of course, I ate some. There may be no correlation, but the following day I was sick as a dog. Perhaps it was some sort of crayfish revenge…..
river catch
On the subject of wild food, I was walking the dog yesterday when I came across a mulberry tree in full fruit, dropping berries everywhere. With excitement, I went back today to gather some.
While doing so, I met a new neighbor who just moved in next to the tree. Maybe it was her tree….she didn’t seem to mind. (Did they wonder, who is this woman in a lady-bug skirt and crazy-white hair, with hands, face and arms stained purple? Quite the sight, I’m sure). The mulberries are so sweet……I put a few in plain yogurt to add bursts of juicy flavor.
Returning to life as viewed from the porch, last night I saw the first sparkles of fireflies – actually only two random ones blinking – signaling to each other, heralding the beginning of their magical summer display.
Along with the fireflies have come the mosquitos. While standing on the sidewalk at dusk, chatting with a few more new neighbors (we have LOTS of new neighbors on this street suddenly!) we all began swatting ourselves and each other at the sudden onslaught. Do they seem bigger and more aggressive this year? This may limit the hours out on the porch. My herbal repellant concoctions do not seem to be cutting it. I have reluctantly resorted to buying the commercial mosquito spray in order to hold claim to my territory.
“Big Buzzer” by Michael Sowa
Off the porch and on the block, a group of neighbors all got together and went to the annual UFO festival held not far from here, in a town famous for numerous sightings over the years. Having actually already had my own UFO experience (see A Triangle of Lights in the Sky), I begged off that expedition and took advantage of a Saturday in the house alone. By the time they headed out on their excursion, the initially enthusiastic party of eleven had whittled down to seven, but the report is that it was a fun event, with vendors, lectures, and the crowd coming dressed up in full alien attire.
We are just a few days away from Summer Solstice, marking where summer officially begins. There is a light rain happening at the moment. They say if the winds change, we might have smoky skies here again. Given that, I will probably plan to be outside as much as possible now.
Although I am craving an eggroll, I think I’ll head downstairs and throw together some broccoli-themed quick dinner. Pasta with chili/onion crisp, olive oil, parmesan and broccoli on top. With mulberries and cream for dessert.
Armed with my super duper bug repellent, I plan to be back on the porch for observation and contemplation this week.
One thing I do every year during The Birthday Week is indulge in a massage. This year that didn’t happen – I missed that window for a number of reasons…. but eventually I decided to just get a very badly needed belated one. It wasn’t even celebratory at this point, it’s just that everything seems to hurt lately.
The massage therapist is about my daughter’s age. I’ve known her for a very long time, but I haven’t seen her recently. When I do, we tend to chat a bit here and there and catch up on things. When you don’t see someone for a while and then see them again, you tend to notice the changes. The conversation went as follows:
Me: “It’s nice to see you. You’re looking good!”
Her: “I have gray hairs”
Me: (observing her long, thick mane of golden brown hair without any gray) “You have gray hairs? I don’t see any gray hair!”
Her: “No, I said I have nightmares”
Me: (wondering what that has to do with looking good) “Oh no! What are you having nightmares about?”
Her: “No, I said, I avoid mirrors“
Me: “You avoid mirrors?”
Her: “Yes!”
At that, I just started laughing, and then replied, “Nice Socks,” thoroughly confusing things, before explaining to her what “Nice Socks” had to do with anything.
This has been the story of my life for many years now. This is what happens when you can’t hear well anymore. It’s especially worse if the person isn’t facing you, is eating or chewing gum, happens to be a mumbler, or one of those people who barely moves their mouth when they speak (I don’t know how someone can speak without moving their mouth much, but some do and it’s insanely maddening and weird). This is what happens when the frequency of someone’s voice is in the range I no longer have. It happens in a crowded room, or when there is other background noise. Or it can happen in a quiet room, looking up into the face of your massage therapist, when one would think that would be an ideal setting. Apparently not. “I have gray hairs”. “I have nightmares”. “I avoid mirrors”. In my head I arrange those words into some kind of deaf person’s trippy haiku, ending with “Nice Socks.”
The story of Nice Socks occurred a few decades ago, before I had hearing aids. It was in the early days of a friendship/relationship where I was just getting to really know the person. We had been talking for a long time and I had opened up and shared some deeply personal and difficult things that had taken place in my life. By comparison, the man I was telling this to appeared to be living a fortunate and rather privileged life, one that seemed the opposite of what I had been going through. He listened attentively, with a compassionate expression, without saying much. However, as we parted, he suddenly said, “Life Sucks”.
“Life Sucks”? Seriously? Is that how he chose to sum up our conversation? I stopped in my tracks, incredulous at what appeared to be such a flippant response to what I had just shared. At that, something just snapped and I went a bit verbally ballistic. I told him what an incredibly arrogant and superficial thing that was to say, but coming from his lucky life he must just be so removed to be able to write experiences like those off as “Life Sucks”, because what did he know about life sucking?
He looked taken aback. The more I lit into him, the more surprised became the look on his face. Finally, he grabbed both my shoulders, looked me in the face and then pointed down at my feet. “Those are NICE SOCKS” he said, indicating the rather cool looking pair of knit Peruvian socks I happened to be wearing that day. Nice Socks. Luckily, he took it well and it ended up being pretty funny.
Welcome to my life.
Following that incident, “Nice Socks” became both an inside joke and a code word. Over the years, if I was in a social situation where it appeared I was not hearing things correctly, merely saying “Nice Socks” was like a secret instruction, helpful in letting me know to recalibrate and try another word combination. Like many people who have been on a slow and steady decline of losing their hearing, I have become pretty adept at throwing together different combinations and possibilities within the context of a conversation. Anyone who has to do it knows what a thoroughly exhausting process this is to fill in the blanks. It’s like your whole interactive life is one big game of Wheel of Fortune that never ends, on and on until it makes your brain ache. Or fry.
The social mishaps do occasionally happen – fortunately, they have been mostly few, and usually rather amusing. Sometimes when I miss-hear certain words and then find out what they really are, they are so bizarre that it actually makes me laugh to myself. I’ve repeated some things to my audiologist during hearing tests that actually sound raunchy (“did they really say that?”) and have provided some serious laughs. These have officially become Nice Socks Situations. Really, you need a sense of humor to get through some of this stuff.
Due to the wildfire smoke moving down from Nova Scotia and Quebec, there will be no lengthy observations while actually sitting out on The Urban Porch ™. There is an ominous, post-apocalyptic tint to the sky at the moment. Odd reflections of light caused by the haze replicate small images of the sun on the hoods of cars and on the water in the bird bath. Yesterday the atmosphere was tinged a gray-orange. Today only marginally different. It burns the throat, lungs, eyes – leaves a harsh, almost acidic scent.
By late afternoon yesterday, the sun was like a fiery, red rubber ball in the sky, which has prompted a new earworm, circa 1966 – “Red Rubber Ball” by The Cyrcle. The rest of the lyrics beyond the one stanza have nothing to do with anything here, beyond the sun looking like one, but there really is no explanation or rule as to how these things work when a song gets in your head.
And I think it’s gonna be all right Yeah, the worst is over now The mornin’ sun is shinin’ like a red rubber ball
Hopefully in a few days the above lines will be pertinent. Although the photo is not crisp, there was one lone crow (or perhaps a raven, it was hard to tell which from a distance) perched on top of The Crow Tree to the right. It remained there, hunched and alone, for a full two hours before taking off. I had to wonder how the smoke was affecting it, what it might be making of the whole situation. I am sad for the birds, the animals, the earth. Sad for us.
This morning the area awoke to more of the same, the sun an eerie spotlight in the sky, a strange orange glow reflecting on the blinds in the window. My hair tends to pick up the scents of what it gets exposed to, most notoriously (and awfully) other people’s cigarettes, cigars and perfumes. Briefly stepping outside to take the dog out, it has caught the acrid, burnt smell of wildfire, which has now followed me into the house. Some local events are cancelled. People out on the streets have masks on again.
Incidences like this give rise to broader thoughts about earth, nature, humans, what we have done to the earth and nature. What really matters and what does not.
Last week when the skies were clearer, a random visitor approached The Urban Porch. It happened to be the mayor of our city, door-to-door campaigning for re-election, Perhaps appearing in person was meant as a friendly, human, in-person, “get to know the voters” strategic angle. Maybe he really does want to know who his constituents are. I surmise he might have been lured over by the friendly earth flag and colorful plants on this porch, expecting positive support. He was instantly recognizable – when he introduced himself, I replied, “I know who you are”. And then I told him I actually had voted for him last time and that I wasn’t very happy with the job he has been doing.
He stepped back from what was possibly perceived as an unexpected verbal slap – I think he might have almost fallen off the porch with surprise. After expressing my disappointment by his performance so far, that he wasn’t representing some of our concerns, I gave him a laundry list of things that were put into place during his tenure that he has initiated or supported and the negative effects those things have had on quality of life around here. After each issue I brought up, he came back with answers that essentially passed the buck, things like “That’s the state’s responsibility” (when actually, no, it isn’t). Some shoulder shrugging occurred as he began to look visibly uncomfortable.
By the time he was able to extricate himself from the conversation and escape from my porch, I am sure he was sorry he ever approached this house. He’s not a bad guy…. he actually has done some righteous things for the community. A few years ago I was even able to convince him and the aldermen of this city to put in a stop sign on our street and to install crosswalks and remove some privileged parking situations from uptown for the safety of the residents. Unfortunately, even if a different candidate ends up winning and holding this office, I don’t know that they will be any better. It seems our politicians – all of them, no matter which party they are from – dwell behind screens of smoke. Sometimes it seems so futile, that we are past the tipping point, that even our best efforts to make a difference will not make a difference. These are not good thoughts, but they are the thoughts that come to me as I gaze upon these smoke-filled skies, wildfires out of control.
Off the porch and out in the neighborhood, there is some pleasure to be found in odd little reminders of human whimsy. This large, stuffed dinosaur has been perched on a fence down the street for a number of months. It has managed to survive a variety of weather and passersby. Every time I walk past it, I am impressed by its durability and can’t help but smile.
The dead, half-cut down tree trunk on the corner that sported a few painted signs a number of weeks back now has a plastic crow attached to it. It took getting up close in order to determine this was not real.
On the old maple growing next to The Crow Tree, some art has been installed. I have not figured out yet who has been leaving these symbolic surprises, but imagine eventually that discovery will be made.
In the library, tucked in a shelf among the books, someone had placed this small, painted stone bearing a poignant reminder.
At times it feels that the compilation of these observable snippets are the thread that helps to keep thoughts and emotions together; distractions and diversions in the absence of a greater control. With that, I am going to head downstairs to have a cheese melt, find some chocolate, and hope the smoke clears off soon….
And I think it’s gonna be all right Yeah, the worst is over now The mornin’ sun is shinin’ like a red rubber ball
Earworm time again! Today it’s Rodgers & Hammerstein – “June is Bustin’ Out All Over”, by way of an elementary school assembly I was in, back in sixth grade. It’s amazing how some of this stuff can stay in your brain forever. Is it just me or do we all have this happen? Is this an aging thing? In my head it’s the second soprano and alto parts I’m hearing, which makes it extra amusingly weird. Over the last couple of days, every time I have noticed a new flower opening in the yard or neighborhood, a few lines have burst into my brain, and sometimes burst forth out of me…. mostly (hopefully) in private. This is what’s happening here:
But it’s comin, by gum We can feel it come
Spiderwort/Tradescantia
You can feel it in your heart You can see it in the ground
Primrose/ Oenothera
You can see it in the trees
Tulip Poplar/Liriodendron tulipifera
You can smell it in the breeze
Privet/ Ligustrum
Look around! Look around! Look around!
Baptisia/False Indigo
June is bustin’ out all over
Rose Campion/Lychnis Coronaria
All over the meadow and the hill
Lavender/lavendula
Buds’re bustin’ outa bushes
Meadowsweet/Spiraea
OK, I’ll stop now….but…..(elementary school kid’s voices rising to crescendo)…..
June, June, June Just because it’s June, June, June!
I’m not exactly sure of its origin, but one day my father came home from work with a Stella six-string acoustic guitar that someone had given to him, and he gave it to me. Up until that time, my experience with musical instruments consisted mostly of some piano lessons and playing trumpet in the elementary school band. The guitar was definitely more alluring. I was twelve years old.
The strings on the Stella were ancient, the tuning pegs so gunked up and rusty that they could barely be moved. I recall actually trying to turn the stuck pegs with my teeth so I could tune it, before finally using a pair of pliers, and not even thinking to change the strings. At the time, I attempted to learn mostly folk songs – Bob Dylan, Buffy St. Marie, Joan Baez, Peter Paul & Mary, and some Beatles, along with making up my own melodies. Pressing into those old strings, I practiced until my fingertips bled, eventually acquiring some callouses. It was satisfying to figure out and learn songs on it.
About a year later, my father gifted me a brand new Giannini nylon string classical guitar. Being so much easier to play, it was an incentive to practice songs with some finger-picking; Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne, some Flamenco style stuff, a little country, some Allman Brothers. A friend’s older sister gave me a few lessons. I still fondly recall the guitar having the aroma of cedarwood, and the rattling sound of a pick accidentally dropped inside as I tried to retrieve it.
I don’t recall what became of the Stella, but I played the Giannini for a number of years – with friends at summer camp, in a middle-school talent show, for my family, but mostly just for myself. I wasn’t that great at it – I never considered myself a guitar player – but it took me through some difficult adolescent times, a place to temporarily escape into. Of additional importance was the fact that it had been a thoughtful gift from my dad, which meant a lot for a number of complicated reasons.
By high school, interests turned to rock music and rock and roll fantasies, which included hours spent lying on the floor in front of the stereo or singing into a hair brush in front of the mirror while pretending to be Janis Joplin or Grace Slick….. I still fooled around on that guitar sometimes, but I wasn’t very committed.
At around age twenty, I fell in with some “real” musicians who had a band – guys who were far more serious and definitely more talented than I was at making music. Playing in front of them was way too intimidating. I definitely did not attempt to participate and instead withdrew, as I was not a guitar player.
The withdrawal of my own interests is an issue that has repeated itself throughout my life. I tend to pull back from certain things if the person I am in a relationship with is much more passionate about it. I backed off from any serious gardening and cooking when a partner was a fervent cook and gardener, stepping back in order to give him the space to have full control of the kitchen and yards. I did the same with playing music. I realize this really has nothing to do with the other person; this is something in me, my tendency to retreat – sort of a “you’re better at it, so go for it” – a somewhat self-sabotaging trait…..
Back to the Giannini; at one juncture in time, life threw a few loops and I made last minute, open-ended plans to leave the country. Without too many possessions back then, there were only a few things I wanted to be able to hold on to; one dresser with some clothes in it, some photographs, and my Giannini guitar. I asked the guys in the band if they could keep my guitar for me – I figured who better than musicians? They had a practice room filled with instruments, after all – one more would not have made a difference. Perhaps if it had been something desirable to them, like a Guild, a Gibson, a Fender or a Martin guitar, they would have been more than eager, but there was no interest in even storing – much less using – my Giannini, and my request was, disappointingly, pretty much dismissed. I assumed it was considered not good enough for their professional tastes.
It was a relief when a couple I was friends with, the husband being a guitar teacher, did offer to hold on to it for me and promised to take good care of it until I got back. But when I did return a few months later and came to collect my guitar, he told me he didn’t have it anymore – he had either given it away or sold it (I never got an honest explanation, or actually any explanation at all) – within a mere couple of weeks of my leaving. I was pretty upset about it, the value being not monetary as much as emotional. While I had spent some rocky teenage years with that guitar, mostly I felt terrible because it had been a gift from my dad. I think that is what it was really about, this gift from my father. I could have gone out and gotten myself another guitar like it, but it would not have ever been the same. I felt betrayed. It was a crappy thing to do.
Eventually I married a talented guitar player and suddenly had access to some nice instruments – an acoustic Guild, an electric Gibson Les Paul Custom, a Gibson ES335 hollow body electric, and a Fender Twin Reverb amp….. and also someone to teach me a few things on them. I learned to play some Blind Faith, some Jefferson Airplane, some Grateful Dead. Mostly this occurred in private, because, you know I’m not really a guitar player….
And then one day I stumbled into an opportunity to have my own electric guitar at a very good price….a friend’s roommate was selling his possessions to pay off some legal fees. I think ultimately he ended up blowing that small amount of money I paid him in Tina’s Bar, while I ended up with a cherry red, Gibson SG-200, an oddity with two single-coil pickups that was only briefly manufactured in 1971-72.
My then-husband messed around with it on the rare occasion, calling it “a nice little rock and roll guitar, although it has limited use”. I fooled around with it in secret because, well, I’m not a guitar player. More than anything, it became a little bit of mind fuel for my rock and roll fantasies, even if I wasn’t playing it, but just because I had it. Honestly, sometimes I would listen to Carlos Santana, Jimi Hendrix, Mark Knopfler, Keith Richards or Eric Clapton, and in my head it would kind of be me making those sounds…..
Come on now, admit it, you know I’m not the only one who’s done that….
Ronnie Wood and Eric Clapton (with a Gibson SG200)
Years down the road and divorced, all the guitars left with the ex, except my SG, which I held on to. At one point, my musician brother-in-law cleaned it up and did some work on it, then kindly returned it to me. Every once in a while my ex would ask to borrow it – I would always have to make a point of retrieving it, lest it get absorbed into his collection of instruments and end up displayed on a wall for eternity. This happened a number of times. There used to be a little amplifier I used with it, but that was mysteriously “borrowed” and disappeared. No amp and not playing it, I lent it to my musician son-in-law, but he’s a lefty, so it was pretty much just being stored with him. Over the years I have considered selling it, yet I’ve always changed my mind, telling people it’s “an investment.” But I think the real truth is that once it’s gone, a piece of my own history, as well as that rock and roll fantasy, would be gone as well.
I did eventually buy another acoustic, but found I was not playing it because……face it, I’m not a guitar player! Why do I keep going back to this? A number of years ago I gave that one to my nephew, who learned on it and does play.
There is actually a Kiso Suzuki acoustic guitar here in this house at this very moment, in the next room, inside its case, propped up next to my sewing machine. It belongs to the SO, who does not play it and said he was going to get rid of it. But I said “Not yet”.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve reclaimed a few of the hobbies and interests that I had stepped back from in the past and found pleasure in them again. Cooking has been one of them. Gardening has been another. Not long ago, I took out that Suzuki guitar parked next to the sewing machine to see if I could reclaim that old interest too. What I discovered was that I am now too deaf to hear all the notes in each chord, much less tune it. That my hands and fingers are arthritic and it hurts to hold it. That there are no callouses on my fingertips and I am not interested in developing any. That although, in my mind, I thought I remembered how to play things that I once knew, it was not exactly like getting on a bicycle (at least not for me). It has been far too long and I have forgotten much. It was the reality of this experience –that I am not a guitar player and was never serious enough about it to become a good one – that steered me into the decision to finally sell my SG.
A guitar store let me leave it there on consignment. Ironically, and within days of bringing it there, my ex-husband happened to walk into that very same store – in a city where neither of us lives near, hours away actually – with the intention of getting a fret job done on his own guitar. What are the odds of that? He immediately recognized my SG hanging on the wall for sale and was a bit taken aback, shooting me a text stating his surprise and that he “would have liked to have had first crack at it.” I said to him that I wasn’t playing it and could use the money. That if he really wants to buy let me know, as it hadn’t sold yet, but that also, I honestly thought he never was really that interested in it due to its “limited use“. I guess he wasn’t, because he never got back to me about it. He expressed his shock at the price the store owner had marked it at. I asked him if he thought it would sell for the price listed. He replied “Never”.
It sold pretty quickly, and at the asking price.
Of course, there have been some mixed feelings about letting the SG go. It has been around through about forty years of my life transitions. It was a cool guitar. I loved the double cut-away body, the weight and balance of it, and it was certainly a prop to some inner fantasies, rich food for what are now just Senior Musings. But honestly, I was never a guitar player, at least not a good one, and I never will be. That’s okay, I’m good at other things. There is a kind of release in that acceptance.
What a month it’s been! Beautiful days, some lazy indulgences, some quirky sights to be seen. Due to the outrageously fine weather, I’ve spent some significant (and perhaps a bit wasteful) lengths of time just hanging out on The Urban Porch ™. What is retirement about if you can’t enjoy just “being”? Observations abound both on and off the porch. I have a mélange of thoughts and what amounts to a photo dump of pictures. Although I actually have a vignette that occurred off the porch that I might write out later this week, my head is too full at the moment. Right now I continue to be immersed in the changing of the floral guard here.
There were only a few remaining small spikes of lilacs left in the neighborhood, gratefully gathered and brought into the house, where they strongly perfumed a room for about a week. Serious aroma drug.
last of the sweet perfume
The Siberian Irises are past peak. I know I’ve posted a few photos of them already (because I like them so much) but I could not help but want to add another before they are gone. That royal color is stunning, my eyes keep going back to them. I used to not be much of a purple person. Oddly enough, suddenly – almost over the course of a day – I had fallen into a purple phase, which I now lapse in and out of. Just today, someone actually mentioned to me that when they first met me I was wearing purple and so they think of me that way….which sort of made me cringe, I’m not sure why. I always thought I was more of a turquoise person…..
This suddenly reminded me of an incident years ago, when I was angrily told (in an accusatory tone, by a somewhat insecure woman) that “you always wear black”. This fact was part of a litany of things about me she found fault with. Well, I was younger then, and used to look a lot more chic in black than I do now, and I did have a lot of black…..which apparently she found somewhat intimidating and one of my more undesirable traits. One of the perks of not being that young anymore is that none of that ridiculous crap matters.
Of note, today I am wearing benign blue. I think this might be my summer of blue.
The Eastern Blue Star is blooming in different areas around the house. It is a very subtle blue.
Speaking of blue, I spent a day at a sculpture garden with a friend last week. One of my favorite installations was of massive, painted blue clouds made of steel, high against the blue sky. I felt like a kid inside a story book looking up at them.
Olaf Breuning, Clouds (2014)
We meandered past a field of Yellow Rocket and then followed the call of a croaking Raven and a Yellow Warbler, neither of which we could visually locate. We did pursue the song of a Red-winged Blackbird, until we found him.
On the subject of clouds, the other day I was awakened by my young granddaughter at 5:30 am, who had set up a little installation of objects on the floor right next to the bed where I was sleeping. It included a small dog bed that looked like a banana, a quilt, a stack of different size decorative pillows, and a smiling rainbow cloud light. How can you mind being woken up to that, plus a little face inches from my own groggy one, saying “Mema” – even at that hour?
Clouds again. Blue again. So I put on a periwinkle blue dress and a tanzanite bracelet….because, Signs.
Back at home, the poppies are done and gone. There is some Wisteria on the back fence which seems to have bloomed overnight, ending up reaching into an area a bit away from where it was initially planted, sending out runners far and wide. It actually graces a scrap metal pile behind the house. I think it also jumped the fence into my neighbor’s yard. She’s the wonderful gardener with the koi fish. I’m not sure if she cut them back on her side or not. These are not as fragrant as ones I’ve had in the past. Their shape is a little more rounded too. But they are pretty.
And speaking of neighbors, a friend who is both an artist and an avid gardener with a back yard full of stinging nettles has decided to rip them out, so she invited me over to cut what I wanted. I really like nettles (see Nettle Peace), so I filled up a big bag and then took them home to prepare. They are a bit labor intensive because you have to blanch them to deactivate those nasty stinging parts first. After bending over and over to harvest them and then standing around blanching and preparing them for a good long time, I ended up with a bit of an Old Person Backache. Really, this aging thing can be so rude…..
blanching nettles
Another friend has bestowed the gift of ramps. Between the ramps and the nettles being so time-sensitive, I’ve been busy coming up with different combinations to get them into recipes quickly or to put up for the winter. Ramp butter, ramps and eggs, ramp pesto, ramps and nettles. The ramps are pretty intense. These ramps are so strong that they can actually give you a bit of indigestion. I am sure I am walking around smelling like some garlicky oniony human repellant.
The nettle patch , such an easy score – might be eliminated this year if they all get pulled out. As for the ramps, the place where these came from are up a steep hill, in tick infested woods. My friend still makes her way up there, but her knees aren’t happy about it. I won’t even go. Between the lack of energy and the huge and somewhat depressing wave of people who have recently discovered foraging, scarfing up mushrooms and wild edibles, I will admit my enthusiasm is waning. Maybe I’ll get a new spark of energy somewhere along the way. In the meantime, I’m enjoying these gifts of spring while they are still to be had.
ramps
On and around The Urban Porch ™ life moves on. Saucy Squirrel paid another visit, this time coming right up to Rudi and I, where he perched by my foot, looking up at me as if expecting something. Perhaps it thought I was another one of its local peanut providers. Just as I was raising my camera to take what would have been a close, clear shot of that little expectant face, an enthusiastic older woman with an Eastern European accent suddenly came loudly bounding up my porch stairs, sending the squirrel scurrying away. So no cute squirrel picture today. The woman was canvassing the neighborhood for Jesus. Because she seemed benign and somewhat ernest, I didn’t get as annoyed as I might have – I could have really shut her down bigtime. But I seriously dislike people coming to my door trying to sell religion, and I didn’t give her the opportunity to take up my time. She left me with a card from their organization and a tiny little sealed plastic cup of what was purportedly wine – which looked eerily like blood – which I was “to share Jesus in the sacred bond of marriage with your husband”, should I have a husband. I have to say, you never know what you are going to get on and around this porch.
In other areas, some Starlings have appeared and have been hunting in the front lawn, probably looking for grubs. They are rather boisterous. There is the remnant of a tree on the corner – it had been dying and cut down years ago, but for some reason about eight or nine feet of trunk was left sticking up. I don’t know why they hadn’t cut the whole thing down to the ground, seems kind of weird to me. The woodpeckers and insects have been having a party with it. Rudi likes to pee on it. At least it’s not the kind of thing that can fall down on your head.
One rather unpleasant discovery today was finding a new Tree of Heaven (Ailanthus altissima) growing on the side of the house. Perhaps long-time blog readers will recall the saga (called Hydra) of what I consider the Tree of Hell. I tried pulling it up, ended up cutting it and getting that tell-tale smell of raw peanuts on my hands. I recently read that this invasive tree from China is also a preferred food for the invasive and destructive Spotted Lanternfly. I just can’t believe one popped up again. It was small. I’m on top of it. Nasty stuff…
I finally planted the lavender I had bought to replace some of the ones that didn’t make it over the winter. It had been sitting on the porch in a pot, looking rather country magazine chic, but today it went into the ground.
There is a large, dark magenta Rhododendron directly across the street that I have been appreciating from where I sit. I walked over there to admire it up close.
view from my porch
The ants are busy helping the peony flowers to open.
The Sweet Spurge (Euphorbia Dulcis) has jumped to a new location this year. The original was from a Woodstock garden about a decade ago. It never gets very big, just a tiny bit here and there. Sometimes it appears, then it is gone for a year or so, only to show up someplace different around the house. It is always a fun surprise to see where it will turn up next.
The Birthday Week is winding down. This one has ended up being more like a whole Birthday Month for a lot of unexpected reasons and surprises. I will share one of the biggest indulgences. It is softshell crab season – they are expensive this year. And yet, just about once a week I have bought myself two of them, lightly floured and peppered them, cooked them up in butter, squeezed some fresh lemon juice over them, and eaten them for lunch – mostly while standing right by the stove at my kitchen counter, because I couldn’t even wait to sit down. Usually I get them once a year during the week of my birthday, just the one time. I have never gone to this extravagant extent before – it’s as if I’ve gone all out and crossed some kind of “Well why the hell not?” line. Just typing this is giving me all sorts of feels.
I could go on and on with random, meandering mélanges of snippets outlining what has gone on this month, flooding this post with even more photos (which I know would cause my sister to sigh, as she has been slowly compiling these posts into hard copy. Inserting the photos is a chore). So I will stop tonight. There have been a number of sub-plots happening on and around the porch these days; my head is full of thoughts and tales that I hope to share soon.
Time seems to be whipping by at a pretty good clip. It feels as though we are all in some sped up animation. During a conversation with a friend years ago, we expounded on the theory that time goes faster as you get older due to the fractions. When you are three years old, a year is an entire third of your life. At twelve years old, one year is one twelfth of your life, which is a rather big block of time – a long, drawn out scenario in slo-mo; lengthy school semesters, bracketed by winter and spring breaks and then what feels like endless summers. When you are thirty years old, one year becomes a thirtieth of your life. It goes a bit quicker, but there is still the impression of longish winters and summers that stretch on at least a bit, and the feeling time is on your side. “Next year” and “last year” are still separate entities. By the time you are sixty, a year becomes one sixtieth of your life, a sliver of a fraction in relation to the rest of your existence. One sixtieth blasts by in what feels like a heartbeat. Events “seem like just yesterday”. Time blends together. I imagine one eightieth, one ninetieth, is merely a blink.
I recall almost the very moment when, as a child, it suddenly dawned on me that different flowers bloom at different times and then faded out – that they did not bloom in spring and then last until winter. The fact that each one happened in a sequence; the daffodils would come in April and be gone a few weeks later, by mid-summer the orange daylilies would appear along the side of the road; Joe Pye weed would herald the end of summer. The discovery of awareness of cycles in everything, that exciting epiphany while being very young. I still divide up the the seasons into smaller increments in this way. The blooming of the Irises. The arrival of the geese. The building of the nests. The fledglings. The Fall migrations. It continues to evoke a sense of wonder.
In the early morning crispness, parked in a wicker chair on The Urban Porch ™ with a mug of hot green matcha tea in hand, I watch as the turnover of flowers and the nesting of the sparrows keeps time.
The poppies on the corner finally did flourish – not as impressive a show as last year, but still enough to stop foot traffic and attract admiration. Almost finished now, they still glow at dawn’s light and again at sunset, later becoming illuminated by the streetlights at night, their heads nodding neon-like in the dark. As the poppies make their final bows, the Irises enter the stage. First to bloom are the large, pale purple ones.
Soon thereafter the Siberian Irises send up their points. Some of my favorites, I have planted both white and deep purple varieties. They rise above their stalks like birds.
Occasionally the stillness of flower-contemplation is broken by observations in the street. While we did not end up with a rookery of crows this year, there are a few nests in the area and they make their appearance known. We also seem to have an abundance of cardinals. In addition to the Northern Cardinals, today I picked up the songs of the Robin, a Baltimore Oriole, a Tufted Titmouse, and the ever noisy House Sparrows. The sparrows are becoming bolder, alighting on the railings and hanging plants not far from where I sit. Perhaps it would be fun to see if one could be enticed to alight upon my hand and take some crumbs. Porch Goals.
About a week ago I observed a young man with a back pack, happily striding down the street on his very long legs, loudly whistling a bird song. The other day he passed the house again. Every time a cardinal would sing from one of the trees, this guy would imitate the bird and whistle the same tune back at it. The cardinal would repeat the song and the man again would respond. They did a call and response all the way down the street. It was actually pretty cool.
This morning Bold Squirrel has once again blasted immediately past both the dog and I as we sat on the porch. The phrase that instantly came to mind was “How saucy!” A saucy squirrel. Sounds so old fashioned, doesn’t it? Like something out of a children’s book in the 1950’s. As an aside, I discovered which neighbor has been feeding them the peanuts. She was telling me that the squirrels have come to expect peanuts from her and while they are boldly hanging around her yard, they are digging up her plants. She gets such pleasure out of feeding them, so I expect we will be seeing peanut gifts buried around the place for a long time. Mystery solved.
A ladybug landed on my hand today. Down on the sidewalk, the ants have been busy making their underground homes, leaving round little anthills in the strips between the bluestone slabs.
A friend who lives about fifty miles away mentioned that Bluebells have suddenly appeared in her yard, although she had never planted them. Oddly enough, when I walked outside I discovered a surprise blooming of Bluebells on the side of my house. I did not plant them either and there has never been any growing here before. There must be a reason for these wanton appearances…. many, many seeds being carried from somewhere afar on the wind?
Across the street in front of a large Victorian house there is an unusually heavy showing of white Spirea, glowing, billowing flower clouds which surround two sides of the home. I caught a photo of them just before they edged past peak.
While out and about this week, I came across a Horse Chestnut tree in bloom, which was rather stunning.
There has been a significant run of blissfully beautiful weather, with perfect temperatures, bright skies and delicious breezes. I’m in the midst of quietly celebrating a birthday week, with a variety of small pleasures and appreciations. While all this gorgeous sun has been beyond lovely, the fact is we really needed some rain. That finally happened yesterday, which felt like a gift in itself. As the low pressure system moved in, the leaves of the Japanese Maple suddenly flipped to show its palms in anticipation. A gentle misting started just as we finished walking back from the farmer’s market.
When light drizzle turned to steady rain, that became the opportunity to hunker down inside with a good book and some chocolate. At one point I took Rudi out for a quick walk, where we both got a bit wet walking through puddles of concentric raindrops that appeared on the sidewalk in front of the house.
Afterwards, the rest of the day was spent just dwelling in “the cozy zone”. The farmers and gardeners surely were smiling in thanks.
The rain ended and today dawned another stunner. Everything exploded again after being quenched. You would never be able to tell I had weeded, they all came back so quickly! The month of May dances on in the most delightful way. We are moving right along, in fractions…..
Admittedly being a lousy swimmer, it stands to reason that I’m not much of a fan when it comes to being in the water, or even on the water. I would say I’m more of the type who likes to be by the water, looking at it, beachcombing, walking along the sand and letting the incoming waves wash over my feet and ankles. Exploring tide pools. Plopping into a low beach chair down by the side of a creek, wallowing in the shallows, so the water gently laps around my legs, just enough to cool off….that’s my speed.
viewing from the shore is enough for me
Swimming pools are a no. It’s been a number of years since I’ve taken a dip in a lake or reservoir or gone snorkeling in a sea. Even if I wanted to, having fragile, expensive hearing aids has eliminated much of those options. Removing them to go into the water means being rendered almost totally deaf and frighteningly disconnected. Leaving those exorbitantly priced instruments behind on the shore, a beach towel or on a boat has also been worrisome.
There have only been a few times over the most recent years where having a quick-drying bathing suit has been useful, so we are talking about actually wearing one for maybe five days a year, if that. I thought I could get away with keeping the same one for another decade or so, but last year one of my sisters informed me that mine was “pretty stretched out” and “probably time for a new one”. Considering I hardly ever wore it, I don’t understand how that could have happened. The last suit was a pricey little one-piece wonder called a “Miracle” suit, meant to hold you together in a flattering way. Honestly, it was a miracle I was able to struggle in and out of that thing, although it somewhat did the job. Less of a miracle is that it did not last for very long. OK, bodies change. Over time I have become more and more of a Shar Pei in a bathing suit – a real fluff-bucket. Admittedly, those rolls are much cuter on the dog. The thought of going through the process of getting another suit fills me with dread. Apparently this is almost a universal phenomenon among women, even the ones who look great in a bathing suit. Body image issues are not exclusive.
Shar Pei – cute rolls
When I have mentioned my upcoming quest for a new suit, almost every woman I know – friend or family – has responded with the same reactions over and over. “Oh God, that’s the worst”. “I absolutely dread having to do that”. “Horror show”. “I feel your pain”. “I’ve been avoiding it for a long time”. After reluctantly tossing the stretched out one condemned by my sister, I went digging through the bottom drawer of Those Just-In-Case Clothes Kept But Seldom Worn, because I knew somewhere in there was yet another bathing suit. I found it – it’s at least fifteen years old, bought during an impromptu opportunity to visit Maui, a place where there was a plethora of bathing suits to choose from – and I was much younger and smaller then. Although if I honestly think back on it, it was about as painful and horrific trying to buy a suit then as it is now. In reflection, once upon a time I looked kind of OK in that suit and would be pretty happy to look like I did then, as compared to now. Unfortunately, that suit no longer fits in the same way. Funny thing about perspective and hindsight. As someone once said to me, “You are never going to be any younger than you are right now at this moment, so you might as well embrace it”. True words spoken.
In the area where I reside, the shopping malls are pretty much gone. The anchor stores have folded. There is an extremely limited choice of where you can go to actually try on a bathing suit in person these days that does not involve some travel. I went to one of the few local places remaining, which had a limited, pathetic variety. While this situation has spared me from the horror of having to deal with a bathing suit clad visage in a dressing room mirror, it means having to order from a catalog or on the internet, a frustrating experience in itself, and a real crap shoot.
There is a very well-known, long-standing catalog of clothing that has an annual collection of somewhat conservative swimwear, which has historically been aimed at “Mature” women. Back in the way distant past (my way-back days being that of bikinis, and even of care-free skinny dipping), I thought most of these catalog suits were a bit frumpy and meant for Old People. Having eventually arrived at the big “M” for Maturity myself, they suddenly are looking pretty doable. I have to wonder though, why the women in the catalogs modeling these suits aimed at older women are still fairly young. They all look like they probably have kids in elementary school and work out at the gym. I’ve got grandkids in elementary school, and the gym is a thing of the past. It would be nice to see older women with bellies and fluffy thighs being depicted. But then, I suppose that might not sell too many bathing suits.
My sister suggested I get a “tankini”. You can order a different size top from the bottom, and you can mix and match them. The top is like a tank top, except in bathing suit form. There were choices involved, like wire or soft cup, and a “firming tummy control option”, which seemed like a good idea for me. They were on sale too, with free shipping. So I took the plunge – followed the link in the catalog to the website, found something I thought I could live with, entered the discount code. I chose the sizes based on their recommendations and measurements. Despite stating it, there was not a “firming tummy control option” to be found anywhere when ordering. This was a bit disappointing, but I soldiered on.
The top part of the bathing suit arrived about a week later, with a notation on the packing slip that the bottom was on back order. I discovered they had charged me full price for the top part of the suit (which was significant – almost double), and that they had also charged for shipping it, despite saying shipping was free. What was equally annoying was that the suit was way too small, even though I followed their measurement guidelines. The straps cut into my shoulders, it was so tight around the chest that I could barely breathe, and parts of me that I never knew existed were blasting out of it. With tremendous disappointment, I went onto their live chat option with customer service to try and straighten out all the problems. I chose the chat option because of my hearing loss – it is a struggle to try and deal with issues on the phone, with so much depending on the quality of the connection and the the frequency range of the speaker’s voice. I will say that chat option is a blessing and even a necessity for people who can’t hear well – it’s something I very much appreciate and depend on.
Unfortunately, I could tell right away that chat person and I were getting off on the wrong foot. I was informed that I had used the incorrect discount code – apparently the code in the catalog is different than the code on their website. Why they don’t match is beyond me….. and why is it that if they are both discount codes at the same time for the same products, they are not giving the same discount? It seems like kind of a bait and switch tactic to me. Apparently, the website asked for “Sea” to be the code and the catalog asked for “Sand”. So I had to ask to have “Sea” switched over to “Sand” (or maybe it was vice versa) and the difference credited back to my card. When I asked her to confirm the amount that would be coming back to my card, she told me she didn’t know what that would be. Putting it into a calculator, I told her what it would be, but she would not verify that, saying she was unable to. I asked to make sure that the bottoms on back order would also be switched to the appropriate “Sand” or “Sea” so the discount would apply. She assured me that would happen.
sand? or sea?
Next I mentioned that the size recommended for the top was too small, and I would like to exchange it for the next size up. Chat person informed me that you cannot make an even exchange – that I would have to return the top – and be responsible for the return postage. Then I would have to make a whole new order for the larger size top. I could not believe there was no option on the return shipping form for an even exchange, but there is not. So now I am out postage and having to order all over again. I also asked, since we were discussing everything here, where do you choose the “firming tummy control option” that is advertised for that very suit? She said there is no option for that particular suit. I said it is stated right there that there is an option. I took a screen shot of where it says that (printed right next to the very picture of the suit, and again stated next to the item number) and sent the photo in the chat. She told me if they had to mention every detail of what is and is not actually available, that the catalog would be 200 pages long. Although the customer service person was polite, I could feel that they probably couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I was feeling similarly on my end.
At that point she suggested that I should probably call and speak to someone about all these issues. I agreed that was the path to take, although I was dreading having to go through the entire thing again while struggling through a phone conversation. Never the less, the following morning I packed up my tankini top, mailed it back and called customer service. The person pretty much told me the same thing, that I had to make a whole new order. I wanted to make sure I was going to get the same discount. She said she had to check and make sure it was still valid…it’s a good thing it was or I probably would have thrown a fit at this point. We used “Sand” this time. (Of note – and just to throw a little wrench into everything – the code of the day before, “Sea”, has suddenly been changed to “Ball”. Go figure on that one). She said I could place the new order on the phone with her or go back on the internet to do it. I decided to do it right then and there with her so I could be assured it was going through OK. When it came time to pay, I was told the original method I used to pay on the internet the first time could not be used to order over the phone. So I had to charge it to a different card. The bottoms are on one card and the new top is on another, just to add to the confusion. That all occurred a few days ago.
Today the second top in the larger size has arrived, and my return for the first smaller top was received by them. The replacement is a bit looser, but I think it will be doable. I have not seen any refund for the difference of the sale price, nor any refund yet for the return of the first top, although they did refund what they had charged for the shipping that was supposed to be free. Why they could refund only part of it and not all of it has me wondering. Historically, when you return things it seems to take weeks to “process” a refund, which has always amazed me, considering it takes about thirty seconds for a company to charge you for a purchase.
The bottoms still have not arrived, although I received an email this morning saying my original card from the first order has been charged some random amount, so I am assuming that is for the back ordered bottoms, even though it is not quite the price listed on the invoice. Based on the inaccuracy of the site’s measurement guidelines, I am wondering if this too will run small….although I am cautiously hopeful that will not be the case. If I do have to return them, it would mean yet another return postage charge on my end. After a few of those return charges put on the customer, it sort of negates the point of something being “on sale”. It would be great if these items could be returned in person, but the only store that carried clothing from this company and facilitated returns for them around here went out of business. The closest store for this actual company is in another state. Of note, funny that last year around this time I went through a mail order fiasco regarding trying to get a pair of gold sandals for a wedding (Quality Control…or The Golden Ticket.) Feels slightly like a time warp…..
I called customer service today to find out where everything stood. This time I got a very pleasant woman with a clear voice. I am hoping the proper refunds will arrive soon and that the bottom part will fit so I can be finished and out of Tankini Hellscape for the next decade.
If this all ends up being a giant fail, I think am going to just wear a sports bra with a tank top over it, a pair of cut-off shorts, and call it a summer.
It’s kind of nice to roll out of bed and sit out on the porch in the early morning, cup of coffee in hand, watching the neighborhood come awake.
You would think with all the rain, sun and early blooming happening around here this spring, that the flowers would be more prolific. Oddly enough, there are way less blooms on many of the perennials than in previous springtimes. There are fewer bells on the Lily-of-the-Valley. The lollipop heads on the Allium are significantly smaller than last year. And the poppies seem sparser. They also have not gained as much height as usual. The first poppy bloomed over the last week – just one to begin with.
It has been an interesting View From The Urban Porch ™ regarding the poppies. Each year they have expanded in the front corner of the lawn, drawing a lot of attention – bright, floral dancers in their frilly orange petticoats. Throughout the day, people walking by the house will stop to admire them, comment on them, crouch in front of them and photograph them. When multiple flowers have unfurled, they make quite a stunning show. However, up until today there was just the one, which then dropped its petals, with only another single one taking its place.
A funny thing happens as people pass by the lone, open poppy flower. Even with just the one, they have still stopped to admire it. A few have photographed it. But the most interesting part is that almost every person who has walked by it, children and adults alike, reaches a hand out to touch it as they are walking by. Even if they don’t stop, their hands automatically gravitate towards the petals and graze it as they pass its magnetic allure.
people can’t help but want to touch it
There has been a variety of vignettes passing by the porch lately. I try to take note of all the snippets as they are observed, each one a small story unto itself. There is a pre-school in the area – the staff periodically takes the kids out for a walk through the neighborhood. The children all walk in a line, single file, each one holding onto a loop that is attached to a long central rope which keeps them together. Animated and chatty, they create a colorful, happy human caterpillar.
a happy caterpillar of pre-schoolers
Over the sound of barking crows, the weet-weet-weet-pew-pew of the cardinals. and the incessant prattle of the house sparrows, there suddenly comes a complicated and piercing song. What bird is that, I wonder? The “bird” soon arrives – a bird of the human variety – a young guy, happily and very loudly whistling a tune as he quickly strides by.
A man in a motorized chair goes whizzing down the middle of the road at high speed. I didn’t know they could go that rapidly; he’s going as fast as a car! Somebody in a real hurry…..
The house on our street previously occupied by the tenants from hell has been vacated and now put up for sale. Generating some notice, it’s been interesting to see all the different potential buyers who have come to look at it. Some of them stop by the porch here to chat and ask questions about the neighborhood. Everybody is hoping we will have some wonderful new neighbors who will give that late 1800’s house new life.
hoping for restoration
After transplanting rosemary into a pot, I sat down on the porch with dog Rudi to enjoy the sun. Suddenly a squirrel bounds across the porch, right past the dog, and almost runs over my feet. It freezes, looking startled to find us there. Rudi merely gives it a cursory glance. I suspect the squirrel’s intention was to pull up whatever I had just potted. They do this every year, ripping up newly planted flowers almost as quickly as they are put in. Probably attracted by the freshly disturbed earth, they arrive very early in the morning and dig, often destroying the roots while burying peanuts and other surprises. Thus, I stick plastic forks and knives in the dirt to help deter them. Sometimes this is successful, but it doesn’t stop the really determined ones. I am also hoping this will keep the feral cats from wanting to use my plants as litter boxes. Squirrel pauses for a moment, avoiding the basil seedlings (complete with forks) before darting under the railing and down beneath the Rose of Sharon.
squirrel coming through
In other wildlife/porch news, there is some kind of recent roadkill in the street in front of the house. One lone crow has been making a big deal about this, loudly announcing their find, guarding and staking its claim to that prize. The bird periodically lands and struts down the pavement with great determination while avoiding oncoming traffic. It then tears off pieces of whatever and swoops off with it – likely back to a nest to feed young ones. It flies so close to where I am sitting on the porch that I can almost reach out to touch its wings. The crow makes a serious and quick job of it. I admit to being both fascinated and a bit repulsed watching this process, although my view is – mercifully – mostly blocked by a parked car.
determinedly heading towards his prize
I’ve spent a few mornings weeding, with Rudi by my side. He stays close, following me as I move along the garden beds. He tends to enjoy lying in dirt over the spots I have just weeded, directly on top of my plants. I’ve decided I’m tired of pulling weeds now. If it gets to hot or too buggy, that will be the end of it for me.
Across the street on the corner by the crow lookout tree, a sign suddenly appeared one morning. I don’t know who put it there or why.
The sign remained for a few days and then was replaced by another one.
One or two days later, that one disappeared too. It got so I was looking forward to what would be next, but so far there haven’t been any more.
This afternoon five of the poppies opened all at once. Hopefully they will make their usual spectacular display. It is a lovely feeling to see people experience a moment of happiness as they pause to appreciate them, and it’s enjoyable chatting with strangers who are brought to my porch by the enchantment of the poppies. Looking forward to seeing what May will bring next.
Because it has been so weather-glorious, I’ve waffled back and forth about whether to do the happy thing and share a bit more about blue skies, nature discoveries and snippets from The Urban Porch ™ ……or instead launch into a bit of a rant concerning the deterioration of common courtesy. After giving it some thought, I think I need to get the rant off my chest first.
This will possibly come off sounding like some out-of-touch senior whine about “The Good Old Days”. You know, those good old days where you didn’t have to lock your house or your car. Those good old days where if someone dented your car in a parking lot, they left a note on your windshield. I can recall so many decades ago when my own mother was expressing some dismay at the ever more evident lack of manners, decorum and decency displayed by people towards one another. It was still a subtle shift back then, which she attributed as one of the downsides of the many new (and mostly positive) freedoms of expression occurring during the late 1960’s and 70’s. Back then, I considered her a bit old-fashioned and probably gave her a few eye-rolls.
I am here to concede that I have officially arrived, I am there now, I am that senior lady shaking her head at the de-evolution of social graces. There seems, overall, to be such a lack of respect, courtesy and accountability in our society today, from the smallest of gentilities to a larger civility. It’s disheartening, and sometimes it’s scary too. I will tell you five things I witnessed this week that left me feeling either mildly annoyed, disheartened, or grossed out. None of them were especially significant in the scheme of life, but each one just another small reminder of how disconnected we seem to be as a society and how disrespectful of others as a whole.
The First Incident was just a very minor annoyance, the kind of thing that just leaves you shaking your head, but I can’t help but want to note it. When exiting the medical pavilion at one of our major hospital complexes, there is a great big sign telling you No Left Turn. This is not in the hospital parking lot, it is out in the road and it is of significant size so you can’t miss it. The reason why it is there is because it is dangerous to make a left onto that busy two way road. Due to the volume of traffic and difficult visibility, a car can be sitting there for a long time waiting for a break to go left, which holds up the traffic behind them. Thus, they don’t allow it. You need to go right and then work your way around if you want to go the other way. It’s really not such a big deal to do that.
The other day I was trying to get out of that complex. All three cars in front of me – ALL of them – had their left blinkers on and sat there, right in front of that great big sign they all disregarded, and held up traffic while trying to make lefts. Here is the view from my car while I waited for these jerks to make their illegal turns. I was in no hurry, so while this wasn’t anything that was going to have an impact on my day, I had to marvel that it wasn’t just one person, but all three of them, having no consideration that they were holding up everybody else behind them. I just sat there in my car and said “Really???” aloud to myself.
a line of illiterates making left turns
The Second example of human failures – I was sitting on my porch with the dog, feet up, having a little lunch and enjoying the beautiful weather. Directly next door is a two-family house. My friend recently moved out of the upstairs apartment and the landlord had a guy working on the place before the next tenant moved in. At one point, he climbed off his ladder and sat down on the front steps of that house to take a break and have a smoke, perched not too far from where I was sitting – we could clearly see each other. Taking a drag on his cigarette, he then loudly hocked up a loogie and spit it right on the walkway in front of their steps. I’m hearing challenged, so when I say “loudly”, for me to hear it you know it was pretty loud. He continued to do this a couple of times… me sitting a few yards away from him, (no longer) enjoying my lunch. Not only was this beyond disgusting, but I kept thinking of the girl who lives in the downstairs unit coming home from work and unknowingly walking through that grossness and tracking it into her apartment. I could not help myself. I just yelled over to him, “Seriously???? Are you kidding me??? That’s really disgusting!” He looked over at me, took another drag off his cigarette, lobbed a little more phlegm onto the walkway, then got up and wandering back to whatever he had been doing. People spitting in the street, on sidewalks, wherever…..it’s repulsive. Of note, it’s almost always men. I hope he was a little ashamed, but I doubt it. I guess you could consider this yet another View From The Urban Porch ™, albeit not a great one.
Incident Three -While on my way to the store, the car in front of me, a large black Mercedes Benz SUV with not-local downstate license plates, stops at the stop sign and then just sits there. Since there were no other cars at the intersection to wait for, they were probably texting on their phone. I waited, and then waited some more, until they must have finished their text and drove on. Further down the road we stopped at a traffic light. When the light changed to green, Mercedes must have been answering another text, because everyone ahead moved on, except them. I waited again for a brief bit, but I really didn’t want to have to sit there and have the light cycle through red again while they were lost in their conversation. So I tapped the horn. Not a long beep, just a tiny tap, like “Hello…wake up!” Mercedes throws me “the finger” out the window – no surprise there – and then moves on. We come up to the next light, where it opened up to two lanes, so I am able to get out from behind and pull up next to Mercedes. I glanced over to see who had flipped me the bird; the driver is a woman, perhaps in her forties, with a blonde blow-out hairdo and big sunglasses – who is fastidiously picking her nose. She must think she’s in her own private living room in that big car, texting on her cell phone and digging for boogers. Yes, this sounds gross. People are gross. The light changed and I pulled away from that scene.
Incident Four occurred the following day. I really broke my own rule about never going to a garden center or food store (or anywhere around here) on a weekend, due to traffic and crowding that comes with the tourists and weekenders. But it was such a beautiful day, which I had spent weeding and potting plants. While I had this inertia going, I didn’t want to wait another day to get a few gardening things. The parking lot to the garden center was crazy busy – you had to search for a space. Luckily, a couple was just getting into their car up ahead, so I put on my blinker and waited. They were taking their time putting on their seatbelts, starting their car, doing whatever else they were doing. The people in the car behind me were clearly agitated by having to wait. They leaned hard on their horn, which was kind of a useless action, since there was no place else for me to go until those people pulled out of their space. With impatience, they suddenly tried to zoom past me on my left, squeezing their SUV in between me and the other parked cars. They sideswiped me, possibly also hitting one of the parked cars on the other side of them too. I heard a bang, felt a bump. They stopped for half a second, and then they took off.
My first inclination was to go after them and confront them….. except that people are crazy. In this country, in these times, the frightening reality is that you could actually get shot. My mother did not live long enough to bear witness to this kind of world, a more dangerous, volatile and sad society. She would not have believed it could have gotten to this point. I did get the tag number on the out-of-state license plate (Massachusetts), so decided to just pull into that parking space I had waited for and check my car for damages. Did they crack my tail light or was it already like that? Is that their white paint on my car door? I decided to just let it go. I will say though, that the incident with that Mass-hole colored what would have been a much nicer time perusing plants.
Upon arriving home, I potted up some of the plants and then sat on the porch admiring my handiwork, enjoying the sunshine and mellowing out while watching the neighborhood comings and goings…. when Incident Five occurred. Some guy pulls up in a car, parks across the street and down a little ways, gets out, walks over to stand on the sidewalk directly in front of my house and lights up a cigarette. He’s got a baseball cap on, dark glasses, and he seems very, very nervous. He continues to just stand there smoking – and by smoking, he is not just having a leisurely smoke, this guy is smoking so hard that his cigarette is making copious, giant clouds. He starts pacing anxiously in front of my house, steaming and billowing so much smoke that you would think there was an actual fire. Then he stands in my driveway, continuing to frantically drag on his cigarette…sending bilious clouds that drifted over to where I am sitting on my porch, previously enjoying the scent of blooming flowers.
I have never seen anyone smoke like that before. Who is this agitated guy? Why is he in my driveway? Is he waiting to rendezvous with someone who has not shown up? What is wrong with him? I want to ask him, “Can I help you?”, but maybe he is some wacko… these days possibly an armed wacko. Isn’t it pathetic that we actually have to worry about something like that? This weird situation begins to disturb what was previously a relaxing moment. Finally I yelled over to him, “Can you please not smoke in my driveway?” at which point he immediately crossed the street, got back in his car and drove away. I have no idea what that was about.
As for decorum, yes, much has changed. I remember my surprise the first time I attended a wake and funeral where I noticed people didn’t dress up for them anymore, that many wore jeans and were very casual. Once upon a time that would have been considered a bit disrespectful. Now it is not. I noticed there also came a point where there was no more “Sunday best” either, and dressing up for holidays appears to no longer be a thing either. Suddenly everything has become relaxed in that way. I will admit to being a fan of casual, that it seemed to be an OK transition to me. It’s nice to be comfortable, to not worry about “what to wear” for certain events. And yet, I cannot help but think that in some ways an element of specialness has been removed; that suddenly these “occasions” were not worth the effort, perhaps just a tiny bit less important. That despite the gain, something has also been lost.
I also remember the first time someone said to me “What? You don’t lock your car?” and realizing that we were at the point, even in suburban and rural areas, where yes, you needed to lock your car – including in your own driveway. Or the first time I came out of the supermarket to see a giant dent in my car doors and discovered people don’t leave a note on your windshield with their info and an apology anymore. They actually used to years ago – can you imagine?
Of course, there are many wonderful, kind, honest and caring people on an individual basis. But as a whole, it seems our fellow citizens have become increasingly disrespectful, nasty, threatening and belligerent. Beginning in 2016, the breakdown of civilized behavior in this country really became evident – glaringly obvious that the parameters of what is considered socially acceptable suddenly shifted dramatically; where so many crude and ugly behaviors really began to be the norm. The breakdown of civility – extreme rudeness, unkindness and disregard towards others. Where bullies are tolerated and even applauded. These things that once upon a time would have been found extremely inappropriate and offensive. Behaviors that would have once gotten someone sent out of the classroom and right into detention. Words that would have even caused some mothers (but not mine!) to wash out a kid’s mouth with soap. Actions that might have gotten a person arrested. At the very least, behaviors offensive enough to cause one to become socially ostracized, as a means to say “This is not OK”. Yeah, I know, I sound like some old lady, right?
I’ve raised my children to be polite and considerate human beings. The people I associate with, friends and family, have also put the effort into raising children into adults who are kind and thoughtful of others. In turn, they are raising their own children with similar sets of values. When I see the world my grandchildren have inherited and are growing up in, where disrespect and inconsideration are an established and sadly tolerated part of the social landscape they have been born into, I can only hope this is a red tide that can be turned during their lifetimes.
Shortly before a recent stretch of rain drove the focus on projects and diversions inside the house, I managed to get out with a friend for a bit of meandering through the woods and fields. There was a portion of the trail that took one along a fence and out into an open space that evoked a tremendous feeling of déjà vu. It wasn’t the exact spot in particular, but a general vibe overall.
One lone buzzard was cruising low in the sky. When we stopped at the top of a hill to rest, it circled closely a number of times in order to check us out. I joked that we should probably keep moving so it would know we were alive.
cruising low – buzzard photos by KS-V
This brought on yet another “working on a highway road crew memory” that actually made me laugh. There was a particular laborer – I will call him Floyd – that I used to occasionally flag with, who was probably one of the least animated people you would ever see. Somewhat hunched, he would stand with his flag and two-way radio, basically motionless the entire day, except to periodically raise a cigarette to his lips. He had a grayish pallor to his weathered face and wasn’t much for conversation, although his overall demeanor was not unfriendly. While stopping traffic with his flag, he would remain immobile, barely moving his arm. When he halted the cars on his end, he would drawl into the radio with a voice like gravel, “Bring ’em on”.
We often worked out in rural areas, where every so often the turkey buzzards would circle around in search of road kill. When they orbited around Floyd and his extremely lifeless demeanor – which happened often enough to warrant comment – everybody would break up into hysterics. In reference to his funereal appearance, one of the guys quipped “If you dressed him up in a suit they would probably start shoveling dirt over him”. When the buzzards are wheeling through the sky, I often can’t help but think of Floyd and I still smile over it.
so close
On the subject of wildlife, as usual, spring brings along birth and abundance. There is a fox den behind my daughter’s house. The mother hunts day and night, back and forth, bringing morsels for her cubs.
A few weeks ago the litter finally emerged – there are six very active little ones. As they have become bolder, their antics have provided some entertainment through their exploration. Their mother provides constant oversight – she must be exhausted! They enjoy pulling down and batting the lower branches of the hydrangea bushes, jumping and rolling all over each other, playing tug of war with the strap on the trail cam. They bound up to the front door to check out what is on the front step and then bounce away. They like to walk along the wooden edge of the play area, single file, in a game of “follow the leader”. The kits have also discovered and are enjoying my granddaughter’s playhouse and water table in the back yard, actually stealing some of her small toys and taking their prizes back to their den.
It’s a lot of work to feed all those hungry mouths. I’m glad to see both parents working to provide for them. I have a special affinity for the fox and have felt joy while watching their antics.
In a more domestic vein, my neighbor’s ducks have been laying up a storm, resulting in a large number of both chicken and duck eggs being bestowed upon me.
lots of duck eggs
The most recent spate of rainy days provided the incentive to stay in and get down to some kitchen domestics. It seemed a prudent idea to incorporate as many of those eggs as possible into meals. So far, the duck eggs have found their way into a “use up everything leftover in the refrigerator” quiche, a breakfast Dutch Baby, some French toast and an extremely decadent, rich chocolate mousse. It was the first time I ever made mousse with duck eggs – it definitely made the consistency more “poofy”. Maybe I’ll use some for brownies next. I’m contemplating making carbonara too. I love spaghetti alla carbonara.
killer chocolate mousse
While on the topic of food, being indoors for the long, wet hours was an incentive to make another batch of yogurt, put up the next jar of Moroccan preserved lemons, and bake another tray of granola. Since being on this mad kitchen roll, I made a Thai red curry butternut squash and leek soup that turned out really, really well. I know this is most likely a temporary burst of energy. The alternative is that this place needs vacuuming, a chore I sure dislike…..any diversion to doing it is welcome.
Out in the woods, it’s ramp and nettle season. In some places the mushrooms are starting to appear again. The rain has made the area especially fecund.
On the flora front, there have been many lovelies; trees in full blossom with pops of cream, snowy white, carnation, magenta, and ruby red Japanese maples, like jewels amidst the vibrating green. And the lilacs are in bloom! A gardener neighbor shared some of their extra bee balm and a very tiny offshoot from their lilac tree, which I planted in front of the house. I imagine it will take many years until it ever gets large enough to produce flowers or make any kind of show. In the meantime, while walking down the street with the dog, whenever I pass a lilac bush I have to stop and inhale the scent like a drug. The neighbors are probably saying, “Here comes that flower-sniffing old lady and her dog again”.
lilac drug
All day the sky has been moody, filled with shifting, pregnant clouds, constantly alternating between light and dark – shots of bright sunshine, a small rain shower which quickly dries up, a fleeting patch of blue that vanishes ten minutes later, then another sprinkling. I have welcomed the indoor downtime that the excuse of rain has provided. My shoulder has been hurting, most likely from last week’s weeding, making the unintended, guilt-free rest welcome. The upcoming week looks like it should be nice, perhaps providing the opportunity for a little more yard cleanup, some visiting, and getting outdoors in general. New growth will be emerging, no doubt providing more views to observe and report from The Urban Porch ™ too.
The ever-revolving selection of earworm songs continues. Following a recent visit to the Southwest which resulted in weeks of the relentless repetition of a particular Grateful Dead song in my brain – the name of which I don’t even want to chance typing here for fear it will start up again – the tune blessedly moved on to new material.
I had been reading a memoir by the writer Joyce Johnson, her story of being a “minor character” in a world of Beat Generation heavies. Thinking about the women involved with or in supporting roles of famous men (and also thinking of those women involved with and in supporting roles of men who aren’t famous at all – I could do a whole post on that), prompted me to move on to a couple of autobiographies written by the ex-wives of some renowned musicians.
I started with Pattie Boyd’s story and was suddenly plunged into four days of George Harrison earworms. I will admit the change of music was welcome. That stayed in my head for a few days (and nights) before moving on to Eric Clapton songs. To anyone who is familiar with a bit of rock history, this will make some sense. At the end of that book, I moved on to reading Cynthia Lennon’s story, resulting in about a week of repetitive Lennon/McCartney tunes. It was all doable, but after finishing these non-fictions and the resulting bombardment of “stuck song syndrome”, I decided not to pursue yet another book of that genre, thinking perhaps immersing myself in some totally unrelated fiction might help. It worked. I became song-free again, until a few days ago.
Decades past, a Dutch band called Golden Earring recorded a song called “Radar Love”. It reached #13 in the U.S., was in the top ten around the world, and it has been voted one of the Ultimate Driving Songs in a number of countries. It had a great energetic beat. Next up on deck….
Radar. I’m not sure if it has to do with the fact that I have strong send/receive abilities. No doubt many of us have that extra sense, whether we are aware of it or not, I think we possess the innate ability to perceive incoming thoughts, as well as to project them. You think of someone, often strongly think of someone, and as if some sort of radar goes out, suddenly they call, write, appear.
It used to happen with my mother and I constantly. It happened with my boyfriends. It has happened with my dogs! It happens with my siblings. It occurs with my children so often that it is just an acknowledged given. I pick up the phone to call and before I even punch in the number, it rings in my hand and it’s one of them. I started calling this phenomenon, this psychic connection, “Radar Love”.
We’ve got a thing that’s called radar love We’ve got a wave in the air Radar love
Or I’ll think “I haven’t heard from so-and-so” and perhaps an hour later an email from them pops into my inbox or a few days later a letter shows up in the mail. With relatives, exes, close relationships, good friends. Sometimes with people I haven’t heard from in years, which is especially wild.
When she is lonely and the longing gets too much She sends a cable, coming in from above Don’t need no phone at all
Sometimes it occurs with people I don’t really know that well. It even will transpire with situations. Radar. Thus my latest earworm – Radar Love. Although there were a few intuitive instances over the week that might have set off this latest repetitive tune, I believe – oddly – that a dump truck backing up in the street the other day is most likely what prompted it this time.
This whole brain processing thing really is fascinating.
Aside from the people connection, this particular song is very much associated with a period of time where I worked for the highway department on a road crew. It began in the middle of the night during a snow storm; I was getting ready to head out in a truck to sand and plow. While pulling up to the loading ramp so the loader operator could fill the truck’s hopper with salt and sand, this song suddenly came on the radio. The rotating lights on top of the trucks were strobing and sending shadows everywhere, the snow was swirling, the backup alarm on the loader was loudly beeping in sync with the opening bassline and drums as we pulled out onto the highway at the beginning of a long night:
I’ve been drivin’ all night, my hands wet on the wheel There’s a voice in my head that drives my heel It’s my baby callin’, sayin’, “I need you here” And it’s a half past four and I’m shiftin’ gear
Now the even weirder thing about it is that following that instance, the song “Radar Love” happened to come on the radio almost every single time we went out on the road that winter…. and it wasn’t even a hit that year. When I hear the opening riffs, visions of snow flying off the end of the wings, of the flag that marked the edge of the plow, of snowflakes making mesmerizing, swirling patterns in the headlights against the dark – all of that manifests. A whiff of diesel. Memories of climbing up on top of the hopper in the freezing cold, kicking down the load so the big chunks went through the grate and wouldn’t fall off into the road. And how noisy the inside of the cab was, the music turned up way loud so as not to be drowned out.
Why this now? I surmise what precipitated this latest “Involuntary Musical Imagery ” was when that large truck backed up in front of my house a number of days ago, its loud reverse alarm beeping. Around the same period of time I had been thinking of each of my children, naturally at the very moment each one called. Perfect storm. Radar Love. If I was young and in a band, I think I would do a cover of this, just for fun. I looked up the song, played it a few times to bring it all back. I guess I’ll be living with it for a while, until something different takes its place.
We’ve got a thing that’s called a radar love We’ve got a line in the sky Radar love
So what’s happening on and around The Urban Porch ™ this week? Some lovely rain, prompting the grass to suddenly get so crazy high that I actually mowed for a second time. That might be an April mowing record. Inspired by that tidy little patch thus created, I gravitated on to some weeding. For some reason, this year there is suddenly a plentitude of wild onions popping up all over the lawn and garden beds. Unfortunately, most of them are growing close to the sidewalk in the area I call “dog pee alley”, so they won’t be finding themselves in any meals.
Other mid-week discoveries include The Arrival of the Oddball Tulip. I have never planted tulips at this house, but many, many years ago – I am guessing perhaps many decades ago – some previous owner(s) did. Perhaps once upon a time there was a proliferation of tulips decorating the property, but they must have gone by the wayside in another era. Yet every year, randomly, one or two will pop up someplace in the yard. I’m not a fan.
clown intruder
One silly tulip standing all alone feels incongruous to everything else and lends a slightly annoying balance to what my brain wants to see. In the past I have attempted to lift those bulbs out, but no matter how deeply I dig, I am never quite able to reach the source. At this point, I’ve decided to just appreciate the random weirdos. One clown-like, two-toned tulip (which is not my favorite) appeared in a border to the right of the house this week. An all-red one emerged on the left side amidst the irises and feels a little less intrusive, perhaps because it’s tucked between other plants and not right up in your face. I can’t explain my reaction to them. I suppose a way around it would be to just plant a cluster of other tulip bulbs as an accompaniment, which would make a more pleasing statement all around. Except I don’t really want to plant tulips, nor allow these randos to dictate what I want to plant. Okay, perhaps you can surmise I have a strange relationship with my garden plants here.
one oddball to the left of the house
While getting into the meditation of weeding, brushing against new growth and getting a sudden waft of perfume is intoxicating. Within the shady areas, Lily-of-the Valley is rising and many have begun to flower; Muguet as the gateway into the month of May.
Plants in the shady areas around the house are starting to make a show. There is one rather pathetic Azalea which, over the years, has found itself overshadowed and overtaken by a Rose of Sharon. It really deserves to be moved someplace where it can stand and flourish on its own in the sun. Perhaps at some point I will try to move it. In the meantime, it has made a few tiny buds. The Azaleas elsewhere throughout the neighborhood are looking spectacular, so I am feeling a bit ashamed of my poor planning.
the Azalea is limited
Emerging from the shadows, the Solomon’s Seal also has buds tucked beneath its lovely leaves. One or two plants that a friend shared years ago have spread into a pleasing corner display. I look forward to their clean lines and elegant simplicity.
And the lone Trillium – another individual oddball that never quite blooms all the way, has reached its maximum. I think this is as far as it will ever open, which is actually further than in previous years.
There is a Japanese Maple behind the house which creates a heavily shaded area over a triangular shaped section of earth. In the past I have filled it with different combinations of perennials. Some last for a while and then die out, while others have vanished, only to suddenly come up again another year. For at least one growing season it was looking absolutely gorgeous, at one time filled with Columbine, Astilbe and Foxglove….. until it was neglected (by me, yes) and became overrun with Vinca. I’ve lost most of my energy for that bed of what has – at this point – reverted back to a pathetic patch of dirt, and have allowed the reliable Hostas and Ferns to take up the slack. Never such a big fan of Hostas, I’ve very much come to appreciate what their textures and hues lend to the shady spots.
arrival of the Hostas
A variety of ferns also contribute presence in the spaces, their violin-shaped heads rising and uncurling.
Fibonacci
In years past I’ve made a few gardening mistakes and mishaps around this house. One of those was Vinca, that was given to me to plant around the base of the Japanese Maple, with the intention of the lovely periwinkle flowers lending a nice pop of color near the roots. But then it began to run rampant, taking over everything I planted beyond it, sending runners that made it difficult to remove and eradication an ongoing chore.
The same thing happened with pachysandra, another gift from a friend, meant for covering those dark corners where nothing else was growing. It has quickly spread. Luckily, that one is a bit easier to contain.
And then, there are the Jerusalem Artichokes, yet one more gardener share. After planting them along the driveway next to the house, with the intention of making a variety of Sunchoke recipes, I was duly informed by the S.O. that no way would we be eating anything growing at the base of these old houses, which long ago were covered with lead-based paint, which has most likely leached into the soil. So they are just growing there doing their own thing.
Over the years the blacktop driveway had eventually deteriorated into a minefield of broken pavement and so much grass pushing through that you actually had to mow parts of it in some places. Finally, the driveway came up at bat for repair. A contractor dug it out and scraped it down to its Victorian origins, beneath which were random bricks sticking up out of the ground at frost-heaved angles. While it might have been attractive to leave the original bricks, their haphazard arrangement made having a snowplow come through in winter not a doable option. So gravel was laid down and it was repaved with hot mix and rolled out. It’s been looking pretty good….except while I was out there weeding the other day, I discovered (with mild dismay) that an alien plant actually has burst a hole through the pavement.
what is this alien?
While I’m not totally sure what it might be, due to the proximity, a Jerusalem Artichoke is suspect. This might not bode well, and if so, it is certainly not going to go over well with the S.O., who is often dubious about my gardening adventures and has chastised me about a few past ones – The Catalpa tree, the Scotch Broom, etc. (“Those roots are going to break the foundation”). Just in case, I pulled up a few of the “decorative” remainders that are still growing next to the house and driveway.
There are certain days of the year where for some reason (or no reason), a traumatic or dramatic event has historically and repeatedly happened to either me or someone in my family – both terrible and wonderful. Although I’m not sure why it is, for a long while, most of these occurrences have manifested on the eves of two major holidays.
Christmas Eve has seen enough mishaps (mostly – but not exclusively – illnesses, scary diagnoses and hospitalizations) that my children started calling it “The Christmas Eve Curse”. Each year on that date we take a pause and breathe a bit easier when nothing of great difficulty or negative significance occurs for any of us. Some of these events have ended up with stories (and titles) that get repeated in the future and make everybody laugh – “The Year of Uncle P and the Frozen Turkey” (born out of “Mom’s Christmas Morning in the Isolation Ward”) being one of them. New Year’s Eve has also had a number of traumas, dramas and excitement with their own chapter headings. Because of that, these days I tend to duck and lay very, very low during that specific holiday.
But then there is April. Happy, bright April. In the distant past, along with the greening and the budding, the events within that month had mostly been acknowledging the birthdays of some family and a number of friends – a significant group of us in the Aries/Taurus/early Gemini clan dubbed “The Spring Babies”. During this time, I would marvel over the blossoming dogwoods, call whoever’s birthday was up on deck to wish them a happy, gush over the next of the bloomings, plan a garden, make yet another birthday call. That was it. Flowering and birthday salutations. Until the day the weight of April changed into a series of emotional shadows and light – and since that day it has been (oddly) a span of about a week within that month which knocks my head around annually, along with the spring winds and showers.
So here we are again, April – while my blood is quickening to the excitement of the awakening earth, a low-key anxiety begins to thrum beneath the elation. Even though nothing specifically bothersome may be occurring in my personal life at that given moment, suddenly The Biting of the Cuticles and Nails begins. Leading up to this particular week I have chewed my fingers into painful little nicks and cuts, which then annoyingly burn every time I do the dishes or prepare any acidic type foods. Even though long ago I figured out why this happens, each year finds me yet again surprised when it starts. There are a few triggering memories that set this in motion.
Years ago, after a long illness, my mother passed away one April day. We used to speak on the phone just about every morning – our conversations were heart-warming, sometimes frustrating, often ridiculous, yet always filled with love. I sat next to her in disbelief and sorrow as the life left her body, leaving a palpable, surreal and immediate vacuum. On that day, the daffodils in her garden were in full bloom. Now, each year, I plant those bulbs in her honor. When they all appear and shine so golden against a cerulean sky, I hear my artist mother say, “Blue and yellow sing”. It has been many years now, but still, each April I ache with the loss of her. This feeling does not fade and I know it never will. I find it odd that at this very moment I am older than she was when she left us.
daffodils for my mother
In a rather cruel twist, two years later and on the very day before the anniversary of her death, my Then-Fiancé abandoned me, our family, and the life we had built together. That spring had been a particularly gorgeous one, one meant to be shared – exploding with outrageously vibrant color, rampant blooms and sweet winds, the Siberian Irises rising in exclamation points, painfully highlighting my losses, my grief.
A number of years following that trauma – the actual day before the “Anniversary of the Abandonment” – I sat in a hospital waiting area, my youngest child undergoing surgery – ticking off the minutes and hours while anxiously watching for her designated patient ID number on the digital LED board to change status: Pre-Op. In Surgery. Post-Op. In Recovery. Nails left bitten and jagged, relief, prayers and promises to the universe answered when it was determined all was OK. Long buried memories apparently stored in the deepest recesses resurface in April. Old stress and trauma. Shredded nails.
Following these events, April has become more than just flowers. Like clockwork, about a week into the month, there will begin a strange thrumming in the ribcage which builds over the days; I become restless without explanation, until I suddenly remember the explanation. Oh, yeah, here we are again. Let the cuticle biting commence.
Roll forward a number of Aprils, a windy afternoon falling on the day before the anniversary of my youngest’s surgery. On that day, I adopted a quirky, weird little rescue dog. Perhaps it was just coincidence that he entered my life in that very same block of rocky days where all the other upsetting incidents dwelled. Or perhaps it was not a coincidence at all. Rescue – how appropriate. Who really did the rescuing? He has brought years of unconditional joy into my life, injecting happiness into that exact anti-anniversary space where it was so badly needed.
rescue
And then, a couple of years on, after the anniversary of the adoption of the dog and a few days after the anniversaries of the surgery, the abandonment, and my mother’s death, I had the privilege of being present for the birth of yet another one of my grandchildren. His arrival was a calm and most beautiful delivery. His entrance into the world on a lovely April day filled the room with a sparkling vibration in direct contrast to the hushed energy vacuum left in the wake of my mother’s departure. Out, and then in. Another healing gift.
welcome joy
There have been a number of other incidents, both difficult and happy, which have happened in other years or even concurrently during those April days, which I will not note here. Most of those are probably folded into or overshadowed by the impact of the greater ones. Over all this time, I still sometimes feel the deeply imbedded aftershocks of what has passed. At the same time, I try to envelope myself in the acknowledgement, appreciation and joy of the gifts that have also manifested. When that particular week in April rolls around, I do admit I unconsciously hold my psychic breath a little. You can shelve your memories and experiences away, but I think there are some things that you never really get over; even when you don’t actually take them out and look at them, they remain there all the same. At least it is that way for me. There are just some events so significant that they change your outlook, or even the trajectory of your life.
During this time, I try to put my energy into the earth. Getting my fingers in the dirt, breathing in the scents, enjoying the flowers, the sun, the rain, the air. Heart-mending stuff. My nails will begin to grow again and this will pass, as April closes out and we move into the light of May.
Yin/Yang. Darkness/Light. Sorrow/Joy. Loss/Gain. Goodbye/Hello. April, April, April…..
I can’t believe I’m back again posting so soon, but it seems the season is suddenly unspooling so quickly that I can’t keep up with it and feel the urge to share my somewhat nerdy excitement about the flora/fauna explosion. Actually, I’ve had a particularly difficult day dealing with “The System” (you can insert here whatever inept bureaucracy happens to be frustrating you at any given moment – we’ve all been there. Today was one of those times). Due to whatever human incompetence or system malfunction occurred this morning, I will have to deal with the follow up of that situation again tomorrow. To bring myself down a few notches from my vast irritation and get back to center, I’ve eaten copious amounts of chocolate (to the point of nausea) and decided to focus on a little more local nature from the Urban Porch. So here we are, sooner than I had planned.
Moody clouds rolled in, giving us a little bit of thunder, a hint of lightening and a quick soaking yesterday. The glowing green of the unfurling maple buds against the smoky sky was so pleasing.
Showers were all that was needed in order to kick everything into high gear here. To the right of where I sit on the Urban Porch, the Dogwood has suddenly popped.
Sparkling raindrops cling to the branches and flowers. A bright yellow Goldfinch, his mate, and a Purple House Finch crowd together at my neighbor’s feeder, which hangs from the lowest limbs.
Beneath the bird feeders, the Hyacinth continues to glow.
The House Sparrows are relentlessly chirping, noisily breeding, and building their nests. Holding pieces of grass and twigs in their beaks that were thrown off by my mower the other day, they flit from the lawn to the still bare Rose of Sharon, then up to the top corner of the porch, disappearing into the soffit, as they do year after year. Then they stand there and tweet. And tweet. And tweet. For hours. The songs of the Northern Cardinals and raucous crows are the only birds loud enough to compete with their chatter right now.
looking out from the nest and vocalizing
lots of sparrow action
A Mourning Cloak butterfly suddenly lands on the badly peeling railing. It didn’t stay for more than a few seconds, but I am pretty sure that is what it was. First butterfly of the season! The second one of the season just flew past my head a little while ago – a white Cabbage butterfly.
Mourning Cloak
Up the sidewalk a few paces, my neighbor’s tulips are out, all in a row…
And across the street, the Cherry blossoms have begun again….always a treat.
The sun dodges in and out all afternoon. Shifting shadows and winds, gray clouds followed by bursts of blue, then back to gray again. I’m just sitting out here, decompressing and trying to soak in and store up enough of the Nature Drug to carry through the week.
There are a variety of flags displayed on the front of homes in this area. A few blocks away there is even a street unofficially nicknamed “The Street of Flags,” where just about every house has (or used to have) an American flag waving from it. I’m not sure if that was deliberately planned or not, but you couldn’t help but notice all of them as you drove down that one block. Even when there was not a holiday, every single house had one. Over the years some different types of flags have been substituted, but it is still a notable alley of flags.
The majority of the houses in our neighborhood have front porches, many displaying waving banners that reflect our diversity. The most popular are the Stars and Stripes (we even have one very patriotic neighbor that has multiple flags of various sizes all over the front of the house, including in the windows, the garden and yard) but there is a variety of different ones too. Hanging from the homes on this street alone, there is a Ukrainian flag, an Irish flag and a flag with a picture of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns, his face superimposed on the American flag. There are occasionally holiday-themed art flags raised, and another one supporting the Marines. One neighbor regularly changes it up, depending on what is going on politically or happening in their lives at the moment. Around the corner someone has a happy-looking flag depicting flowers, a couple have rainbow banners, a few others have BLM flags and signs.
The truth is that I have never been that much into the flag-on-the-house thing. I’ve seen some artistically appealing ones, some beautiful garden flags, and also some rather kitschy ones. While I enjoy looking at the array of neighborhood decor, there really hasn’t been any opinion or any one thing I personally felt the need to publicly state on a flag. Years ago I did drape a string of Tibetan prayer flags across the front porch posts, signifying an intention of focus on balance and positivity. That lasted until they got so absolutely faded, ratty and covered with soot that they finally needed to come down, leaving my balance and positivity still in question. Since that time, there has been nothing announcing any ideals or feelings being generated from this Urban Porch.
I will say that in the days after 9/11, when suddenly there were flags everywhere, I was moved to put one on my car antennae. Seeing them all appear overnight in such tremendous numbers in the wake of trauma made a collective statement that was incredibly emotional and unifying.
The flag from my childhood – the one we grew up with that my Korean War veteran father put out during designated holidays – had forty-eight stars. Alaska and Hawaii hadn’t even made it onto the flag yet when I was a kid. How is that even possible? Really, I’m not that old! I feel like a dinosaur just writing it. It was in my possession for a number of years. I’m wondering who has that flag now…I’m guessing probably my brother.
Up until recently, if I was giving directions to anyone trying to find this house, along with the house number I might say “Look for the place with hanging plants and a bicycle chained to the porch”, or “Look for the house with all the poppies in front.” But now that has changed, because at this moment there is actually a flag hanging in front of this house too. It is a flag of the planet Earth (which I have to admit is very much giving off Whole Earth Catalog vibes to me, if anyone is old enough to remember the cover of The Whole Earth Catalog. Or maybe that’s just more dinosaur stuff). I wasn’t involved with choosing this flag or hanging it up, but now that it’s there, I like it and I’m rolling with it. New directions to this place – “Look for the house with the blue flag”.
Boom! It’s only mid-April and already the grass on this little patch of front yard suddenly got so dense that I realized I better mow it now, before it gets too difficult to push through. Has Spring come on with such sudden speed, or is it my age that just makes it seem as if it is going faster?
Unseasonably warm, we’ve finished with the earliest blooms. The Snowdrops, Crocuses and Scilla have already blown past.
Bye-bye!
There is still some Hellebore left, bowing their heads in the shadiest of spots.
The Daffodils have all opened, shining their happy little suns throughout the yard. I think the heat will finish them in the upcoming week.
Boom! Clusters of Grape Hyacinth carpet the borders in purple and blue, all along the house and around the trees.
Boom! The Spirea returns!
Boom and yay! The young Sugar Maple tree that was planted last year to replace the Linden is off to a good start. The sky was so blue this morning that it almost didn’t look real.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The ground phlox is popping!
And wowza Boom! Those gorgeous, prehistoric, showy Magnolia trees! I cant stop looking at them or touching them. And I ate some petals! They are so brief, in no time the ground will be littered with a thick blanket of ballet pink and browning flowers.
Boooooom! On the woodland floor I spied large pockets of Trout Lilies. It appears they are running rampant this year.
Buzzing bees, singing birds. Once again the air smells green, the scent of newness and hope. Turn, turn, turn.
Yesterday my four-year-old granddaughter got into a little argument/debate with her mother concerning Humpty Dumpty. She insisted that Humpty Dumpty is not an egg, he’s a potato. She would not be moved on that opinion.
Haven’t we all assumed Humpty Dumpty is an egg? My interest in useless information piqued, I decided to pursue that supposition. Apparently many others have also sought answers, as I found a quite a number of articles and blog posts – some quite recently – on that very subject. One has to wonder if this generation of grandkids will not accept what they are handed and are asking the hard questions. Egg? Or Potato? I will summarize here and then get on to why a potato.
The original rhyme seems to have begun during medieval times. There are a number of different interpretations, apparently modified through the ages to fit whatever circumstances were happening during that period. One theory is that King Richard III of England, who happened to have a humped back due to scoliosis, rode a horse named “Wall” during The Battle of Bosworth in the late 1400’s, a battle which he lost. I came across this chart of the fatal wounds of King Richard III. As you can see, there is no way all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could put this guy back together again.
Image credit: by Karl Tate, Infographics Artist
The most popular explanation seems to be that Humpty Dumpty was the nickname of a cannon mounted on the walls of Colchester during the reign of King Charles I, which was then knocked off by enemy fire during the English civil war in the mid 1600’s.
A Humpty Dumpty song with lyrics was published in Samuel Arnold’s Juvenile Amusements in 1797.
The poem itself was published in 1810 in a collection of children’s rhymes and poems entitled “Gammer Gurton’s Garland, Or, The Nursery Parnassus: A Choice Collection of Pretty Songs and Verses for the Amusement of All Little Good Children who Can Neither Read Nor Run” (how’s that for a title?)
In 1870 Mother Goose’s Nursery Rhymes and Nursery Songs Set to Music was published by J.W. Elliot, featuring Humpty. Yet up until this point there was no mention anywhere of an egg involved regarding Humpty Dumpty. In some versions he was a boy.
This all changed after Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carrol was published in 1871, and that is where your (somewhat trippy) He Is The Egg Man version actually begins:
“However, the egg only got larger and larger, and more and more human: when she had come within a few yards of it, she saw that it had eyes and a nose and mouth; and when she had come close to it, she saw clearly that it was Humpty Dumpty himself. ‘It can’t be anybody else!’ she said to herself. ‘I’m as certain of it, as if his name were written all over his face.“
‘And how exactly like an egg he is!’ she said aloud, standing with her hands ready to catch him, for she was every moment expecting him to fall.
‘It’s very provoking,’ Humpty Dumpty said after a long silence, looking away from Alice as he spoke, ‘to be called an egg — very!’
‘I said you looked like an egg, Sir,’ Alice gently explained. ‘And some eggs are very pretty, you know,’ she added, hoping to turn her remark into a sort of compliment.
Humpty Dumpty as an egg – illustration by Sir John Tenniel
And so an egg it became. W.W. Denslow’s 1904 illustration is another recognizable one. Denslow was the illustrator for the original Wonderful Wizard of Oz books. Going forward it seems all nursery rhyme storybooks depicted Humpty Dumpty as an egg.
Okay, so there is a bit of history, at least as much as I can find, accuracy debatable. Now, back to “Why does she think Humpty Dumpty is a potato”? Nobody really got into the nitty-gritty explanations with her, but when I see her next I will probably ask her, with no guarantees she will feel like discussing the details with me. She did say that when the potato breaks open that it is yellow(ish) inside, like an egg (if that makes any sense… to me it sort of does). My questions – is the potato a raw potato or is it baked or boiled (which would determine if the potato broke or squished after falling off the wall – given it is a high wall).
The other thing I was wondering about is the image of Mr. Potato Head, which in itself could evoke the similarities of an egg with human features. Of course, the Mr. Potato Head of my childhood is not the same Mr. Potato head of today. They ditched the use of an actual potato long ago, which I personally feel was kind of a shame.
fond childhood memories of the real potato man
You didn’t have to just use potatoes for the head either. All sorts of vegetables could be employed for a variety of silly characters. This still photo from the original commercial gives you an idea of what we used to do. There is a freaky vintage weirdness about them that I very much appreciate.
But the real potato thing – apparently there was an issue about kids playing with rotting vegetables. Government safety regulations ensued. So in 1964 Hasbro started including a plastic potato body in the kit. While it makes sense, the newer, totally plastic Mr. Potato Head always has looked a bit cheesy to me. I guess if children today don’t have the old potato man to compare to, they don’t know the difference. Mr. Potato Head has evolved further over the years to include a Mrs. Potato Head and the parts to make all different animal Potato Heads.
with plastic body – just not as cool
One more interesting discovery in this segue is that in Great Britain in the 1960’s you could buy Mr. Egg-Bodd and his friend Mr. Potato Head together in one kit. Mr. Egg-Bodd appears to be a plastic egg that sits inside a plastic egg cup. It seems Mr. Egg-Bodd did not land on our shores stateside, nor withstand the sands of popularity through the decades. But I digress…
Mr. Egg-Bodd from across the pond
My point being that in looking at a Mr. Potato Head, you can imagine how that image of a potato could be applied to a Humpty Dumpty. At least that’s how I see it in my own mind. I’m assuming perhaps my granddaughter’s brain has somehow followed the same circuitous path as mine, whether she realizes it or not. Of course I could be totally wrong about all of this. She might have a different explanation. Or perhaps her conclusion defies all reason. I will say that if you know either of us, there are genetics involved here for sure.
The population in the vicinity of The Urban Porch is experiencing many changes. My wonderful neighbor who has been renting the upstairs of the house directly next door for the last two years just moved out last weekend, on to a better job and a nice apartment in a different county. I am so sorry to see her go.
During her time living here, we have spent many afternoons just sitting on the front porch together, sharing stories and connecting. I would read her Lenormand and Sibilla cards, or she practiced reading Tarot for me. She waters my plants when I am not home, I take in her packages when she is away and check in with her to make sure she is OK. We text each other funny comments during both the day and at night. When she visits her family for Eid, she brings back delicious Pakistani food from her mother to share, or her killer chocolate pecan holiday pie. I taught her and the woman who lives downstairs from her how to break into their apartments when they locked themselves out (I think they were maybe a little amused and impressed by my unexpected mad skills). We watch out for each other. She left me with a whole bag full of different masala mixes, ingredients and instructions to make Biryani and Nihari dishes. This is a sad departure for me. I am hoping the next tenant that takes her apartment will be as special.
transition, change, relocation, beginnings
The biggest change this week has been The Long Awaited Eviction of the tenants two houses down. The guy living there was a Loud Obnoxious Drunken Toad who had not paid rent in years and was subletting to a revolving door of people – some of who were rather scary (See Suspended Animation for some of the details, if you really want to know). The sheriff sat parked out in front of the house all day in his cruiser while it was happening. He told me that one by one, neighbors would walk up to his car and tell him “Thank God”, expressing how relieved they were that it was finally happening. I actually met the landlord for the first time ever, who told me everybody in the neighborhood had been calling him constantly to complain about his tenants.
While the people the landlord had hired were moving things out and the wife of The Toad was busy taking carloads of possessions somewhere else, the belligerent Toad did nothing except procure some beer for himself and then proceeded to drink it while sitting on a couch that had been put out on the front lawn. The sheriff was incredulous and actually said to him “Are you kidding me?” It was quite the event. The garbage and junk that was left behind has already filled two entire construction dumpsters beyond the brim, and there is still more in the yard.
great potential for both physical and emotional neighborhood restoration
The most interesting thing is the psychic calm that suddenly settled over the street since that house has been vacated. It’s amazing how much of a pall disrespectful neighbors can cast, affecting the quality of life for everyone else around them, and how selfishly clueless they were regarding the impact of their behavior. The first night the house was empty there was a perceptible “Ahhhhhhhh!” like a giant sigh of relief in the air. The negative energy and tension emanating from that place suddenly vanished, leaving a vacuum of quiet. For the first time in about a year I actually walked past that house, no longer having to worry about deluded accusations and crazy venom being hurled at me from The Drunken Toad while he held court from his office chair on the porch.
It’s funny, the dog does not want to walk past the place. Maybe he is still picking up some vibes. Hopefully someone will buy that old Victorian, put some work into it, turn it into a gem, and have some really cool people move in. Even though I feel deeply traumatized by the experience and have total revulsion and zero sympathy for The Toad, I have always felt just a tiny bit sorry for his wife. Given that, on some level I hope they find a situation somewhere else that will work out for them….. hopefully not around here.
While these departures were happening, Spring of course has arrived. The last few days have been spent cleaning up the yard a bit. The pillows are back out on the wicker chairs, allowing some comfortable porch sitting on the warmest of recent days; watching The Eviction, reading, enjoying the birds and talking to some of the other neighbors. The House Sparrows are back en masse, with a lot of their bird coupling going on in the bushes. In addition to the sparrows, today’s avian visitors included Cardinals, Blue Jays, House Finches, Mourning Doves, Robins, Crows and a Red Winged Blackbird.
Last night there were two racoons hanging out together in the yard – I think it is long tail and stumpy tail again. Now that the garbage two houses down is being hauled away, it is possible they are looking for other pickings. The fox has not been sighted since the first viewing, but the mostly all white skunk has returned for the night, and the opossum is back too. There are also a pair of black and white cats hanging around, possibly feral, which appear to be left behind after The Eviction.
The daffodils are in full, showy array. Beautiful blue Scilla – always a favorite, which evokes memories of a lawn carpeted with them at a shared hippie-house back in the days of youth – is spreading through the back yard and along the bluestone path.
Scilla – memories in blue
My one pathetic Trillium is doing its annual “I’m not quite blooming even if you think I might” trick again. Each year it comes up but only goes so far as to hint of the potential blood-red flower within, yet never quite opens.
beginning of the annual Trillium fake out
On the cooking front, the pesto that was made and frozen last summer and fall is getting used up. Aside from the usual basil pesto, I had made a lot of different types, experimenting with combinations of herbs, nuts and greens, both foraged and store-bought. Some of these came out rather interesting, some were a bit intense. They provided pops of much needed green goodness over the winter, and now is the time to use them up in preparation for a new year of harvests and inventions.
I’ve been making homemade yogurt. Years ago, my friend Emrose’s mother gave me her old Salton yogurt making machine, so yogurt was a regular process going on in the kitchen when the kids were small. The machine eventually disappeared – I can’t recall why. All these decades later the yogurt bug has bitten again and I put the word out for a used machine. Don’t you know I was given not one, but two used yogurt makers on the same day! Go figure! One of them is almost identical to the one I had. So far I have made yogurt twice in the slightly newer of the two models and am totally enjoying it. I haven’t tried making any in the second one yet to see if there is a difference. There really is no need to hang on to two of them (see Machine Age concerning my anxiety about the glut of useful household machines here). I may just pass one of the yogurt makers on, if anyone is interested. I will say there is something satisfying about having homemade yogurt with berries that were picked with a friend last summer and frozen, with a small spoon of honey from my brother’s bees mixed in. Some of the leftover homemade granola would probably be a nice addition to round it all out. Maybe tomorrow morning…
What to cook tonight? There is a gnarly knob of celeriac root here that I am not sure what to do with. At first I thought I would make a creamy celeriac soup, since I have leeks and other things that many of the soup recipes call for, but no cream – and I’m too lazy to go out for cream. So I might just cut up the root, season it with some cumin, salt & pepper and roast it, perhaps along with a few other veggies. That will do for a side dish, but I’m having no inspiration as to what else to have along with it.
the gnarly celeriac
The truth is, what I really feel like having is egg rolls….
Everything feels out of focus this week. Making order of the thoughts in my head has been almost impossible – an inability to hone in and complete most things without becoming distracted. Events occurring in the news are probably a major contributor to this mental, emotional and visual disarray. An aching, collective consciousness. I have a distant recall of watching a Ram Dass video years ago…..how he said we are all fingers on the same hand. We are all connected in some way, an extension of a greater body. And thus, we feel.
I’m not going to comment about what’s going on in the world right now. Amidst wonderous joys, simultaneously there runs shocking despair somewhere. You may or may not be feeling this too, due to news events or because of your own private reasons. I am sharing that I am a bit blurry this week, which even extends down to the photos I have been trying to take with my phone – most of them way blurrier than usual, perhaps a mirror of what is going on in my head. I’m not unhappy, just……out of focus. If that makes any sense.
So I’ve been trying to walk off the blur a bit (with limited success). One perk is that the spring peeper frogs are out and serenading, with a full chorus, like jingle bells. Peepers are still in my hearing range, which is somewhat functioning in the highest frequencies, so they are a treat. Bullfrogs are tough to hear, but peepers are a blast. This is the only somewhat clear (but not very impressive) photograph I took this week. It is of the peeper pond, and at the moment I took it, they were singing at full force. After this it’s been rather downhill with the photographs.
where the spring Peepers abound
While out walking the dog a couple of days ago, I heard an extremely loud bird call. “Pyu, Pyu, Pyu – Wheet Wheet Wheet Wheet!” over and over again. A Northern Cardinal. When I hear birds whose song falls within my still-existing hearing range, it is always cause for appreciation and excitement. I crossed the street trying to locate the bird – which I figured would probably be an easy one to spot. The challenge of course is that for me, directionals are often an issue. So I wandered back and forth, up and down the sidewalk in front of someone else’s house, until I was somewhat certain the bird was above me, high up in the branches somewhere. Finally I spotted him, just a little spot of bright crimson. With limited success, I tried to get my camera to focus on him without scaring him off.
He did not fly away, but suddenly stopped singing. I stood directly beneath the bird, trying to zoom in on him to get a better photo, while hoping he would not decide to drop a load of poop on my head. Thankfully, he didn’t.
No matter how many photos I tried to take, they were all still out of focus. Why was I even bothering? There are thousands of gorgeous, jaw-dropping photos of cardinals on the internet, including many which have been taken by friends and family who have excellent cameras. Most likely I would be deleting these photos I took anyway. The “why” is something I can’t quite explain. Maybe because I had followed its song and located it? It was our moment, me and the cardinal, to check each other out, just for a little while. Clearly it felt safe enough high up there to not want to fly away. I looked at him for a while. He looked at me. When I finally headed back towards the house, he started singing again.
The back yard motion camera has been catching an increased number of night visitors this week – the photos are also way more out of focus than usual. Something is definitely off kilter here; perhaps I should climb up there and try wiping off the lens. Neither the mostly-white-on-top skunk nor the opossum have made appearances over the last few days. Instead, there is a new racoon (or two) making the scene. One of them doesn’t seem to have much of a tail. I wonder if it was one of the ones involved in the racoon street fight from about a month ago….
racoon #1 with tail
visitor #2 with stumpy tail
All week there have been ghostly, frozen frames taken in the wee hours of morning. Aside from the usual cats (both feral and not), there has been a bunny and a fox. I can see them better on the videos, but cannot grab a good still capture of them. The fox came up along the fence, crossed the driveway and disappeared. Being a big fan of foxes (and crows), I’m hoping it will return. Despite the sub-par photos, I will share them anyway.
Ghost bunny takes a brief pause before hopping away
Blurry ghost fox
Over the past couple of days I have been outside doing a bit of spring yard work, raking the leaves out of the garden beds that had been left as mulch and protection over the winter. There are many whole peanuts stashed between stones and under the steps. While raking, I looked up to see a squirrel perched on the fence post with what looked like part of a baguette in its paws, eating with great concentration. Oddly (and amusingly) enough, the high frequency sound of the squirrel-nibbling happened to also be in my hearing range. As a matter of fact, that is just about all I could hear – small, insistent crunching. I was standing pretty close to the squirrel, who was so busy enjoying his score that he didn’t immediately pay attention to me. Given the proximity, I should have been able to get a very clear photo of him…..instead, it is also out of focus.
“écureuil avec du pain”
Seeing this guy struggling to hold on to his big piece of bread made me laugh, which disturbed his repast, causing him to take off with his prize for a more private dining experience. I have to wonder if this is the same one that left a bagel on my front porch. Someone must deliberately be providing the baked goods, or perhaps they have discovered access to the local deli leftovers.
As an aside, my black tourmaline bracelet suddenly broke this morning, sending little black beads careening all over the bathroom floor. The pinging sound of them hitting the tile was also a high frequency, so I heard them bouncing around. Black tourmaline is supposedly a grounding and stabilizing stone – this bracelet was gifted to me years ago for just that very intention. Perhaps that’s another Big Sign that I’m not so centered right now. I think tomorrow I should probably restring it. Hopefully I’ve recovered them all.
scattered – a metaphor
I’m reading two books at once because I can’t stick with one story at the moment.
Of note, I am focusing on and mentioning those things I am still able to hear, hanging in that zone.
On the further subject of “out of focus”, my cooking has been off this week too. Despite having made it multiple times, the asparagus/gnocchi dish from the other night came out too salty. The Thai red curry vegetable dish over brown rice from last night was pretty lack-luster – so much so that I didn’t even save the leftovers or scrape the (usually) yummy stuff left at the bottom of the pan with a spoon. Nothing like a series of bummer meals. And I burned my thumb taking a grilled cheese sandwich out of the toaster oven this week too. I feel there is usually some telekinesis (see The Telekinesis of Grief) when things like this start happening – at least for me. When confusion dwells inside, it tends to extend outwards.
That said, I decided, with deliberate focus, to make a nice, safe, easy quiche for tonight. You can’t go too wrong with a quiche, can you? Throwing in whatever I have sitting in the refrigerator……broccoli, mushrooms, onions, parsley, cheddar and some harissa. With a side salad of various greens, cucumber, Moroccan preserved lemons, cilantro and peppered salmon. Sounds good on paper. I guess as a backup I can always resort to Chinese take-out. The reliability of eggrolls.
Hoping to emerge from the blurry abyss over the coming week……
People are coming out of their houses, shoots are pointing up like green arrows from beneath the melted snow. The crocuses and daffodils are lending pops of happy brightness. Birds are returning, winter jackets are coming off, rain is soaking the earth and the sun is warming our faces. With the official arrival date of the Spring Equinox, everything is leaning into the light. We are emerging and beginning to rise.
Normally I would be planting sugar snap peas about now, but I think I’m going to skip it this year and utilize our local farmer’s market instead for most things, except maybe some herbs and cherry tomatoes to be grown in pots on The Urban Porch.
The other day Rudi Dog and I spent a little while sitting out on the porch wicker chairs, basking in some surprisingly warm afternoon sun. I haven’t taken the chair cushions out yet and gotten into the full porch-hanging mode, but soon…..
enjoying the warmth on the Urban Porch
We sat there and watched a flock of noisy crows perusing the neighborhood from high above. One sentinel crow remained perched on top of the Crow Tree on the corner, which still – amazingly and terrifyingly – remains standing. We will see if they will decide to return to roost here this year. I’m not sure if the presence or absence of their favorite lookout tree will have any bearing on that. Meanwhile, those giant maples continue to pose a danger to those who dare to walk below them. Parts of them have continued to beautifully leaf out annually, masking the situation – like wolves in sheep’s clothing.
return of the crows
Our nocturnal visitor, the mostly-white-on-top skunk, has made a surprising appearance in daylight. He/she frequently crosses the driveway, going back and forth from the fence along the carport, disappearing beneath the cars, then heads into the shade garden. It does not linger, but rather quickly surveys the area and then goes back to wherever it came from. I’m not sure what it is that the skunk is looking for or finding out there, but that appears to be the pattern. I am always happy to see it and wonder if there will be any kits following it around this spring.
a daytime visit
From my bedroom window I can look down to see the bright vermillion bodies of my next door neighbor’s koi fish, as they arise from the bottom of the pond after their winter hibernation. Little dashes of orange joy.
welcome back Koi!
Speaking of emerging, I had mentioned in my last post that while visiting family in the southwest, even though there were signs indicating them, I didn’t see any rattlesnakes.
But shortly after leaving there, with the days warming up, one did appear in their garden wall. Whoa! A rather cool, up-close sighting. Since things are emerging all over, I thought I might mention it. You have to figure where there is one, there are probably more, since snakes do like to hang out in stone walls. Fun fact – Roadrunner birds eat rattlesnakes!
Diamondback Rattlesnake in the garden – photo by Mike S.
We have timber rattlesnakes in the woods and higher elevations here, but the ones dwelling in my yard have just been small garter snakes. Although not as dramatic a sighting, the garter snakes will do some posturing and put on a little show if they feel threatened. I expect they should be making an appearance around the house and garden as the days continue to gain heat.
I am currently coming off the high of southwestern fare – chile rellenos, enchiladas, green chile sauce. To switch gears, celebrate the fresh new season and get back into the groove at home, I made some very delicious shrimp scampi, a colorful spinach salad, and chocolate mousse for dessert (made with rum and espresso, which is way yummy….but I think it might have contributed to keeping me up too late at night!). Actually, I have been on a bit of a scampi kick lately…….maybe once a week it’s been scampi. That, and repeating an asparagus/gnocchi dish. Of course, this goes hand-in-hand with being on an eggroll binge, which I am continuing to indulge in. This new season probably deserves the exploration of some new recipes and maybe some new ingredients. We will see….
While walking the dog along the sidewalk yesterday, it was lovely to say hello to some of the neighbors emerging from their homes, out on their own porches, enjoying the nice weather. Everything arising…..
If you asked my children or siblings, they might tell you that I have a song for just about everything. Words on a street sign, an incident, a phrase, a photo, and suddenly a song pops into my head. Sometimes it is with the incorrect words, or even just the tune, but there it is, just waiting to spontaneously burst out….these days not always in key. If I don’t have a song, I might make one up on the spot. There is probably a name (or diagnosis!) for it. Perhaps they should just be called “earworms”, as that is what they often become.
Given this, flying into El Paso on the way to visit relatives automatically caused the song “El Paso” to pop up in my brain. The original was by Marty Robbins, but it is the Grateful Dead cover that has been playing repeatedly in my head. Over and over…..until we crossed into southern New Mexico, where the song abruptly changed to another Dead song, “Friend of the Devil.” The casa de la familia is in the high desert in Las Cruces. The vista out their back door is an impressive, unobstructed view of the Organ Mountains.
the back yard
While on this lifetime path, I have lived in the foothills of a few mountains, from east to west. Most have been spent around the time-worn, glacier carved, old man Catskills – verdant in spring and summer, aflame in autumn, deep blues in winter. I’ve also lived nestled on the side of the Siskiyous, facing the Cascades (supposedly the home of “Bigfoot”!), another time with a view of the San Bernadinos in the distance. Residing in a valley with a view of surrounding mountains, enjoying the play of their shadows and light, has always felt like The Right Place for me. Traveling through the different ranges, hiking them, camping in them, visiting friends who lived in them – just looking at them…..all has been the deepest of nourishing soul-food. Perhaps it is genetic. The Mountains.
light playing over the Organ Mountains
Each mountain range has its own unique power and magic. The rugged vastness of the Rockies. The great sleeping hush-puppies of the Sonoma Mountains. The cloud-like vision on the distant horizon of Mt. Rainier, Mt. Shasta, Mt. Hood. The enchantment of the Sangre de Cristos. It has been a life privilege to experience the gasp-inducing awe of the Alps, the sheer cliffs of the Dolomites, the snow-capped Syrian peaks of Mount Hermon (Jabal al-shaykh), to immerse in the Atlas Mountains of North Africa, the green hills of Chiang Rai, to name just a few. And so now, the Organ Mountains.
dawn over the Organs
The Organs – they are dramatic spires of ever-changing moods, which shift almost minute to minute with the light. I could not help but keep running to the back door and patio, over and over again, to see the constant transformations as the clouds and sun affected the visuals.
sunset soaking the Organs
Meanwhile, the song playing in my head (one that continued for days, depending on the location) soon became “(Ghost) Riders in the Sky” – originally by Stan Jones. There are many, many covers of this – Johnny Cash /Willie Nelson and The Blues Brothers renditions being some of my favorites.
But my in-brain version actually kept flipping back to one my old, dear friend Lynne once sang as I watched her performing in a local bar way back in our youth. It’s her beautiful voice I mostly heard in my mind during hikes into the hills.
Yippee-I-aye Yippee-I-o Ghost riders in the sky
waiting for the sun – moments before sunrise
I will indulge my nerdy self for a moment and mention a few things of quick note about the Organ Mountains, aka La Sierra de los Órganos. These volcanic formations are east of Las Cruces, New Mexico and are bisected by Soledad Canyon. The cool-looking granite “needles” were formed about 34 million years ago and rise up in steep elevation from the base of the Chihuahuan Desert, with the highest peak reaching at almost 9000 feet. The area was inhabited by prehistoric animals, with evidence of humans found in the caves dating back 12,000 years. There are ancient petrographs in the caves. Paleo-Indians resided there over 7000 years ago; after that came the Apache, and then the Spanish conquistadors and settlers. It is said the mountains were named in 1598 by Spanish settlers who thought the spires looked like pipe organs. I also found a theory that the name is a corruption and evolution of the word “los orejones” (the dried apricots) and was in reference to the weathered faces of the native population. Looking at these mountains, I guess you could imagine either.
According to a White House Press Release, “In the 1800s, the Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks area was central to several battles among the Apaches, Spanish, Mexicans, and Americans, and between Union and Confederate troops. The first Civil War engagements in New Mexico were fought in the Organ Mountains when Confederate soldiers used Baylor Pass Trail to outflank Union soldiers.” President Barack Obama designated the Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks a national monument in 2014. Definitely a good save!
So those are the fast facts. But here is probably one of my favorite things to mention about these mountains (besides the visuals). In the movie The Wizard of Oz, the backdrop view from the window of the Wicked Witch’s castle is of the Organ Mountains. The City of Oz supposedly lies on the other side of them. I’ve been to the backside of the mountain, and while it’s not Oz, there was an iridescent rainbow cloud happening. That will suffice!
Not Oz, but pretty nice……
In the movie you can see the spires rising ominously in the background during the scene where The Wicked Witch of the West is sending out her flying monkeys to do her bidding. I kind of love that.
“Now fly! Fly! FLY!”
The desert below provided some nice bird sightings. Aside from the house finches, house sparrows and white-winged doves, there were hawks and hummingbirds. I was pretty excited about a tight flock of Gambel’s Quail scurrying by (they scurry in the cutest sort of way), their forward-facing crests bobbing like exclamation marks, their squawking calls punctuating the air. There was the tweet of the Canyon Towhee and the piercing “pyew-pyew-pyew” of a Pyrrhuloxia, which is a desert cardinal. I saw a Phainopepla, a kind of flycatcher, with its bright red eye and a white flash in its outspread wings. And Great-tailed Grackles with impressively long, glossy, fanning tails. My most favorite was a brief sighting of a Roadrunner (also known as a chapparal bird or ground cuckoo).
back yard Road Runner – photo by Mike S.
I did not encounter any rattlesnakes, although there were warning signs for them out and about. There was some scat on the trails that might have been from mule deer. Unfortunately, my somewhat compromised ears did not hear the coyotes calling at night – the only coyote I saw was a dead one on the highway. We have plenty here at home, but somehow coyotes seem to go hand in hand with the images of the southwest. I was glad not to step on the tiniest of geckos on the sidewalk.
The desert floor is covered in creosote bush, yucca, barrel and prickly pear cacti, agave, ocotillo plants, sotol, and desert spoons, among others. Some dotting the hillsides look like spikey-headed characters from a Dr. Seuss book. Up into the hills there were alligator junipers, oaks and ponderosa pines. Being just on the cusp of spring, I did not experience the flush of desert floor blooms, but there were ground clumps of the tiny yellow flowers of Zapata Bladderpod, and the fluffy white remnants of Creosote seeds clinging to the bushes. There are streams and waterfalls at about 6000ft, but I did not make it up that far.
Alligator Juniper
creosote bush
This mountain. One had to wonder about such rough landscape for the inhabitants of the past to navigate. These Organs have teeth. They are moody, perhaps a little bit foreboding. There is a solid strength, something “don’t mess with me” about them. They vibrate with their own unique energy. They have a raw power.
big power
photo by Andrea S.
Yippee-I-aye (Yippee-I-aye) Yippee-I-o (Yippee-I-o) Ghost riders in the sky
Lately I have been stumbling upon a number of articles relating to couples who have decided to sleep in separate beds and separate rooms. This morning I even read one about couples who keep separate houses – his, hers and theirs. I think that one might relate more to the “lifestyles of the rich and famous” though. I did have to wonder why now, all of a sudden, this seems to be trending.
Back when I was a kid, I had a friend whose parents had separate bedrooms. This seemed very weird to me. I thought there must have been something really wrong with her parents, some terrible reason that they did not want to be in the same bed, much less the same room. Up until then – I, and everybody else I knew – had parents who slept together. I surmised that her parents must have been very unhappy, or that they must not have liked each other very much. Although I didn’t really know much about them at all (aside from the fact they were both professionals who worked a lot), in my pre-adolescent mind I assumed that they most likely were going to get Divorced. However, my suppositions ended up being disproved…..her parents who slept in different rooms did not get divorced. My parents who shared a bed did. So much for that theory.
Sharing a bed with a partner had always been a given, not even questioned. You get into a marriage or a relationship with someone, you share a bed, end of story. I always loved being the “little spoon”, cozy and secure. So it has been a surprise in many ways that many years down the road and many years into a relationship, I eventually found myself having my own room. It was such a slowly evolving situation that I barely realized it was happening until it did.
spooning
Not unlike many couples who share a bed, there were a number of sleep-disturbing habits my partner had that I was tolerating. It never occurred to me that I didn’t have to, figuring that just comes with the territory. The supposed social stigma of not sharing a bedroom was such a show-stopper that I never even considered there were even such options, or at least healthy ones. So I put up with (or complained about) the fact he would sleep with the television on all night long – a constant, disturbing strobe that permeates even your closed eyelids and infiltrates your dreams. And his snoring. And that he would trash the bed by rolling up in the blankets like a burrito and steal all the covers. Our sleep times were not in sync either – he falls asleep earlier, then gets up in the middle of the night.
Meanwhile, he was not getting a good night’s sleep either. He was less than thrilled with my nightly hot/cold Hell Dance of Menopause, aka “covers flung off – covers pulled back on – covers flung off again”. That, and having to endure the little fan I insisted on blowing on me all night. It is very difficult to spoon with someone who is rapidly hot-flashing, and if you are the one hot-flashing, it becomes impossible to cuddle up next to someone for very long without suddenly roasting. There were other issues too; I like to sleep with a top sheet and he would rather not. I like lots of pillows on the bed (another subject for another post!). He doesn’t like the dog getting up on the bed and I don’t mind it. He also hated when I was on-call for my job (which was almost all the time) and my pager or phone would go off and wake him up. All that, plus I kept insisting the TV be turned off, because I couldn’t stand it.
So eventually he would get up in the middle of the night, go downstairs, fix himself a bowl of cereal and watch TV while sitting on the couch. That is where I would later find him, asleep in an upright position with his head tilted at a very uncomfortable angle, the remote still grasped tightly in his hand, which I would then gently try to slip out from his death-like grip; an image in my mind like sliding a syringe out of the arm of a passed out junkie. Then I would lead him back to bed. This was not a satisfactory arrangement. So we made him a “man cave” in the extra bedroom, put a daybed and a television in it. This way, at least when he got up to watch TV he could lie down more comfortably. But he did not find the daybed very comfortable at all. So we put another, larger bed in there, making it both a man cave and a guest room. He did not find that very comfortable either.
a cave for him
Many years ago I wrote about my experience of guys suddenly going on a mission to procure a bed (see Soporific). True to form, one day he unilaterally went out and bought himself a fancy remote control queen-size bed for the man cave – a bed that can go into an upright sitting position like a giant chair fit for a TV-watching king. The bottom end of it adjusts too, so it can bend beneath your knees. Then he went out and got a giant TV screen and surround speakers and mounted them to the wall. So once he woke up from our mutual bed and went into the man cave to watch TV, he was perfectly, comfortably situated…. and stayed there the rest of the night.
At first I felt a strange twinge of “wrongness” about this. It wasn’t quite a feeling of abandonment, but I kept thinking that this wasn’t “supposed to” happen, that it meant something was not right if you are not sleeping in the same bed as your significant other. What did it portend? And what would people think? There was (or apparently used to be, until recently it seems) a social stigma attached to couples who didn’t sleep in the same bed. But the strange thing about it was, I had to admit I was actually liking the bliss of being able to sleep soundly without the relentless flashing TV lights, without the snoring, with the fan on, not worrying that he would get annoyed when I once again flipped off the covers during a hot-flash. That I wasn’t having to fight for blankets all night or rolling over his plethora of remotes. That I could turn on the light and read as long as I wanted without bothering anyone, or even to make a phone call while comfortably sitting in bed, if I felt like it. I started keeping things I enjoyed around me in my room and it began to feel more and more like a cozy nest.
a nest for her
He was still coming into my space in the morning to get things out of his drawers and get dressed though. One day I just decided to drag his dresser and all his clothes into the man cave, so they were right there with his giant TV and fancy bed for his convenience. And that was that. By increments, the transition was complete. Yes, I am surprised. But I have to say, I am really enjoying it – and so is he.
We still visit back and forth regularly during the week. Sometimes I start out the night there, and even fall asleep in there for a little while. But I always wake up now and go back to my own space. He comes to visit me too, but then goes back to his space to sleep. It helps that there was an extra room in this house that made having one’s own room even possible. I think if it was necessary to go back to sharing a bed full time, it might be a bit difficult to adjust to again.
He sleeps in his messy bed with all his remotes.
His
And I sleep in my tidy bed with all my pillows and the dog.
Hers
It has been interesting that once I decided the hell with anyone else’s opinions, I started to discover that some other couples I know also have separate sleeping rooms but didn’t really talk about it. Most of the ones I know are seniors, but not all of them. Some of the single people I know also have stated that at this juncture in life, they would most likely find it difficult to share a bed full time with another person. Of the older couples I know that do share a bed, some of them have king size beds, which gives them adequate space. Some of those beds even have independent remotes for individual firmness and angle adjustments. A bed that large would never fit in any of the rooms here. And even then, there would still be the other issues. Of course, most of my friends and family still share a bed with their significant other and can’t ever imagine it any other way. I used to feel exactly that way too, but not any more. It seems you never know how things in life are going to evolve. At this point, my motto is “whatever works”.
The happenings surrounding the Urban Porch over the last week have been laced with a series of incidents that have been both mildly and somewhat greatly dramatic. A few days ago I was out with the dog for his final walk of the night, when sounds of a loud, terrible screaming and screeching began. Before I could locate what direction it was coming from, two very huge raccoons came barreling by me at high speed, shooting out from the piled up garbage at the side of a house where some of The Horrible Neighbors reside. They raced closely by where we were standing, stopped, and began to viciously fight before breaking apart, then ran out into the street and resumed the screaming battle right in front of us. In the meantime, I went running with my little dog in tow in order to get away and into my house as quickly as possible. This was not anything you wanted to be anywhere near. Having never seen a live racoon fight before, I wondered if it was a larger territorial thing or if they were just fighting over the pizza boxes and other assorted garbage in the neighbor’s overfilled and open pails.
Once safely inside, I watched from the door as they attacked each other in the middle of the street, the first chasing the second a couple of yards more, then the second turning around and battling it out again with the first. Eventually they vanished into the dark somewhere. It was both exciting and a bit unnerving, and oddly, I experienced a weird sense of foreboding concerning “altercations”.
The second dramatic incident has involved The Crow Tree. I have mentioned the Crow Tree before in these posts. There are two massive, actively dying maples on the corner, whose bare pinnacles have been providing viewing perches and gathering areas for the crows, starlings and a few hawks. The bark on these trees has sloughed off. Very large boughs have been dangerously crashing down over the last year or so. Because of this, I have stopped walking near it.
The property where these trees stand changed hands sometime last year. The new owner clearly has invested a great deal of time and money into restoration of the old Victorian on the property – upgrading both the inside and outside of the house. There is a new roof, new siding, stairs, railings, windows. A lovely outside paint job with carefully chosen and tasteful colors and a rather cool star window at the top that glows at night. They have been fixing up the apartments on the inside too, all of this, I imagine, as part of the gentrification situation that has been going on in these parts. Given that, it absolutely boggles me that there are two towering, pretty much dead trees that actively drop large portions from very high above – any one of which could easily wipe out the costly work that has been put into this house. This is not to mention that any one of those boughs could kill a person who happened to be walking near it. And yet, the work has continued on the house while the trees remain standing.
It was windy the last few days. It didn’t take too many gusts to cause another large bough to break and fall – this time it came crashing down through the back window of a car parked on the street. Luckily, the owner of the car was not in it or near it when it happened. She might have been killed. A police car arrived and a couple of highway workers were out there cleaning up the debris. The workers cleared up the glass and branches quickly, while they kept anxiously looking up, worrying that something might drop down on them. That was days ago. And yet, the owner has not brought anyone out to take down those trees, leaving them to continue being a dangerous situation for anyone who lives around here or might walk there unaware. This should be done immediately, and in the meantime, the area should be taped off. When the tornado came through here, people on the street had the tree crews here within hours. When we discovered our Linden was imminently dangerous, we had someone come the very same day. What are they waiting for? I don’t get it, I really don’t.
the bough took out the back window
Okay, so here comes the longish rant. The last situation of the week, and definitely the worst, concerns The Most Horrible Neighbors. It is a long and frustrating story concerning how our street and the one behind it has had to suffer them. The house is owned by an absentee landlord from down in The City. Supposedly he won it in a poker game many years ago….I am not sure if that is actually true, although it does make the history a bit more colorful. Over the years he has rented it out to a number of mostly very unpleasant tenants. Because the landlord doesn’t live up here and doesn’t have to be exposed to what has been going on in his house, it seemed as long as he continued to receive his rent he really wasn’t all too concerned about what anyone else had to endure. So first there were the crack dealers and their friends. This was an uncomfortable situation. They must have been on the police radar though, because eventually the main players were arrested and everyone associated with them moved out.
After that was a nice family – his, hers and theirs. Friendly, pleasant. One day we discovered they were gone too – they had been evicted, apparently having gotten behind on their rent. We were very sorry to learn this, and in hindsight, I bet the landlord wishes he had given them more of a break.
So the next set moved in. Had the landlord done his homework, he would have discovered the people he rented to next were actually on a “do not rent list” of seriously undesirable tenants with a long history of bad behavior. Inevitably, there was some trouble with this next guy he rented to, at which point he asked us to let him know what was going on there, so periodically we would update him. This troublesome guy was finally asked to leave, but not before he brought in one of his friends to live there with him.
This guy who piggy-backed in and ended up taking over the house is a drunken, loud-mouthed toad who holds court from his office chair on the front porch, loudly cackling and croaking, drinking and smoking from early morning until night. He began bringing in a revolving door of friends and sub-letters who he charges to make money off of. Because the landlord was getting his rent paid and never came up to see for himself what was going on, he didn’t seem to care that they have been running an illegal boarding house. So for about the last ten years the neighborhood has been subjected to their noise, filth, loose animals and constant stream of temporary – and sometimes criminal – boarders. Police cars and ambulances are a regular event there. Loud altercations. It has been rather awful.
As he requested, we continued to let the owner know what was happening, but eventually – probably because he was getting the rent and just didn’t want to hear about it anymore – he not only stopped listening to us but he let the Horrible Tenant know what we had said. You can imagine what a betrayal that was and how it set the stage for hostilities going forward. At that point, no further contact was made with the landlord again. Meanwhile, other neighbors continued to call the landlord to tell him what was going on with his tenants and he would just hang up on them.
So the situation kept on, and on……and on. The house behind them has been a lovely Bed & Breakfast for years. The owner’s business became seriously compromised because her windows looked down on their dirty yard and garbage, the discarded mattresses, broken furniture, bare muddy ground. Her property had been invaded by their many free-roaming cats, her guests had to hear their ongoing loud noise. Her repeated complaints to the city government yielded no relief and only caused The Drunken Toad to badmouth and hatefully rant about her. The woman who lives across the street from them chats with them and acts like she is their friend to their faces, then secretly shares that she is pretty uncomfortable, actually afraid of them, and wishes they would leave. People up and down the block can’t stand them and dislike walking past that house.
Some of the nicer temporary sub-letters who rented from The Toad (there were a few) realized their mistake and didn’t stay long. Upon leaving they have shared that it was too crazy and too volatile to live there. Some of them only stayed a few weeks. One of them, a man I didn’t know at all but only recognized from sight, actually approached me in the supermarket one day and said, “Are you the lady who is the neighbor? I want you to know, I’m not like them.” He indicated it was awful there and that “They will take anyone’s money”. He also indicated that The Toad has been saying hateful things about me. I actually felt sorry for him, that he had to be in a position to live in a situation like that.
Things probably would have kept on in this way, except one day their then-recently adopted dog (who happened to be a pit bull) chased a woman who was walking her dog down the street and (from what we were told by another neighbor) she was so badly frightened that she got a lawyer and threatened to sue the landlord. So the landlord told The Drunken Toad he had to get rid of the dog or move. The Toad opted to get rid of the dog.
This situation was sad, but inevitable. It is not the dog’s fault, it is the bad owners fault. Worse in a way, because irresponsible dog owners are part of what gives pit bulls a bad reputation. The dog seemed to be an OK dog, and had he kept it on a leash while out in the street, I can’t imagine why there would have ever been an issue. It’s a shame its owner continued to be a disrespectful jerk.
Previous to this incident with the woman, I had gotten into a dispute with the Drunken Toad when his large, loose dog had come charging up onto my porch chasing after my very small dog – twice. Each time I asked him to please leash the dog and each time he totally ignored me, stumbling onto my porch and dragging his dog away by the skin on her neck and back. It was only a matter of time until something happened due to his negligence. I’m glad the other woman and her dog were only frightened and not hurt. Unfortunately, The Toad has it stuck in his besotted brain that I am the one that turned him in to his landlord – even though I had not been in touch with his landlord for many years at this point, and had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. Needless to say, I have totally avoided him.
One day The Toad actually came charging out into the road as I was walking down the sidewalk with my dog, screamed in my face and accused me of “reporting” him, yelling “I KNOW it was you!!!!” It has been extremely unnerving having to be the target of this angry drunk’s delusions. Meanwhile, The Toad has continued to take money from his ever-changing boarders, yet apparently was very behind on his rent. I guess between the potential for a lawsuit from that lady, and now not getting his rent, the landlord must have finally decided to evict them. The Toad has chosen to blame me for the reason.
But then Covid hit. Despite being served multiple eviction notices, nothing happened. Between the free legal aid lawyer they procured and the attitude of this Very Woke City we reside in that tends to demonize even the good landlords and to protect any kind of tenant, regardless of the situation, they have been able to keep staying. The incredible part is that for the last three years they have not paid any rent… and he continues to collect money from any boarders they can get. The landlord has been wanting to sell his house, yet he can’t even do that because he can’t get rid of them. Perhaps it is some just retribution this landlord deserves after the ten years of hell our neighborhood has had to endure due to his disregard…. but somehow I still can’t help but feel sorry for him.
The problem with horrible tenants is that they cost landlords a great deal of money, not only in unpaid rent, but the price of repairing damaged property, the labor of removing their garbage left behind, the legal and court fees spent trying to get them out, the time devoted to dealing with it, the physical and emotional toll. The multiple police and ambulance calls put strain and cost on our municipal services too. Because of this, the price of these expenses inevitably gets passed on to all the other good and responsible renters in the community. I am sharing this opinion, actually a fact, which has been told to me by a very good landlord who has, like many around here, unfortunately experienced this all too many times.
So – a couple of days ago I am pulling out of my driveway on my way to an appointment. The loudly croaking Toad and friends are out on the porch, as usual. As I drove past their house, I glanced over to look at a somewhat cute little white dog who is sitting on the porch steps, when suddenly The Toad starts violently screaming at me and giving me the finger. I had no idea why, and honestly it kind of freaked me out.
Later on that afternoon, while out walking the dog on the other side of the street in the other direction, he once again started screaming and cursing at me. It was extremely unnerving, and suddenly I reflected back on the fighting, screaming raccoons. It’s odd how these premonitions can be. At that point, I waffled between calling the police, maybe looking in to getting a restraining order against this nut, or calling his landlord after all these years, to see if he might know what is going on. I was no fan of the landlord, but opted to call him first.
He tells us The Toad, his wife, friends and boarders are all being evicted in the next three days. Which perhaps explains why the guy was cursing and screaming at me – because in his disturbed mind he still wants to believe I had reported him to his landlord years ago (which I hadn’t), causing his eventual eviction years later. Not the fact that he hasn’t paid rent, is running an illegal boarding house, has kept the place like a pig sty, and is loathed by everyone.
The day of the scheduled eviction, two sheriff’s cars showed up, along with a couple of carloads of guys who are supposedly there to empty the contents of the house to the curb. There is another guy standing there in front of the house with a bullhorn. This group stood outside for about an hour, but then suddenly all of them packed up and left. Due to some clerical technicality, The Horrible Tenants are still in the house, although there was a small U-Haul there, so perhaps they are packing up to leave. We hear the eviction crew might be returning this week. I have a vision of all the neighbors lining the streets, holding New Year’s Eve noise-makers, cheering loudly as they finally vacate and drive away. In the meantime, until this really happens, it has been like living in some kind of Suspended Animation.
Having been on both sides of the situation, my feelings regarding gentrification have always been rather mixed. In this case, on this street, gentrification has mostly been a good thing – as far as quality of life goes for everyone else who lives around here, for the people who have worked hard to own and maintain their home or are responsibly paying rent and being good neighbors. I do hope the place is sold to someone who is going to invest money into repairing a turn of the century house with good bones, which will hopefully be owner occupied. If this happens, The Urban Porch is going to be a much more pleasant place to hang out on this summer.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes
– Alfred Lord Tennyson
When is the last time you cried? And why? Recently – with obvious cause – photos on the news of the most recent earthquake disaster in Syria and Turkey have brought them forth; the gut-wrenching image of a newborn baby with umbilical cord still attached being pulled alive from the rubble – the children, the families, the animals, and the overwhelming grief of loss has caused psychic waves throughout the world that are are impossible to ignore. I think even those who do not acknowledge it still feel it, perhaps some strange ache hovering on the perimeters of our minds, something rattling around the chambers of our hearts that is undefinable. It makes us feel small, and helpless. Donating to an organization providing aid, hoping so strongly that our own vibrations of caring we manifest would somehow find their way back to that source, our tears – it feels inadequate, but the best one can do from here. For me, it became necessary to finally stop watching. In a strange and personal way, this latest of world disasters seemed to become the baseline of a small mini-drama of distraction that played out here the last couple of weeks and days. It’s about a dog.
Emails and updates from our local SPCA and other pet adoption groups find their way daily into my inbox and social media feeds. I am not especially in want of another dog. The one I have is more that sufficient and checks off all the dog/human love, interaction, companionship and emotional support boxes that I need. And yet I find myself scrolling through photos of adoptable dogs regularly; as a friend put it, not unlike swiping through prospective Tinder dates. It’s funny, but on some level I almost feel like I am cheating on my own dog when I do that! But I look anyway. Just looking…… And so it happened that recently I came across a picture of this little guy.
the face I can’t look away from
He’s tiny – all of seven pounds – and cute, with a small body and appealing little face that would probably find him an instant home. But reading between the descriptive lines I found there was more to the story here that stopped me and held my gaze on his page. He’s a senior dog, estimated to be about twelve years old. He has some of the usual senior health problems that occur around that age, but in addition it was evident from the full picture that his back legs don’t work. He’s in a little diaper and can only walk on his front legs and drag himself around (somewhat spryly). At twelve years old I surmised maybe his owner had passed away and sadly left him behind, but upon inquiry discovered that he was a “stray” – which essentially means this little old man at this age and condition probably was not lost, but rather dumped somewhere. He was abandoned.
This pushed all of my buttons big time. I could not stop thinking “What’s wrong with people?” I could not stop looking at his eyes and his photos, which continued to bring forth tears. Click on the photo, cry. Look at photo again, cry. Save the photo, look at it, cry. This kept me up at night. I would wake up, bring up the photo of the dog, look at it yet again and feel my throat constrict. This happened to me about nine years ago, when I came across a picture on an adoption website of the dog I currently own. I could not look away then either. It was a different energy, but the inexplicable magnetism was somewhat the same. Uh-oh….
I sent his photo to my kids and to a few of my friends, “What do you think?” They told me pretty much what they thought, which was pretty much the same responses – “Awwwww” and “Do you want to take this on right now?” I wasn’t sure, but I just could not bear the thought of this abandoned little old dog needing a home. So many of these dog photos appeal to the heart, but there was some sort of connective energy coming off these pictures that kept drawing me back, creating this massive urge to go there and just sit with this tiny old man on my lap for a while. And so, despite not wanting or needing to take on another dog, and one that would require a lot more care and probably expense that would happen sooner rather than later, I contacted the shelter…..just to inquire.
They told me so far he had been seen and rejected by a number of prospective adopters (I’m just guessing because of the level of care they discovered he would require) and that he probably would be sticking around for a while. I did not have any doubts about my own ability to take care of the dog and his needs, emotionally or physically. I know I could do that. My daughter has a dog with a spinal injury who is a wheelie, so this is not a strange situation. I also know that it would definitely mean some adjustments to both the physical layout inside the home and perhaps put constraints on my own (social) mobility, and possibly alter the dynamics with my current dog. It also would require some agreement and cooperation from others in the family, who sometimes provide sitting and care for the dog I already have. Would they be willing to be involved in taking on another when necessary?
Once upon a time you could just go to the shelter and visit the dogs, but apparently that proved to be a bit stressful on the animals and staff alike, so it requires an appointment. And you can’t make an appointment unless you fill out an application first. The person I was in touch with urged me to do just that, stressing there was “no obligation.” So I did….and next thing you know, I am being interviewed and have an appointment set up to see this dog. For this appointment I am asked to bring along my current dog for a meet-up to determine if they get along…and also to bring my credit card. Suddenly things seemed to be moving along a bit fast….
Part of me kept thinking “What are you doing? This is crazy”. They informed me that there were three meetings ahead of mine (which I guess was a good thing for the dog’s prospects) and that if he got adopted before they got to me, they would let me know. I figured if I actually met the dog I would know in my heart what the next move would be. Since they said “no obligation” I could always decline and walk away if I wanted to. If I could. My appointment was for this morning.
Late yesterday afternoon I received a phone call telling me this little old man had been adopted. The people he went home with were absolutely the perfect people for him. I felt myself flooded with relief. I was so happy for him, and for them, and so grateful that there are kind and caring people out there who will love him, make him family and give him a good life for the rest of his time. The other part of the relief is that I no longer had to make a decision, because I very well might have walked out of there holding a grumbly little old dog in a diaper with floppy back legs tight in my arms. Or left bearing terrible guilt if I couldn’t. I would have given him love…but I am sure he really just won the lottery with his new owners. I went back to look at the updated picture of him that the shelter posted celebrating his adoption – this time in the caring arms of his newly adoptive owners. And that made me cry too. (I cropped out the photos of the owners, the shelter and dog’s name for privacy).
going to his forever home
I still don’t know why this hit me so hard. What tears are these, when there are so many tear-worthy situations abounding? Giving it some deep thought, it could be a small focus or distraction away from the larger areas of grief in the world that are too big to hold. Or it occurred to me that it might be something way more personal; that perhaps my connection to this potentially “disposable” old dog is a bit more intimate; the fact that I, too, am considered a “senior” – a senior who has and will continue to experience health issues, in a country and world where elders are increasingly discounted, marginalized and disrespected, and often forgotten.
Due to the happy ending, I very well might have ended up dodging an emotional bullet this morning. However, they let me know they would be holding on to my application in case I might be interested in one of their upcoming dogs in the near future. Maybe I should stop looking at these sites for just a little while though….
It’s been a little freaky having northeast February days hovering around fifty degrees, but I admit it has been nice to get outside in it, even though this weather is most likely global warming right smack in our faces. I suspect it might also a bit of a tease, just hinting at spring before snatching that taste away again and burying us under a couple of feet of snow. It wouldn’t be the first time. We will see. In the meantime, I enjoyed today sitting out on The Urban Porch watching the world go by in just a sweatshirt, eating lemon humus and pita bread, followed by some chocolate, Rudi lying at my feet in a patch of sun.
Every year a meme shows up on the internet depicting The Twelve Seasons, which makes me laugh…. because it’s true for the most part. I am assuming we are having a Fool’s Spring at the moment:
The Twelve Seasons of the Northeast
We get a dusting of snow, then it’s warms up, over and over. If this keeps up, things will most likely begin sprouting out of the ground too early again; bulbs sending out little spears towards the sun, tiny fists of buds appearing on the tips of branches. It makes you want to yell “Wait! Too Soon! Not yet! Go back!!!!” A few years ago the magnolia trees started to bloom too soon and were taken out with a heavy frost that put an end to their blossoms before they fully got going. The magnolias always put on such a beautiful show, so that was a pretty big disappointment to whose who care about such things.
Even with more comfortable temps, the ground is still cold, areas of snow still blanketing the woods, ice coating the ponds, mud and puddles stretching along the trails. It’s been a time of quiet observation. Paws on the front steps, traces and tracks, the prints of winter here and there.
little paws out for a walk
While walking in the woods I came across what appears to have been a dance of many turkeys.
turkey dance
Interesting reflections and patterns adorn the ice on the ponds.
Little dogs low to the ground get muddy on the trail!
muddy boys
The resident skunk with its reverse pattern of mostly white fur continues to visit the back yard nightly, crossing the driveway from behind the barn to under the cars and then back. There is a second one that is the negative pattern of this one, but so far I haven’t caught a good photo capture of it.
night visitor
With amusement I will share that my car window was bombed with a massive valentine a few days ago. I wondered if it was one of the vultures that seem to be hanging around the neighborhood lately. Or perhaps a message from one of my crow friends, letting me know they are still around. It was pretty impressive. And (surprisingly) it didn’t entirely come off in the car wash, so I am still driving around with this big bird advertisement. I don’t really care if it’s there, whatever that might say about my state of mind these days….
happy valentine’s day from your local avian friends
That about wraps up thoughts on this warmish winter day. I’m not putting away my boots just yet…..
At the beginning of this past weekend, the temperatures plummeted into the “I’m not going anywhere unless I really have to” zone, with wind chills of minus forty degrees fahrenheit (-40F). While this time could have been spent baking or inventing new meals, cleaning or starting a new project, instead it was spent watching strange television series, curled up on my bed or couch under a quilt reading library books, and tooling around the internet…..which is where I stumbled upon a group site for people like me who appreciate clouds. Yes, that’s me, big time! I was so excited that for the last few days I have spent a significant amount of the day and evening just admiring and going gaga over other people’s cloud pictures… and then sharing a few of my own.
From my Urban Porch – layers behind layers, like revealing secrets
If anyone ever had the opportunity to scroll through the thousands of photos on my phone or computer, they would find that (along with a few hundred photos of my dog) there are a significant number of photos of cloud-filled skies. My eyes are constantly drawn upwards toward the often curious configurations or dramatic majesty.
a giant squirrel on the horizon – Nokomis, FL
Clouds building up on the horizon behind a mountain, peeking behind buildings and over tree lines, billowing from a distance far ahead on the freeways or over bridges, stringing out above and along a river. Topside, as if in heaven, looking down from a plane. They often dominate the picture frame surrounding monuments and tourist attractions, unintentionally becoming the focus. Exciting and dreamy, they fill my head with wonder and heart with magic.
A fantasy land somewhere above central-western US
As children, many of us have probably sprawled out on the grass on a summer day and watched the clouds as they moved across the sky above, wonderingif the clouds were moving or if we were actually feeling the earth rotate as we lay there. Even now, who can’t help but notice the image of a whale, bunny, dragon, face or heart in the sky? The excitement of thunderheads building, the shifting and darkening before the storm, then letting go as a gray curtain of rain moves toward you from afar.
storm approaching while driving on a New Mexico highway – it was some serious rain
How wonderous is the cloud iridescence that produces a rainbow of refracted light! Or the eerie finger of a potential cyclone poking from the skies, then retracting, then once again threatening to touch down. A blanket of solid gray on an autumn afternoon, the late day sun lighting up the gold from the trees to create a beautiful contrast. The scattered, glorious glow at sunrise and the grandeur of the palette at sunset.
The contrast of moody skies and late autumn afternoon sunlight on my street
Many of my cloud photos have small background stories that keep them fixed in memory. One of the most unforgettable – I had just come out of a store and gotten into my car to head home, when I received a phone call that a friend – who was more like a brother – had suddenly and unexpectedly died. While I sat in the parked car in a daze taking the call, suddenly the sky blackened and a wall of massive, dark clouds rose rapidly on the horizon. A violent, terrifying storm ensued, complete with crashing thunder, forks of lightning and rain so loud and intense that you could not see a foot in front of you, making it impossible to drive. So I sat there encapsulated in my car, trapped in the surrealness of it as the storm seemed to encompass all of the emotions…..sat there until the rain slowed enough that I could see to drive home. When the rain finally stopped, I took the dog out for a walk. The puddles were reflecting the fresh, clearing sky and the glow lit up everything all around me. It was incredibly moving and beautiful. I looked up and sent out this thought, “If there is such a thing, then I know you are somewhere good”.
Following a wild, torrential and terrifying downpour, on the day one of my dearest friends suddenly passed away
Many interesting clouds are noticed while walking the dog right out on the street. Because the houses are close in the neighborhood, sometimes I have to walk a little ways to see the horizon. It’s always a bit of a challenge trying to take photos while the dog leash is attached to my wrist. Inevitably, just as I am about to take the shot, he will pull towards something that interests him and jiggle my hand. So I have a lot of blurry cloud photos, especially the ones taken at night. This one was as the full super moon was rising in the east. I made him “sit” and “stay” for this picture!
I was out walking the dog as the super moon was rising
Since there is a burgeoning amount of cloud pics taking up valuable real estate on my devices, I thought sharing a few of my own with the group would be a good way to revisit them. And that maybe I might delete them afterward (so far I haven’t been able to though…) This one that I took in Ireland apparently has generated a lot of attention and humor, giving rise to some witty and pretty hysterical comments.
Rising over Tipperary, Ireland – this photo has generated some funny comments. I could not look away, it was quite spectacular
While a big fan of cumulous clouds and the building cumulonimbus, the stratus, cirrus, and every combination find equal appreciation.
Sometimes there are small wonders in the foggy skies too. After being up all night to witness the birth of a grandchild, I was driving home when this little dash of rainbow appeared. The colors were a lot deeper – by the time I pulled over and took the picture, most of it had faded, but it perfectly embodied the emotions of that moment.
After being present for the birth of a grandchild, this appeared in the sky, perfectly reflecting the emotions
We inhabit such a beautiful, wonderous jewel. Looking up to the clouds is a constant reminder, a natural, free gift. To me, this is religion.
My children don’t read my blog. Once upon a time, perhaps about a decade ago, one of them would occasionally weigh in with a funny comment, but overall it is apparent they have little interest. I’m pretty sure they rarely, if ever, check in. They are not followers and they don’t subscribe, even though they have said multiple times “Oh yeah, I should do that”. When I asked them why they don’t read it, I was told “We talk to you so often so we already know all these stories” This is true, and yet I have mixed feelings about this. Perhaps I am already transparent enough when I speak to them (quite frequently), which transcends sharing my thought processes, trials and tribulations in writing, making it all redundant. Perhaps I am just an “old person” whose opinions and experiences they don’t relate to, not pertinent to their lives or their generation. Or the writing just isn’t grabbing them. Or, well, it’s Mom, you know…..
I’m not exactly hurt by this, although I will say their disinterest it is a little disappointing. Once upon a time I was them, in a similar situation with my own mother, who was a talented, yet insecure artist. Many moons ago she arrived for a visit and brought along her portfolio to share. I can remember both her excitement and shyness, as she tentatively lifted each piece of work in pastel, charcoal, pencil or oil and laid them out on the bed, her face hopefully searching mine, seeking opinion and approval. It was a lovely portfolio of work. I admired each one, but in retrospect, I realize I should have discussed them more with her; perhaps I did not gush enough (much of it was certainly gush-worthy), did not process the pieces with her enough. Too late did I realize she really did want and respect my opinion. That she actually needed to hear a little bit more from me, and she deserved to. Only after her passing, when we actually were gathering and sorting her possessions and portfolios filled with her work, did I realize some of the beauty I had in my hands, and how much I wish I had talked to her more about it.
one of my mom’s pastels
In addition to her paintings and sketches, there was a volume of writing (journals, poems) which she methodically put through the shredder when she realized she had a terminal illness. There were only a few pages left behind; thoughtful snippets of wishes and joys, which showed a small glimpse of her feelings and soul within. I can understand why she probably destroyed her diaries, which, no doubt, contained some deeply personal and painful times. Probably some of it might have been hurtful and not very nice – not something she would have wanted to leave behind. I’ve run some of my own darkest writings into the shredder myself. It’s understandable, and yet in some way I wish I had known those other deep parts of her too, in her own words… other facets of her, the woman that went beyond my view of her as “Mommy, Mom, Ma”.
Looking at social media lately feels pretty much like reading the daily obituaries. As one of my friends said, people our age are “in the zone”, which is a rather sobering reality. Day after day it seems there is yet another former classmate, a friend, a coworker, a past relationship, an old connection, or one of the many famous musicians, artists, writers and actors who lit up and inspired our generation. Some of us might keep going for a long while, but essentially people of my age are heading into our Winter. It can be a very long winter, so I’m not trying to sound too somber as much as just realistic – we are at that place on The Wheel.
My mother saved our artwork, our report cards, our essays and book reports. I have mostly done the same for my own children and see my daughters are doing the same for their own kids too. It doesn’t flow as often in reverse, which I suppose is the nature of things. Given my own regrets and sadness over a lapsed moment of opportunity to further connect and appreciate my own mother, it is my wish that my children will not ever feel that similar level of sorrow. Of course, perhaps I am just projecting and they would not experience the same sentiments anyway. You can’t expect people to respond or feel a certain way just because you do, and you can’t shield your children from so many of the unexpected and sometimes painful realities of life. The “what-ifs” and “if-I-had-onlies” that occur might not be the same “I-wish-I-hads” for them.
By the way, in case you are wondering, this is not intended to be a “guilt post” of artful manipulation. It has actually been sitting in my draft file since 2016 and I happened to pull it up today and thought to complete it, as it still stands as it did then. Chances are they won’t see it, and if they do, we talk so frequently and so honestly that they are correct in saying there is nothing stated here that they have not heard in person. All said, I am glad that my sister has started to compile and print up some of these writings that will someday be left for my daughters, which – if they chose to – will enable them to someday sit down with the books, get a few laughs and hear some stories in their mother’s voice long after this blog is gone and deleted. As for the journals that are stashed around the house that will never make it onto this page….well, I will have to think about those.
“Socks of the Day” was inadvertently born during the early days of the pandemic – that time of fear and uncertainty, when the roads and neighborhoods were suddenly empty of traffic and life, people scurrying to opposite sides of the street in order to avoid each other. The news we were glued to was filled with grimness and foreboding. Toilet paper, alcohol and cleaning supplies were being hoarded. We became shut-ins, or at least as shut-in as we were able to. Any redirection from this great heaviness seemed a welcome distraction.
And so it happened that one afternoon, as I was lying on the couch (which I had dubbed “The Sun Couch” due to the bliss of taking a nap on it while late day sun streamed through the window to warm it), I glanced at my rainbow octopus sock-covered feet resting upon a Hmong fabric couch pillow, and found simple enjoyment in the color and art of it. I took a photo. I posted it on my social media. It seemed to generate some welcome feedback.
“Rainbow Octopus” on Hmong pillow
Before continuing, I will share here that I have many pairs of socks. Knowing my penchant for “stuff”, this might not surprise many. But the reason for this is pretty simple. When each of your children, your siblings and your friends all happen to gift you a pair of socks for your birthday or Mother’s Day or Christmas, year after year, they accumulate pretty fast and easily. I acknowledge that I enjoy buying a fun pair of socks for myself every once in a while if I see them. This might occur when I am buying a pair for someone else and get one for me too. Add in the fact that I keep things for years. This has allowed for a burgeoning drawer full.
a drawer full of socks
After such a positive response to the octopus socks, I decided to also photograph the pair I was wearing on he following day. They happened to be butterfly socks. As soon as I put them on, I knew these butterflies wanted to be resting on the turquoise and pink cover on the bed in my sewing room. So I walked in there, took a photo and posted it on my timeline again. It provided an odd, if minute, source of fun for a few friends; an easy, silly relief. Thus “Socks of the Day” was officially born.
Socks of he Day -“Butterflies in turquoise”
I could fill pages of this blog with my Socks of the Day. If anyone was really interested, I supposed they could be released in a few in different posts. Some of the ones that attracted the most attention were not necessarily my favorites – as a matter of fact, some of my top preferences elicited barely a response at all. While revealing all the socks, I discovered some of the coolest ones had also been the most worn. They had holes in the heels or toes – they really needed to be discarded. It would have been interesting to see if some kind of art could be created out of them instead of tossing them. Arm warmers. A sock quilt. Something. Of course I never got around to expanding on that idea. It’s been a slow process, but also has afforded the opportunity to winnow them down.
Socks of the Day – “Frida”
So the daily sock parade continued. The response was fun and heartwarming. “Love your sock show!” “Everyone’s looking forward to it!” “I could never have imagined staying home looking at different socks every day would make me happy”. “It’s about color games. Each one a painting!” “I’m so in love with your sock collection!” “Don’t stop”. So I kept going.
Socks of the Day – “Pirates! Poison!”
Socks of the Day – “Sea Turtles”
Socks of the Day – “Morocco”
This silly daily event actually became something some people were looking forward to. I began really enjoying doing it too. “Dude. Your socks are killing me.” “FABULOUS!!!!” “You have a flair for creative art and design!!” “Great compositions!” “These are my favorite!”
Socks of the Day – “Squirrels”
The photos that happened to also feature shoes garnered their own attention and appreciation. There’s something about a fun pair of boots. They have their fans too. I could do a whole post on boots. “Love the boots!” “I’ll just take those boots though!
Socks of the Day – “Dala Horses”
As the days dragged on through the pandemic, onward and deep into the winter, I continued to post the Socks of the Day. A day missed seemed to create a bit of disappointment. A strange loyalty to the sock fans out there (or fans of diversion, anyway) was an enticement. And so they kept on….and on…and on. The amount of socks emerging from my sock drawer was akin to clowns pouring out of a clown car. A little bit freaky and a little bit “wow”. They kept on coming. Sometimes I would post multiple versions of the same socks – both while wearing them and also just the socks alone before I put them on.
Socks of the Day – “Grand Central Station”
While this process was happening, some would periodically be pulled out and passed along to my children or a sister (who would not mind having my socks). Simultaneously, packages of socks from friends, fans and family began to appear in the mail or were gifted at occasions, which actually caused an increase in the sock collection, despite attempts to reduce it. Plus, they were all such fun, cool socks! So I kept going with it.
Socks of the Day – “Tree Frogs”
Socks of the Day – “Starry Night”
Socks of the Day – “Dino Land” – a crowd favorite
As this continued, people became more entertained, amused, incredulous. I became all of those things too. “The Scream” was a metaphor which embodied the current state of the world, generating comments like “Socks of the Year”, “Pandemic Perfection” and “How appropriate”. Men and women alike were enjoying the socks. It became both pleasurable and challenging to continue to accommodate. Rocking the socks……
Socks of the Year -“The Scream”
As winter moved into spring, the supply of socks began to exhaust itself. Soon it would not be sock weather anymore anyway, which would close this crazy fun chapter. One of my sisters – the same one who has published a few years of “Daeja’s View” for me, took it upon herself to compile a small book of this zany sock collection. What you are seeing here in the blog is only a portion of what is in the book.
Socks of the Day – “Dark Rainbows”. One of my favorites
Socks of the Day – “Garden Bunnies”
I learned a few things about socks as this went along. The discovery that there are actual “sock clubs” where sock fans have a pair of socks sent to them every month from companies that make cool art socks. I don’t think I could handle that kind of situation. Those collectors must have whole dressers full of socks. As it is, I am able to wear (and wear out) my socks as I go along – I think I would find that kind of situation daunting.
Back in my younger days, I used to darn my socks when they wore out. My mother taught me how to do it. Does anyone actually darn socks anymore? This worked fairly well for wool socks. But saving these cute cotton socks like the ones in “Socks of the Day” has not been a success, leaving uncomfortable areas that rub against your shoe, heels and toes. Also I have noticed that some of them wear out a whole lot quicker than the others. Someone knowledgeable about textiles explained to me that thread count, weave and material all make a difference in the quality and life of the socks.
Socks of the Day – “Barn Owls”
It’s funny how something so small (and odd) can bring a little bit of sunshine into a person’s day. It ended up being a fun, unexpected project over about the course of a year, and I admit it helped keep my sanity. I hope you enjoyed a little taste of it too!
Well, I’ve been down in the abyss for the past week. I find it consistently amazing that when you (and I guess it means “me”, unless it’s also you) don’t feel physically well, it colors just about every single thing. Multiple antibiotics are kicking my ass. A clear liquid diet and then an all-white diet has been absolute torture for a foodie like me. And the smell of cooking has been triggering waves of nausea. I’ve been cranky and miserable; a total Eeyore, feeling sorry for myself and not fit for even remotely cheery communication.
being Eeyore
The week was spent mostly hiding under a quilt curled up in a fetal position, reading novels to escape, watching some vapid TV series, not watching the horrible news, avoiding humanity and dozing. Wordle, the NYT Bee and my dog, little Rudi, have been my only constant companions. He’s been very anxious, as his routine has been thrown off. They can tell when something is wrong. Every once in a while I would emerge from the cocoon, look around the house at all the cool but extraneous stuff decorating this place that I should get rid of because I was sure I was going to die right then and there. Next I would say “Oh My God” aloud to myself and bury my head under the covers again.
A meme of a haiku has been going around the internet this week that made me laugh…. maybe because it hits home (probably for a lot of us).
I found myself admiring and almost envying the friends and family who have recently been able to have Fresh New Beginnings in their lives, to make geographical, career, or life changes that would send them off on a brand new and exciting trajectory. Meanwhile, I sat here feeling like a stiletto was lodged in my intestines, wondering who I must have royally pissed off enough lately that prompted them to stick pins into their voodoo doll.
who did I piss off this week?
Observations from the Urban Porch have thus been limited. There has been an ongoing circus of ambulances and police cars repeatedly showing up at the House of the Undesirable Neighbors who live a few doors down from here, bathing our windows during the pre-dawn hours in flashing red strobe lights. There has been rain instead of snow, which has been easy – although this freaky, unseasonably warm January in the northeast is cause for concern. If this trend continues through the rest of the winter, I imagine the ticks are going to have quite the party come summer. Speaking of the wildlife department, the squirrel(s) who have been depositing peanuts on the front porch have now expanded their repertoire to leaving partially eaten bagels. Yes, I did say bagels. I am baffled. Said squirrel(s) have also dug up a potted plant that I left out on the porch, presumably to bury the bagels for future use.
There has been another bat inside the house. It went whisper-flitting and banging around the upstairs walls the other night, heard, but not seen. If you have ever had bats in the house, you know that unmistakable sound. I had hoped that the bats would have migrated over the winter, but apparently some must have chosen to hibernate instead. The fact that one woke up and found its way into the living space is perhaps testament to this winter being unseasonably warm. Despite looking behind blinds and curtains and checking my shoes and jackets first before putting them on, this bat has not been located. I am hoping it has gone back into whatever crevice it came from. I have visions of going up into the attic with a flashlight for something and discovering the equivalent of a bat cave in the rafters. I already don’t go down into the basement – the attic space may need to be added to my No Go Zone.
something I hope to never encounter in the attic
The stiletto residing next to my hip eventually reduced to more of a punch in the side, which then downsized to something similar to a stitch one might feel after running. With each improving increment, so the mood has lightened. It is time to emerge from Eeyore, get out of my jammies, put on my red cowgirl boots and tentatively step outside, back into the world.
While wishing a happy new year to a friend on the phone, she commented that the brand new new year of 2023 was “So far so good”. Being only about half a day into January 1st, I had to laugh, but it felt pretty hopeful.
It was a nice day, weirdly and unseasonably warmer, which culminated in an annual dinner gathering of people I only see about once a year through mutual friends. Great food, good conversation. I actually wrote about it back in 2012, Same Time Next Year. When you see the same group of people only one or two times a year for only a few hours over the course of almost thirty years, the changes are obvious – it’s sort of like watching a film flashing forward in high speed. After a reflective evening, I thought to myself, yup, so far so good, and decided that might be my mantra for the coming year.
So two days later, when it felt like someone stuck a dagger into my side, I was holding onto my mantra and self-diagnosing via Google. Since Diagnosis By Google can sometimes freak you out, I avoided what might be scary and rationally decided it was probably this, although it might be this, and maybe just possibly this. To alleviate it I can do that, and take some of that to fix it, or maybe it will just go away by itself. Four days later none of the solutions I was employing seemed to have any effect – the pain wasn’t going away. As a matter of fact, it was getting worse. Of note, has anyone ever noticed these things tend to peak when it is a weekend or holiday? Those times where seeing your regular MD, or a veterinarian for your pet, becomes impossible?
So it was a trip to the hospital ER, where it was discovered I had let it go on too long – long enough that I developed an intestinal infection bad enough to admit me. (I could not help but wonder if it was all that burnt granola I had been eating). I have a serious aversion to being in the hospital. Although I try to be good, after some not so great experiences, I have tried to avoid them if possible. I wrote about one of my hospital disasters in The P.I.A years ago. Another of my not so comical “comedy of errors” sub-par experiences was actually published in a nursing journal. I even once signed myself out of the hospital “against medical advice” when the care had fallen woefully short. This is not to say there are aren’t great hospitals and wonderful staff, and that they wouldn’t save your life. Of course I would be grateful for all of it and not so stupid as to not know that. It’s just that, unfortunately, it hasn’t been part of my reality in the past.
Since there were many people in the ER waiting for a bed, they let me go home with the promise I would diligently follow their directions, follow up with a doctor, and to come back to be admitted if it doesn’t improve or gets worse. So here I am at home, glowing with radiation, a model of instruction-following acquiescence, hopped up on multiple antibiotics and consigned to a liquid diet for a few days. Hungry and cranky and so looking forward to starting some real food again. The real first food would be Pastina, a warm bowl of gentle, generational love, either cooked in some broth or with a little bit of butter. Except…… have you heard about the travesty regarding Pastina?
my last box of Pastina
Ronzoni has decided to discontinue Pastina! My grandmother, my aunts and my mother are probably all rolling in their graves. Every Italian should be outraged! Even if you are not Italian you should be outraged! Pastina!!!!! How many children have been soothed with a bowl of Pastina? How many elderly people have benefitted from this digestable comfort food? How many people recovering from surgery or the flu are able to enjoy a consoling bowl of Pastina? Little stars! Don’t take away our Little Stars!
This is a cosmic slap in the face….or (in my case) another knife in the side. It’s a Ronzoni knife right in the back. Pastina! Ronzoni, how could you?
Yup, it certainly was another weird year. Thinking about it, it appears after almost every year we finish out, we probably look back and say things like “That was really hard “, or “Whew, made it through that one!” Of course The Pandemic and the C-19 mutations that have followed was and has been the ongoing major impact for the last few. That, climate change, war, increasingly insane and surreal politics. I could go on about those intense and scary things, but there are much more learned and articulate people to touch on the heavies. And honestly, it’s just too exhausting to go there tonight. It was almost a matter of mental and emotional survival at times to concentrate on the smaller picture instead of the overwhelming big one. So instead, I will sum up what has happened here in my micro-universe, follow up and bow out until Next Year arrives… in a mere few hours.
I sit here with a tin of green tea mints. I love green tea mints. I get them whenever I can. The funniest holiday gift I received in the mail was a whole big box of green tea mints. I laughed when I opened it.
Much of 2022 was spent compiling observations from The Urban Porch. Highlights included saving an orb weaver spider, accidentally losing a little jumping spider, marveling at the blue-winged wasps blanketing the lawns in daytime and fireflies adorning our yards in twinkling magic at night. The aggressive wood bees appeared, got in your face, challenging you to just dare walk out that back door, and suddenly were gone. There were honey bees in the Rose of Sharon and bumble bees in the asters, cabbage moths bouncing about the lavender. Let us not forget the hugely impressive Grapevine Beetle that hitched a ride into the house on top of my head and the praying mantis eggs that hatched in my car, releasing hundreds of teeny tiny mini-monsters into the seats and upholstery. The persistent nest-building hornet that would not give up. The adventure of the Big-Ass Bat in my bedroom. The roving gang of house sparrows, a visit of fewer crows than in previous years, but at least a some. And the ever awesomeness of coming across two bears, one of them up close.
During the summer there was the insanity of trying to get The Right Shoes to wear to two different weddings. It took seven tries (yes, seven pairs mailed out and sent back and forth) to get them to finally send the right ones. When it was all over, I ended up with one pair of the Pewter-Gold Desired sandals and one pair of the Undesirable Speckled Pair, neither of which I ended up having to pay for…. both ultimately ended up being free….. which I supposed compensates for the agita of going through the process. On top of that, one wedding was canceled at the last minute, so I didn’t even get to wear them to that event. I wore the gold shoes to the second event. After it all, it turns out the Undesirable Speckled Pair are actually the more useful of the two. I supposed only another shoe-aholic would appreciate any of this. But it happened and it was more time-consuming than it was worth.
During 2022 both the Atlantic and the Pacific oceans washed over my feet and family love on both coasts washed over me.
from east
to west
During 2022 we had a drought in the beginning, then later big rains and flooding happened…. and a little F-1 tornado arrived to top it all off. We thought we would have a dull autumn of little color, but it turned out to be a brilliantly spectacular one. Many dramatic skies too.
The volunteer corn that grew in the median in front of the house got impressively high and was a cheap thrill. I harvested it, cooked it, and it tasted pretty lousy.
All sorts of cooking and baking happened, both Hall of Fame and Hall of Shame. I have been compiling a second cookbook, which most likely will never be finished.
I report that most of the remaining house plants which I did not inadvertently or deliberately kill are still hanging in there – some better than others. The remaining orchid is working up to making another flower spike. The hibiscus is still blooming. There are one or two where I think the patient is not going to make it, but I am hopeful for a revival.
It has been a year of Many Eggrolls. I don’t know why it is that I have been craving eggrolls, but I have indulged throughout.
My little dog Rudi, who was so sick, seems to have fully recovered. He has gained back the weight he lost during that scary and mysterious episode. Speaking of eggrolls, he is now in danger of becoming a fat little eggroll himself, because Somebody keeps slipping him table scraps on top of his regular food. I confess I am on the path of becoming a fat little eggroll myself if I keep on the way I have been.
During 2022 I encountered a ghost from the past. Some old trauma was revisited, a wound reopened, some hurt, a lie. There was the disappointment of a promise broken.
Also at the very end of the year something I waited a long time for was completed, but not quite in the way I had hoped it would, and that was rather disappointing too.
I found myself missing people on and off throughout the year at expected and unexpected times and feeling some of that loss. Family members I don’t see often enough. Those who live too far away to easily visit. People I cared about who are no longer earthside. A friend or two I had disconnected from.
The hottest days of summer were spent helping a friend pack and move away.
A number of library books were borrowed and read.
It has been a year of less social contact. Part of that concerned the fact that many people – especially those around my age – have preferred to keep out of venues that are too crowded, too populated, in the hope of avoiding illness. We have slowly been coming out of our shells since this past spring, but overall I think the desire to go anywhere, be anywhere, has lessened and a lot of us are spending time within ourselves instead of outside ourselves. At least I have felt that way. This does not mean I still don’t have the wanderlust, or “Fernweh”, but it is a lot less than it used to be. I admit also that I am tired. The need to be more of a homebody has not necessarily been a bad thing.
When I add the sum, all in all it has been a year of small joys, little wonders to be appreciated and stored up in the heart. I was sitting in a friend’s kitchen this past month, having tea, bread and cheese and slices of sweet Gevuld Speculaas brought back in a suitcase from Holland. Out the window we watched a large flock of turkeys which had taken over the back yard as they cleaned up spilled food on the ground from the bird feeders. They were huge, majestic and beautiful, about fifteen of them. A male cardinal appeared and joined the turkeys. That little pop of color amidst those big birds caused such a sweet feeling inside; they were all just so wonderful to observe. And then it started to snow great big flakes. It was quite lovely.
a little pop of color
The gifts this holiday season were many and some traditions were upheld. The Annual Family Enchiladas. The Annual Family Swiss Fondue. There was lots of familial snuggling together on the couch. There were lots of knock-knock jokes and marveling over a book of 400 interesting facts and hanging out in sweats and jammies.
cozy
The presents given were caring, thoughtful, loving. Things others remembered that you had forgotten. I won’t list them all here, but it was just perfect.
Because it is blog-related, I will mention that volume two of Daeja’s View from 2012-2014 was printed and gifted to me.
Mostly the last week ended with a lot of love, surrounded by vast amounts of my own DNA, which is a rather remarkable thing that I still haven’t totally processed. I found myself somewhat overwhelmed at times and welling up with tears at the appreciation and wonder of it all.
After these last few sentences I plan on crawling into my cozy bed. You won’t find me going out on any New Year’s Eve …..but that’s another story for another time. Tomorrow we will start anew with fresh hopes and promises, dreams and plans. I wish all the best for all of you.
Oh, and finally, yes – I did find that bug catcher I had hoped for under the tree.
A few readers have shared with me that they have been unable to comment on some of my blog posts, that WordPress won’t allow them to register their responses without jumping through a few website hoops. In general I don’t get a lot of comments anyway, so I really didn’t notice this was happening until I heard from a couple of readers I actually know. It seems to be a random occurrence. I am not really good at figuring out the mechanism for why that is happening, but I’ll mess around with it at some point and see if I can fix the problem, just in case anyone feels they have something they want to say.
This past week it was reported that some winter weather was headed our way. Often when that happens, it sets some people off into a flurry of panic buying for the bread-milk-toilet paper triumvirate. Since the roads are usually clear by the next day or two after a storm, this behavior always seems to be a bit on the hysterical side to me. Perhaps if you have a number of young children in need of milk, or a large household full of hungry people, or live in a very remote area, that is probably practical. I guess if you had no toilet paper in the house to begin with, that might be an issue. The only thing I did was cancel an appointment for early the following morning, as I had no desire to drive anywhere in messy weather. Then I settled in for what I anticipated to be a cozy day of being snowed in with no obligations.
the triumvirate of pre-snow storm panic
Well, the snowstorm was a bust, as it never materialized. It landed in other areas but missed us. We did get rain – a lot of rain. It rained all night and it rained all day. It rained so much that it washed away most of the snow from the previous storm. It never got really that cold either. But I settled into the day anyway and enjoyed a number of little pleasantries. The foodie things – a bowl of homemade, hot chicken soup garnished with crispy chili flakes. A side of warm cornbread slathered with butter and pepper jelly. Freshly baked brownies laden with walnuts. Cups of tumeric/ginger tea.
There was the good feeling of being snuggled up in a brand new fuzzy blanket with a soft little dog curled up against my side, reading a library book. And overindulging on chocolate peppermint bark candy, which only seems to be available during the holiday season (so get it while you can). I’ve been eating it constantly for the past week. I’m actually eating my very last piece now as I type this.
the last piece of peppermint bark
In between I did a couple of loads of laundry. Does anyone else thoroughly enjoy removing the lint from the lint trap in the clothes dryer? For some reason, I find peeling that layer of fuzz out of the machine is very pleasurable. I realize it is a visual indication of your clothing essentially wearing away, and yet it gives me great satisfaction, the layers of stuff sloughing off the now-clean clothing to reveal a fresh layer below. Fibers, lots of dog hair (lots and lots of dog hair in this latest cycle), invisible unidentified weirdness and whatever. I know I am not the only person who likes the lint trap. Every time I empty the dryer screen I get that same cheap thrill. Doing laundry is one of the domestic chores that does not really bother me. Folding and putting away the clothes is not especially the fun part, but the wash and dry is pretty okay. Clearing out the lint trap is the icing on the laundry cake.
a satisfyingly fuzzy pile of lint
During the rainy day there was some reading, scrolling through social media and binge-watching a few television series and movies. I napped under the new fuzzy blanket, which I had washed first. It had filled the entire lint trap in the dryer with a huge, furry pile of smoky blue. Yes, very, very satisfying.
the new fuzzy smoky blue blanket
Other thrills of the week – a few of the crows have returned. Yesterday three or four of them huddled together on a branch in the crow tree, noisily consulting with each other.
a small crow consultation
While I am smiling about this tiny appearance of a few crows, a friend of mine recorded a gathering of crows happening outside her home. I was a little envious of all the corvid action going on in her neighborhood, which I thought was pretty cool.
a corvid convention
One loss of the day – a jagged chip broke off the top of the glass cannister I kept on the bathroom vanity that held cotton swabs. This container had once belonged to my mother, who kept it filled with cotton balls. It was decades old. So there is yet another little daily reminder of my mom that is now gone. I replaced it with something else I had around the house. It’s okay, but I admit I felt a bit wistful.
goodbye to mommy’s glass jar
On a happier note, Rudi is enjoying his new Gumby squeaky toy. I think I am enjoying it too. Is Gumby a thing of the very distant past? Do any children today even know who Gumby and Pokey are (or were)?
enjoying Gumby
And the feel-good for today is that I gifted my old Canon digital camera to a stranger – a woman that actually still enjoys taking photos with a camera, as opposed to using a cell phone as a camera. There are still people out there who do that. They are artists! I hadn’t used the camera in a very long time. It seemed to find it’s right person. I really like when that happens.
I am gathering all of these little thrills and pleasures I have enjoyed over the last few days as a means of balancing perspective within The Big Picture. Doing that seems to help temper the things that are happening which I am finding frustrating or worrisome, sad or scary. Because there are those things going on too….as they probably are with most of us. I think sometimes it is important to dwell in the brief moments of the simple pleasures, the small occurrences in life, to help keep our emotional batteries charged.
There is a low-key flurrying happening both inside and outside the house. The outside part is a steady, light, gentle, almost-mist of snow occurring right now, just enough to get you a little bit wet. It’s the first real one of the winter here, and late besides. I don’t know if there will be much accumulation; so far nothing is sticking to the road. But the trees and grass are attractively frosted. I have no place to be. Bundled up in our warm sweaters, Rudi and I just took a little walk. Now I’m sitting here with a cup of tea and watching it fall as I type.
The inside-the-house part of the flurrying refers to small efforts of activity on my part here and there. Following my previous post, Planticide, I decided to do some serious tackling of the dead/dying/miserable plant situation. Some of the larger plants that were taking up too much room in the windows, thus choking out the others, were either thinned out or given away to strangers. There was something satisfying about giving someone I didn’t know a couple of my plants and cuttings. Hopefully they will get the attention they deserve.
I “planticided” a few of the ones that seemed too far gone to want to mess with anymore. I silently thanked them for the pleasure they lent over the years. Some others were repotted in the hope that they might benefit from a little more TLC. Removing dead leaves, cutting back. Letting some dry out, giving others more water. There are still more plants in the windows than I would like, but they seem to be getting much better light and air around them. I can almost feel them saying “Ahhhh, I can finally breathe!!” The hibiscus, a birthday gift from two years ago, was so relieved that it threw me a couple of flowers in thanks.
so happy now!
Aside from sharing my bounty of plants, I’ve been giving away some oddball things on the local “free” site, on and off all year. An enamel baker’s rack. An extra crock pot. Children’s winter wear. Eight tank tops in a rainbow of colors. A teeny, tiny frying pan. Dishes, Knick-knacks. Suitcases. A case of cat food. You would be surprised what items some people are interested in. The last thing I gifted was a box of jam & jelly canning jars.
Even when there are some pretty cool things being offered, I am trying not to respond to anything from the free site because I don’t want to accumulate more stuff. The few things I have been interested in, I’ve either pulled myself away from or missed out on to others who claimed them first. Someone did gift me a Disney princess dress from “Frozen” for my granddaughter, who put it on and spun around the house loudly singing “Let It Go!” That was very satisfying, and pretty much the extent of it, until this week, when I saw something I really could use.
I had this great memory foam neck pillow that I always took on long plane flights. We racked up a whole lot of air miles together – it pretty much went all over the world with me. My neck always hurts, so years ago I had decided to invest in a good one. The pillow had enough substance to it that if you were stuck in the upright position in some hellish economy seat for hours on end and were keeling over with exhaustion, you could even put it on the tray in front of you, lean forward and sort of face-plant into it for a little while and it would support you. Washable cover, little pockets for ear plugs and sleep mask, snaps so it could attach to your suitcase.
So I’m in the airport in Casablanca, in a very, very, very long queue of people, five minutes to boarding, when one of my traveling companions decides to suddenly look for a bathroom, says “Here, watch my stuff” and takes off. I need to say that I am seriously not into the last minute before boarding “watch my stuff” thing when traveling with people. I cannot tell you how many times this has happened to me. If there is lots of time, fine, but when it gets close to boarding, please take your own bags with you.
As the line moves forward, I am awkwardly dragging both my stuff and their stuff along with me, getting closer and closer to actually entering the plane, until I am right up front and there is still no sign of my friend. I start letting other people ahead of me, over and over again, until at the very last minute my friend shows up and we board. Once on the plane, I discover that it is both difficult to find a space to stash our carry-ons, as all the overhead bins are full, and also the sad fact that somewhere out on the terminal floor lies my very comfy neck pillow, which had somehow fallen off my bag and is now gone (I think airport terminals are probably littered with lost neck pillows). I was pretty bummed out. It was a long, uncomfortable and somewhat bizarre flight home, which included trying to accommodate an elderly couple seated next to me who were having some problems but apparently only spoke in dialect – perhaps Darija – which I could not translate on my phone (we fumbled but we managed).
I did finally get another pillow, but it was never as good. I decided I really didn’t need a neck pillow anyway, until recently, because my neck has been killing me – I wake up with a headache almost every day lately. Suddenly I wished I had that exact pillow to stick under my neck at night.
So I couldn’t believe it when there was someone giving away- for free! – that exact same neck pillow – brand new and never used!!!! I immediately said I was “interested”, but apparently a woman responded to claim it one minute ahead of me and it was being gifted to her instead. Ironically, the woman who had claimed it first was the same one who I had just gifted my box of jam jars to the day before. Oh well. I figured it was meant to be. Until that evening, when the giver contacted me and said if I wanted it to come get it. Which I did! I had to wonder if the first woman, the one who took my jam and jelly jars, passed it on to me because of that. I’ll never know. I will say I am gratefully enjoying my new neck pillow.
by Wit & Whistle
The other mild flurry of activity refers to the holiday season. As usual, I’m a little behind on my card situation and I don’t know if that is going to happen at all this year. I’ve never been very good about cards. I buy these lovely, artistic cards for people, sometimes with the exact person in mind, put them away for an event, and then forget to send them. Speaking of cards, while I was out doing a little bit of holiday shopping, this card caught my attention. I had to laugh at the timing and subject. If I was somebody else I probably would have sent this card to me.
The gifts that need to be sent across the country have been mostly mailed off. The kids and grandkids have been taken care of. I don’t really want or need anything. I guess some repairs around the house would be nice. When my children asked me what I wanted for Christmas, it was pretty easy. All I want is to spend time with them. I just want to be in the presence of the people I love.
a bug catcher
When they asked me if there was a particular “thing” that I wanted, after some thought I told them that a “humane bug catcher” is something I have actually thought about for a few years. It’s an inexpensive device that allows you to catch the spider (or whatever) in your house and then you can put it outside (or wherever) without killing it. If it actually works, it sounds pretty cool and useful. So we will see if I get a bug catcher under the tree this year.
As I read back, I can see this post is kind of all over the place, a low-key flurry in my head. The snow is still steadily falling. The afternoon is winding down. Since I sat down to write, the ground has become lightly blanketed, the tree branches are clotted with white clumps of cotton. There is that hush that snowfall brings. It is very cozy inside – a good afternoon for making brownies or curling up with a book. If there is enough fresh snow later, perhaps I’ll have some maple syrup snow tonight. I’m starting to get a little hungry….. some reheated leftover wonton soup sounds good.
It appears the cycle is beginning again. It was about eleven years ago when I first posted about the sudden neglect of a few houseplants, here – Black Thumb. The particular incidences of “planticide” that occurred with some of the older, most beloved plants seemed to be deliberate; a non-violent murder of certain potted greenery brought on by apathy, perhaps a sadness, an emotional disconnect. That was a long time ago though. I’ve been successfully keeping houseplants alive for years. Until now. Something is happening.
There has been a sudden uptake of dying indoor plants, although it has not been deliberate this time. Most of this is occurring with plants that were started from seed or acquired in a younger state, although one old favorite has, sadly, bitten the dust. It is as if suddenly l am doing something wrong regarding their care, even though nothing has changed in practice. Either that, or there is a weird, contagious, suicidal rush going on with the greenery, as if they are all planning on bailing en masse.
what happened here?
The most disappointing loss is one of the cacti, given to me by a former co-worker well over a decade ago. The funny history about it was that it displayed beautiful yellow flowers that never seemed to die, which garnered much attention around the office. Many weeks went by before I discovered that the reason the flowers were so pristine and remained in full bloom was because they were paper flowers glued onto the live cactus!
Although it never actually made a real flower, over the years the cactus continued to thrive and expand. It has been absolutely lovely and has required no attention at all beyond an occasional watering. It’s pretty hard to kill a cactus….. except suddenly, inexplicably, it started to flop over, droop, turn brown and die. It had been so beautiful and healthy! Did I over-water it? Not water it enough? I tried repotting it and that had no positive effect. If anything, it has hastened its demise. Is there something toxic going on that caused this? Or was it just the natural lifespan for this cactus?
The next few plants to get weird have been the Christmas cactuses (or cacti, your choice). Not just one of them, but all three of them at the same time. It began with finding multiple droppings of whole segments of cactus on the floor each day. Shocking little cactus arms just lying there. This can be caused by too much heat or light. But their environment has not differed. Next, the segments began to turn brown. Are they being overwatered? Or not watered enough? Overwatering can cause stem browning and rot. But their care has not varied. Why suddenly now? Oddly, while this has been occurring, amidst this strange blight, two of them decided to bloom. So there are these sickly looking cacti bearing flowers.
why is this happening?
I was gifted a tiny jasmine plant. Despite following directions from the giver to keep it moist, it is not doing very well.
sad drooping little jasmine
I have started a number of interesting seedlings over the last number of months. Some paw-paws. A lychee plant. A young curry plant. At first they were doing fine, but one by one they are falling to the same fate. The lychee was doing so great, it had been exciting seeing it grow. It needs plenty of water and sunlight, and it has been and still is getting those things. Yet now it is not looking well. The color of the leaves is lightening, the leaf tips are turning brown. It is not happy if it dries out. It is not happy if it gets water. I have no idea what to do.
the unhappy lychee
I’m not even sure anymore if these are the paw-paws. There were two pots, one has totally died and these are on their way out.
Paw-paws? Too much water? Or???
And then there is the dying mystery plant that I started. I can’t even recall what it was…..
a dying mystery plant
I have brought the fig tree indoors. It drops its leaves every year and remains a twiggy, unsightly thing until It begins to leaf out again in spring and can go back outside. We have gone through a few years of this together already, so it is a relief to know I am not killing that one. By the end of this week all the leaves will probably drop off and It will just be a big pot with gnarly, bare branches taking up space in the hallway all winter.
Ficus on the way to winter
In regards to the “newbies” in the house, at present at least the curry plant continues to do fine. It needs regular watering and that watering doesn’t seem to be affecting it in a negative way. After showing you my pathetic display of dead and dying plants, this little one is still doing okay….for now….
curry plant, surviving – so far
So what is going on? Is there some plant poltergeist secretly dumping water in the pots at night? Some evil gas permeating the air? I think need a plant doctor. I am considering not watering anybody and letting everyone dry out and wither away. Perhaps repotting a few of them to see what is going on with the roots (although that did not help the cactus). Or actually, maybe I will end up throwing them all out, ALL of my plants – committing mass planticide. Maybe I don’t want any more houseplants. I feel that mood coming on…..
The riotous outdoor color show is over. A lacework of sepia and gray branches framing the sky is pretty much what’s left behind, although the grass is still green, for now. I have removed the dead hanging plants from the front porch. The frost-dead mums remain in their pot on the steps, lending an Addam’s Family vibe to the place, to be appreciated mostly by those who deliver mail and packages.
the welcoming dead porch plant
The color has just moved indoors, gracing the rooms with some surprise blooms. The geranium that was brought in from outside continues to produce. Both a red and a pale peach Christmas cactus have put on a little show. It is the first time blooming for the peach-colored one, which was a surprise.
Some foibles and follies as we move into the next phase; while standing in the dining room watering the indoor plants, I looked up to see wave of water hammering the front window, as if someone had turned a strong hose onto the front of the house. Uh-oh….the hose! The hose, left out and still turned on over the last few twenty-something degree nights, had frozen, warmed up and then burst, sending a steady spray against the house and flooding the porch. I can’t believe I had forgotten to turn it off, unhook it and put it away. This is not the first time it has happened either. As a matter of fact it appears this has turned into an annual event. Frustrating and wasteful. Next year I am really going to be on top of it.
Another annual affair – while reaching into the oven to remove a pie, I (once again) received a nice burn on the top of my hand, which brushed against the wire rack. I was using a pot holder, but maybe I should have been using the oven mitt. I find the oven mitts a bit cumbersome….apparently it’s a trade-off. Oven mitt vs. oven burn. Despite immediately reaching for the handy kitchen aloe plant, it seems this is going to be yet one more cooking battle scar to add to the collection on these old hands.
To contribute to the start of the holiday festivities this year, I baked three pies, which was a pretty odd thing to do, considering baking is not my forte. The pecan pie and the pumpkin pie was a quick and easy deal, but the third one, a Cranberry Custard Curd in a hazelnut crust (a recipe which caught my attention because of the pretty color) was something new to experiment with. I cheated because I didn’t make the crust, instead buying a ready-made walnut crust, leaving only the filling to create. It’s a good thing I didn’t make the crust because it turns out even the filling was a pretty labor-intensive ordeal (at least for me, who – again – does not enjoy baking). A plethora of devices and implements were employed in the formation of that filling. A mini chopper, an immersion blender, a hand-held beater, a whisk, pots, bowls, forks, spoons, spatulas and a sieve to strain the cranberry concoction through. The straining was a pain in the neck. By the time I was done I had a sink full of dishes and pink spatters all over me, the stove, the counters, the floor.
People said they liked it, although it is hard to tell if they were just being polite. The whole thing was eventually eaten, so I suppose it held some success. My assessment is that it was similar to a Key Lime pie, except in cranberry. Some tartness, some sweetness. The color was impressive. It was a little looser than I would have liked. I served it with freshly whipped cream. If I ever attempt it again (probably not) I think I will cut some more corners on the process and adjust some steps. One thing I learned about these recipes is that sometimes it is helpful to read the comments of other cooks to see what worked and what didn’t, or what could be altered or substituted. I should have done that before I dove into this project. But it was okay in the end.
I did make two kinds of stuffing, one vegetarian and one sweet sausage. My stuffing is killer.
A good friend who reads my blog told me he has especially enjoyed the posts which note the details of seasonal changes and has dubbed me “Ms. Almanac”, which made me laugh. I supposed I’ve been on a trend with some of that.
In keeping with that direction, a few more observations – I came across (and almost stepped on with my bare feet) a dying wasp on the floor the other morning. At the end of every autumn there is at least one dying wasp found on the floor. I have no idea how they get in.
A patterned moth clings to the back door, unmoving in the cold. I believe it might be a male Winter Moth (Operophtera brumata) which emerges in late November and apparently is able to survive during the winter months.
I would imagine any time now a few Large Flies will appear inside the windows. I often wonder where they come from, usually found between the screen and the glass, seeking warmth. Luckily there are never more than a few every year. I seriously dislike them.
In a previous home we used to get a massive bombardment of Asian ladybugs every year, right before winter. They would gather in huge clusters in the corners of the window frame and remain there for months, slowly dying off little by little, until by spring there were just a few hardy stragglers left. In the beginning I used to vacuum them all up, but later on decided it was interesting to see how long they could survive, so I would just vacuum up the dead ones and leave the rest alone. If you disturbed them they would emit this yellow residue, but if you let them be they just sort of hung out in the window, occasionally flying about the glass on the warmest of days. This house does not have a winter ladybug infestation, which is fine, although I admit that, in a weird way, I kind of enjoyed them.
There is a security camera attached to the barn behind the house. Sometimes I like to check the night activity to see what animals are out and about. Aside from the usual neighborhood cats, there is an opossum family that has been visiting. Last night there was a good sized skunk with a lovely pattern. I notice the skunks often have different stripe designs. The screen grab is not as clear as the video, but you can get an idea.
night visitor
Relating to the seasons on a person-to-person level, I partook in “Special Person’s Day” at the pre-school of one of my grandchildren (the one who lives in closest proximity). She was very excited to have “Mema” attend, so off I went. Before these events became more inclusive, they were probably called “Grandparent’s Day”. Actually, way back when I was a kid I’m pretty sure we had neither a Grandparent’s Day or even such a thing as a “pre-school”. In the classroom there were little stations set up where you could sit with the child while they – amidst very loud collective chatter – excitedly moved from activity to activity, making beaded bracelets and bird feeders out of pipe-cleaners, coloring houses and playing with blocks, while their “special person” crouched beside them. (I noticed a number of us “special people” groaned with crackling knee joints as we tried to gracefully get up off the floor). It was a sweet little event – something about “school” and “autumn”, tiny desks, crayons, cubbies filled with boots and jackets. and their innocence, which jangled some rosily distorted nostalgia. They sent us home with chocolate chip pumpkin muffins, which they had proudly made the day before.
playing on the floor during “Special Person’s Day”
And finally, I will share a photo of Rudi in one of his (second hand) autumn sweaters. I call it his “Bumble Bee” look. In case anyone was wondering, I am not one of those crazy ladies who obsessively dresses up my dog in clothes. This is the first dog I’ve ever had that wears a sweater or coat, with the exception of my last dog’s blaze-orange vest, worn during hunting season. Rudi is a very small, single-coated dog that gets cold pretty quickly. After his last bout of illness, the vet advised that he’s kept warm. So now he has a tee-shirt for in the house this winter and the sweaters for outside. You may be seeing more of this in future posts. Of course I’m biased, but I think he’s kind of cute!
The Bumble Bee
So that’s all I’ve got for today. “Ms. Almanac” signing off….
Not to be fooled by a string of balmy autumn days more reminiscent of spring, the reality of November is finally upon us. Even after a few mornings of frost, I was surprised (and a little impressed) that the geranium plant on the porch suddenly put out a defiant show of flowers, despite those freezing nights.
Good morning! The porch geranium survived the frost
Stimulated by a week or two of unseasonably warm days, my neighbor’s stinging nettle patch flushed with new growth, thus I was invited to come by and take as much as I wanted. This bounty then required spending an afternoon of nettle-pesto making and freezing. I actually managed to orchestrate the entire operation without getting even one nettle sting, which was a great relief – because wow, those little Urtica dioica stingers can be nasty! I love the taste of nettles. I did notice that these nettles of the fall taste slightly different than the ones from the spring.
The lunar eclipse was a slow, satisfying event to behold. I bundled up in my coat and sat alone out on the porch with a cup of hot Tulsi tea and some buttered sourdough rye toast. I was thinking about how the ancients must have felt watching the mysterious transition from light to dark red orb.
The cooler weather has been an enticement to cook; already I’ve begun to hunker down into that mode and get into my foodie head. I made another batch of granola this week, and this time it was perfect. I will add that I did eat all the “overly toasted” granola from the last batch that I burned in spite of its blackened state. This time I paid better attention.
Although I don’t eat red meat, about once a year I will, when I make my Mom’s Pot Roast, which is a hearty meal for a cold day (or many cold days, as it makes a lot). I realize this is one of those “comfort foods”. It was my dad’s birthday and my mom’s recipe, so I figured I was somehow celebrating the memory of both of them, in a way…if that makes any sense. So that happened.
I voted. I’m so glad the barrage of campaign garbage has finally stopped. The mailbox filled with political ads, the papers attached to front door, the signs on lawns, the TV commercials, the canvassers with clipboards knocking. The Bombardment. Enough.
A big thrill – I was gifted some Matsutake mushrooms, which was a lovely treat. They have such a unique aroma and taste. Shortly after I had donated The Wallet, I unexpectedly came across some for sale, so I treated myself to a few more. It served as a bit of a pick-me-up, which was helpful after the wallet saga.
Matsutake
While standing there swooning over the mushrooms. I was drawn to a basket of ginger that was fragrant and beautiful. So many colors and textures of late Autumn heading to Winter.
ginger root
November has ushered out the last gasps of color. The red Japanese Maple moved from glossy maroon leaves to glorious flames of crimson before finally dropping all its leaves in one blowsy, fluttering show.
my red tree
Little Rudi has recovered from his mysterious bout of illness. He accompanies me over the next few days while I rake up the fallen leaves. I periodically stop to search for him, as he becomes camouflaged in the garden beds.
He is so sweet, soaking up the rays of the sun in his little red sweater, eyes closed. What is he thinking?
Soaking up the last warm rays of the November sun
Four or five crows have returned to the neighborhood. They have been barking and calling for the last few mornings, swooping back and forth across the back yards. I am not sure what their plan is. I left them some bread and dried dog food this morning. They watched me, but I haven’t checked to see if they took it. The sky has been filled with starlings, covering entire bushes and trees, moving en masse, pulsating murmurations on the horizon. One house sparrow perches on the dying hanging porch plant, incessantly chirping.
We have had our first snow, a light one that disappeared by mid-morning. Today there were a few squalls and flurries. I’ve been wearing a hat and scarf already. I think Autumn has pretty much had her last hurrah. I’m gathering up a list of books for my winter reading. We move into the darker days now, a time to go within, the time of being still.
It was more years ago than I can exactly recall when my mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I told her I wanted a good wallet. I was very specific about what kind of wallet I wanted – that it was a quality wallet made of nicely finished leather, with many compartments in order to hold a checkbook, credit cards and photos, and a place to keep cash in a separate zipped section. Back in the day it was the kind of thing I would not have splurged on for myself. In general, both of my parents had pretty good taste and could be depended on to come through with thoughtful, caring, interesting, quality items when it came to gift-giving, which was especially appreciated during some very lean years in my early adulthood. Given that, I left the request with her.
My mother lived far away in another state. Since I wouldn’t be seeing her on my birthday, she sent her gift. When I opened the present, it turned out it was not the wallet I had envisioned. It had all the right compartments, the slots for credit cards, the zipper, the inserts for photos. But it was not made of leather, it was actually what today would be considered “vegan” material or “pleather”, something that is actually popular and very politically correct now, although back then there was no such thing. Essentially, it was “fake leather”, some kind of a vinyl wallet. It kind of /sort of/not quite looked like real leather, and indeed she actually thought it was leather when she bought it. But it wasn’t. It just wasn’t the wallet I had envisioned for my birthday wallet. It wasn’t The One. So I was somewhat disappointed, while simultaneously feeling somewhat guilty that I was disappointed. Maybe I should have lied and told her it was perfect when she asked me, instead of being truthful and telling her it was not quite “it”, which probably left her feeling disappointed too. I guess it was one of those “fails” all around.
not quite “the one”
The important part about it was that I know my mother picked it out with love. She was trying to get me exactly what she thought I wanted. It was very much the “love” part that I was stuck on. So while I never used the wallet, not even once, I dutifully and lovingly put the wallet away in a drawer and kept it because of it being a caring gift from my mother. Perhaps had it come from somebody else it would not have mattered, but being it was from my mother I just could not get rid of it.
The Wallet is yet another one of those situations in my life that is tied to the painful processes of letting go of some (not all) things. The recurrent theme with me – it is not about the material value of the object so much as the attachment to the person or memory or event tied to the object. Abandonment issues maybe? Each time another one of my mother’s dishes breaks, or one of her towels or blankets wears out, it is as if I am losing one more small piece of her. So it has been with The Wallet, which has been moved from drawer to basket to closet, around and around. I look at it, I sigh, I open it, look at all the useful sections and compartments inside it and think I should use it, but even now it is not a wallet that I would use. I have other wallets (actually gifted to me from other family members) that are much more “me”. I think I should pass this one on to someone, although I do not know anybody who would actually want it. I want it to go to someone who would appreciate the wallet that I could not love.
all the compartments, slots and zippers
As of this writing, my mother has been gone twenty-three years. She gifted The Wallet to me many years before she passed away, so it’s been around here for a long time. For decades that wallet has been in a drawer, with the tags still on it, because I can’t part with this physical symbol. I realize this is crazy. I can practically hear her laughing and saying how totally ridiculous this is.
It’s not like I can’t get rid of anything, it’s only those certain things. This week as I came upon The Wallet once again, I was strongly feeling it was time for it to finally leave my possession. It actually made it out of the bedroom and down to the dining room table on top of a donation pile, where it sat for a few days. I have been donating items pretty regularly in our local Buy Nothing group, although I have taken a hiatus with that because it seems to be the same small group of people taking or asking for stuff over and over again, which appears a bit greedy vs. needy. But it didn’t feel right to just drop it into one of those donation containers on a sidewalk either. It finally came to me that my mother would be pleased if The Wallet was donated to a church thrift shop. The church is not my thing, but it was hers. So today that is what I did.
I walked into a small church thrift shop that did not have too many items in it. It was very simple, uncluttered and not especially high end. There were a few elderly ladies shopping there and one man volunteering at the register. One hundred percent of the proceeds goes to good causes. She would have liked that. I handed over my wallet and a few other items to donate and told the man a little bit about the wallet, not that he cared. I actually had tears in my eyes.
As I drove away, leaves were falling and blowing around the gray November sky. I cried a little bit for my mom. I miss her so much. While not constantly present, the feelings of loss are always just beneath the surface.
There is a whole lot of very old, psychic love tucked into the many compartments of that wallet. I hope somebody buys it for a dollar or two and somehow feels a little bit of it.
I vacillate between the excitement of the seasonal splendor and the worries or annoyances regarding larger and smaller events surrounding life these days. The blog postings here tend to go in erratic cycles. I might not post for months and then suddenly one pours out of me every week, or even a few in a week. It looks like there will be five posts this month. Apparently October has gotten the synapses firing. One of my sisters pointed out that the posts tend to swing between essays and almost diary entries. I guess that’s okay with me. As I pointed out when I began this brain-purge over a decade ago, it’s just random thoughts that pop up into my head that are primarily written for me. If anyone wants to come along for the ride and happens to relate or to enjoy it, that’s okay too.
While this flamboyantly beautiful season was unfolding, my little dog Rudi was sick, which was cause for much anxiety. He is a loyal and loving companion, but also functions as an extra set of ears for me, an unofficial hearing/alert dog. Even aside from riding out the isolating days of the early pandemic together, I probably spend more time alone with him beyond that – more than with anybody else. I depend on him daily, not just for comfort, but actually in order to navigate parts of my daily world. He is my constant. He is a quirky little rescue, appears to be a papillon/chihuahua cross, I am guessing probably around nine years old by now.
my boy
It was an odd progression of symptoms, unfolding over almost a three week period. He was at a routine vet visit when they discovered he had a fever. I had no idea, as his behavior had not changed. He was acting fine. He had thrown up a few times, but this dog more than occasionally throws up, so it was not unusual. As a matter of fact, when the vet asked me how long has he been vomiting, I said “about eight years”.…because it’s true. He always throws up on the landing of the stairs. As an aside, I always end up stepping in it, in my socks or barefoot. Eight years of dog puke. So it was not a red flag.
Not feeling so well…..
I took him home with instructions to monitor the situation. A day later his temp was back to normal with no obvious cause found. But a week or so later, Rudi started having diarrhea and vomiting up every single thing he ingested, including water. Then he stopped eating altogether. Not even the most high value treats or meats could entice him. He became extremely lethargic and began hiding behind and under things. At one point he suddenly leaped up and began trembling for no apparent reason, then ran away to hide again. He seemed to barely be able to get up and down the stairs and was clearly weak. When we went out for a walk, instead of his usual sniffing around to investigate, or trotting with excitement to go down the block, he immediately turned around and wanted to go back into the house.
We returned to the vet and found he was running a fever again, indicating some sort of infection. Oddly, his labs were all within normal limits and he didn’t appear to have a blockage. So he was given a shot of prednisone to address arthritic pain and put on antibiotics for whatever else was going on. If it continued after the course was finished, he was to come back for x-rays. By this time he had lost a couple of pounds. Rudi is a little guy, topping out at ten or eleven pounds at his heaviest, so two pounds on him was significant. I could feel every rib and the bones along his spine, and even had to adjust his harness down so it would fit him. It was very unsettling. And honestly, I was terrified of having a similar situation occur like what happened with my last dog.
leave me alone
I actually gave him a Covid rapid test, which was inconclusive.
Of course, just like when you or your kids get sick, this stuff always seems to peak at night or over a weekend when offices are closed. It was a Saturday night when it reached the point where the dog was not even drinking water. I found myself hand-feeding him the smallest bits of whatever I was eating that might interest him. He took a wee bit of oatmeal from my fingertips. He readily took the final dose of the liquid antibiotics he had been on all week. I kept offering him water with an eye-dropper. I contemplated taking him to the emergency on-call veterinary place for fluids and decided if he wasn’t better by morning that was the plan. He hid in his crate (which is his private “leave me alone” space) the rest of the time and slept. I admit I didn’t sleep very well, filled with worry.
The next morning he was totally fine! Appetite back in full force. Trotting around the house with bright eyes, alerting me to whatever was going on, barking at whatever was outside the window, wanting to engage in play. Jumping back up on the bed. Hanging out. Whatever it was, I guess the antibiotics addressed. He’s so little, so sweet, and he’s my boy. I’m so relieved he is alright, it is as if a great weight has lifted from my heart.
On a much lesser note, a large tray of granola that I left every-so-slightly too long in the oven ended up burning. I am so annoyed about that, not only because the ingredients add up to being costly, but because I really, really wanted to have more granola at that moment, and this is a good granola recipe. What a waste! I have actually been slowly eating the burnt granola in very small quantities because I just can’t bear to throw it all out. I am trying to convince myself that it is just “heavily toasted”. Well, maybe “very heavily toasted”. I wonder if it is bad for you to eat very heavily toasted, almost (but not quite) blackened granola…..
Bummer – beyond heavily toasted granola
The latest in my flora and fauna world – while driving down the road I saw a hawk struggling to lift off with a very large something in its talons. It looked sort of gray-ish and could have been a large squirrel. Or a cat (I hope not). Or something else, draped and hanging down from the hawk’s grasp. The bird was having a rough time gaining any altitude. I couldn’t pull over to watch because there was traffic behind me. But the image stayed with me.
On another day last week I was heading down a hill, admiring the kaleidoscope of fall foliage, when I saw a bear running parallel to my car through the trees on the side of the road. I pulled over to see what it was going to do. With significant speed it veered off onto a side street, its large bear-butt rolling and shaking (very adorable, actually) as it retreated down the pavement and out of sight. That is the second bear I have seen this season. Sightings seem to be more and more frequent. This past week a young black bear was struck by a school bus on one of our local roads, which is the first time I have heard about anything like that happening, someone actually hitting a bear. Usually it’s deer. This was upsetting and sad news.
On a nicer note, I went to visit my friend and neighbor of many years in her rather magical rainbow house. I go there every once in a while to touch base and clear my head. She once said to me “Mi casa es su casa“, which felt inviting and kind; indeed it is grounding for me to wander around communing with nature, share updates and get into some thought-provoking dialog. It runs the gamut. Travel. Family. Nature. Emotions. Marek’s disease in chickens. One of the topics that stuck with me the other day was Object Permanence in relation to Narcissism. Intelligent and insightful conversation. I value the perspective and left there feeling more centered.
“Mi casa es su casa”
The ginkgo trees are in full lemon-yellow display. I love ginkgo leaves with their beautiful fan shape. They make lovely patterns on the ground. The crushed ginkgo seeds, or “ginkgo nuts” of the female trees smell really bad (actually like vomit). There is one area of the sidewalk down the street that is littered with those smelly things every year. I have read that the seeds contain a toxin that can sicken a dog. Rudi did not eat any of these, but it’s good information to know.
Flocks of starlings have been hanging out on The Crow Tree. Every once in a while there is a raven or a hawk, but mostly it’s become a starling haven. They are okay, but I don’t find them as exciting at the crows.
Starlings hanging out…..not as cool as the crows
Today I pruned back the lavender in preparation for winter. Hopefully next year the plants will come back with a wonderful show of blooms. I always lose one or two every year, or they become too woody due to my usual hands-off neglect. So I made a tiny effort….we will see. I noticed there are no praying mantis egg cases attached to any of them this year. While I was doing the trimming, there was a very vocal Carolina Wren singing a melodious song. It was a nice accompaniment, the scent of the lavender, the song of the bird.
Lavender pruning, with Rudi’s supervision
As part of the pre-Halloween cleanup I removed anything from the porch that I might have regrets about losing. Everything would probably be fine if I didn’t bother, but after having had a wicker chair walk off years ago, I would just as soon bring the remaining ones in for the night and not leave out any temptation, especially since in this neighborhood we get some significant Halloween traffic. Some of the plants that summered outdoors need to come inside anyway. I rolled up the colorful little outdoor rugs and stored them. And then of course I had to sweep, since it’s littered with dirt, peeling paint and debris.
I seriously hate sweeping. I think I hate sweeping more than I hate vacuuming, but less than I hate painting. A trio of domestic aversions. I have a friend who is a very enthusiastic and productive sweeper. She learned at a young age to sweep. Sweeping was her chore and she does it well. As a matter of fact, a few years ago she actually swept my porch with great gusto and and did a beautifully thorough job of it. My sweeping is for shame. I have made a pathetic attempt at it this year. The poor porch needs a total revamp though, it’s a flaking, rotting, falling apart mess. I think at this point even a perfect sweeping job would be undermined by the condition of this porch.
After I finished sweeping I sat down on the somewhat cleaner porch and ate a greasy eggroll leftover from last night. I periodically get a craving for eggrolls. It was very satisfying.
greasy but oh so good….
On the subject of food, I just printed off a slew of recipes I have been coming across and emailing to myself all year with intent to experiment with. Since we are moving into soup season, the other day I decided to wing it and threw together a pea and sweet potato soup flavored with za’atar, which ended up being pretty tasty. This winter I hope to get into some interesting cooking endeavors.
So that’s what’s been mostly going on in my world this past month. We have just tipped past the peak of autumn, but it is still lovely, the hills carpeted in an ochre rust with pops of vermillion and gold here and there. A few holdout trees are still wearing green. I have been gathering leaves and making little leaf mandalas on the front lawn or in the driveway, but the wind keeps blowing them away before I can finish, so I’m mostly just stacking them one on top of the other and enjoying the contrasts. The art of impermanence….
The color is peaking in style this year here in the northeast. Despite skepticism that it wouldn’t happen due to the drought, Autumn is delivering with a pupil-dilating, heart-opening array of almost trippy leaf psychedelia. We are pulsing with color and emotion here.
It started a couple of weeks ago with a strange, almost magical buildup of clouds after a drenching rain. Suddenly everything was pink and gold and very Maxfield Parrish.
From there, a vibrancy seemed to emanate from everything. The paw-paws came into season for a brief window of time. Have you ever had a paw-paw? They are a glowing, shocky-green and taste a bit like custard.
the almost neon paw-paws
The photos do not do justice to the emotions brought on by the visual and aural vibrations of this season. I do not have the poetry for it. I cannot adequately grasp the words. Why does it evoke such ache and longing, and a strange yearning for the past? To walk out the door, sigh and gasp, and almost moan at the gorgeousness. Everything is ” Oh” and “wow”. Wow. Wow. Oh……..
Raindrops hover below crimson firebush leaves.
droplets on a fire bush
There are glimpses of endless blue beyond portals of gold.
through a portal of gold
The orchards are perfumed with the sweetness of ripened apples.
A Cortland apple with its own little hat
A trio of oak, maple and fir creates a lovely colorway.
Trio
Deeper in the forest, the mushrooms of autumn display their beauty – the smoky blue of black trumpets tucked amid the shady moss; the candy-corn colors of chicken-of-the-woods on a tree.
the smoky blue of black trumpets
chicken of the woods in candy-corn color
The scented air is an exotic blend of spices. The decaying leaves provide a carpet of many hues. The mountains glow.
There is a painfully delicious melancholy, a fleeting, soul-touching good-bye, as nature lets go before the sleep of winter.
The coloring of Autumn is building to all its glory, and I walk around sighing with mouth agape. But I will share all of that at a later time. Right now the large and small creatures are in motion.
The allure of the asters on the porch have become a gathering place for the bumble bees during the warmer hours of the day. The flowers are alive with their movement. They aren’t holding still long enough so I can catch a good photo, but their bright yellow and deep black bodies against the violet/pink of the blooms are beautiful to watch. The queen bumble bee will hibernate and winter over. The rest of the colony will not last past the fall.
the allure of the asters
A walking stick clings to the arm of a bench where I sit with a friend. There is something about them that is weirdly appealing to me. They are just so odd. In autumn they will leave their eggs behind in the leaf litter and die before winter – that is if the birds or mice don’t make a meal of them first.
The voices of the crickets are lessening, yet a few continue to hold out despite the cooler nights. During the warmth of daytime I see them moving through the grass or bouncing across the sidewalk. One actually made it into the house and hid somewhere in a potted plant, its incessant chirp going off all night like a living smoke alarm that could not be turned off, finally becoming silent on Day Two (I never did find it).
I stop the car to let a flock of turkeys move across the road. I’m not in any rush. They forage among the oaks where the forest floor is rich with this year’s heavy bounty of acorns.
The striped pattern on their wing feathers is striking. When the sun glances off their bodies, they take on a bluish sheen.
Walking through the woods, I spy a doe in a clearing off in the distance. I’m looking at her, she’s looking at me. I try not to move and we just stare at each other for a while. They are pretty bold lately. She doesn’t take off. I leave first and she goes back to her business at hand.
The colors are so vibrant right in my own back yard that it’s not really necessary to go for a foliage drive, but I decided to get into the mountains anyway in order to get the full vista. What looked like a lost piece of luggage on the pavement far up ahead turned out to be a fairly large snapping turtle slowly crossing the road. I was very relieved that the car I flagged down coming in the opposite direction noticed me waving and flashing and was able to stop. We both waited and held up traffic both ways until the snapper made it safely to the other side. The other driver was relieved and profusely thankful that I stopped her in time. I think we both felt pretty good about it.
The snapping turtle will spend the winter in a pond beneath the ice. As it gets colder the turtle’s respiration will slow down so that the very little oxygen it needs will be pulled from the water and into its blood vessels instead of its lungs. I read most of the turtle’s blood vessels are actually in its butt. The turtle essentially breathes through its butt all winter. There is a cool little fact! It will not need to eat, or will eat very little during this time, until it comes up again in the spring to warm up, mate and lay their eggs.
waiting for the turtle
There are wooly caterpillars (aka “wooly bear caterpillars”) here and there. Folklore says that the wooly caterpillar – which is actually the larva of the Isabella tiger moth – can be an indicator of the winter to come, based on the size of the rust brown and black segments. The more rust color, the milder the winter will be. More black segments mean the winter will be harsher. Here is a wooly from my front yard. What kind of a winter do you think we are in for?
How harsh will the winter be?
The geese have already begun to move on. The sound of their calls as they guide and encourage each other on their journey always sets a small ache and longing in my own heart. Every fall when they begin their migration, I recall the lines of a song which has always moved me called “Urge for Going”, written by Joni Mitchell and covered so aptly by Tom Rush many years ago, a riff of the guitar almost mimicking the cry of the geese in their travel:
See the geese in chevron flight Flapping and racing on before the snow… They’ve got the urge for going And they’ve got the wings to go
They get the urge for going When the meadow grass is turning brown And summertime is falling down and winter is closing in
At the moment I am trying to wade through some difficult feelings brought on by some recently revisited trauma. It’s been one of those situations where there is a strange, anxious, physical vibration in your very core. While this has been happening, I have been aimlessly drifting from household chores to outside garden, weeding out old clothes and pulling out rampant weeds, trying to ground myself. Yesterday I started taking things off a closet door hook that was layered with clothing, when I came across The Robe at the bottom of the heap. How the story of The Robe ties into everything else is sort of a meandering, circuitous mind-maze, but I will try to get it down here.
My process of dealing with loss has two very strong opposing sides. When I lose someone important to me, be it a relationship loss or through death, I am capable and responsible for doing what needs to be done. I can arrange a funeral, pack up their stuff, clean out the house, take care of legal business, bury a pet, disperse ashes, go to work and do my job, take care of my children, wade through all the muck that comes up dealing with the practicalities of that kind of major upheaval. I can keep myself busy and at least try to distance myself emotionally while the business occurs. I can immerse myself in the task at hand. As long as I keep moving through it, I can deal with it, or at least give the appearance of such, while trying not to acknowledge the feeling. But once I stop the action and am standing still, emotionally I don’t deal well with death and loss at all. I do not go quietly into the loss. I fall into the pit of despair. I get edgy. I can’t get off the floor. I over-react. I lose sleep. I weep at the least provocation . It takes a long time to get through it. I am haunted. In some cases I have never gotten over it.
The psychic connection of physical possessions has been mentioned sporadically throughout this blog. It’s not that the actual “thing” is necessarily so important as the connection to person or event connected to the thing that vibrates for me. Pretty much everything in my sphere reminds me of someone, of an incident or adventure, which often brings pleasure and smiles. Sometimes it brings sadness. But that is part of life too. A refrigerator magnet that reflects a trip with someone through the southwest. A little diner style coffee cup that was in a departed friend’s cupboard. A necklace that was gifted to me. An interesting stone. A shell. A pair of earrings. Textile art made by a friend. Photographs. A woven pillow. A red phone cube connector from a friend’s house. A metal tin that holds pins. A pair of pants bought on a trip together with a sister. These things surround and embrace me, melding their own stories into my life journey and enriching it. I see everyone who has touched these things and touched my life in everything around me.
Some of these items have their own strange and difficult history. A few of my father’s shirts, ties and handkerchiefs still remain in the house. I don’t know why they need to be here. I have his artwork and his writing and some photos, which leave a much clearer comprehensive picture of who he was. I have some thoughtful, caring gifts from him that I treasure. Yet there is something about the clothing that also reflects the Essence of Dad.
For a long time there was an ironed, white dress shirt that belonged to an Ex that hung in my closet. While he pretty much abandoned everything in our life that we had accumulated together when he left, leaving me living among plenty of physical reminders in the wreckage, it was the only article of actual clothing of his that remained. Although it had no discernable scent, if I put my face to it, whatever primitive olfactory processes still reside in our brains could still detect his presence. It would cause some sort of mini-explosion in my head. It would give me goose-bumps. It would bring tears to my eyes. And it would flood me with an overwhelming, painful grief. I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t part with it either. So it would go back in the closet and get lost among everything else crammed in there, eventually forgotten, only to suddenly and surprisingly resurface again on another day and again be stuffed back into the darkest recesses of the closet again. Eventually I donated that shirt. I knew this was not one of those healthy things to hold on to. But it was a very slow process I had to work though in order to get to that point. I have learned to respect my own processes.
And that brings me around again to the story of The Robe. Years ago, my siblings and I traveled from three different states to converge in a fourth state to attend to our mother bedside when she was on the verge of leaving this earth. On the day following her passing, two of the siblings needed to get on planes and immediately return to their young children and jobs. They would not be returning until we had a memorial service at some undetermined time down the road. And so we felt we should probably go through some of her most personal and valuable things and take them with us before they left, instead of leaving those things in an empty condominium for who knows how long. I will add that this was a terrible, traumatic task to be doing so quickly. It felt almost vulturous, although it was necessary to act on some of it in the moment. Also I think we all needed to hold onto something of hers amid the surrealness and vacuum left in her wake.
The value of what she owned was mostly emotional instead of monetary. Our mother was a practical woman who only had a few classic pieces of tasteful, neutral jewelry and clothing, none of which she wore anymore. There were some important documents we would need immediately. Aside from those immediacies, she had a vast library of art books, artwork on her walls, some of it her own. Dishes from our childhood, some old furniture. She kept everything neat, crisp, clean and tidy.
We split up her small amount of jewelry between us. There was not much we wanted from her closet. By that point in her life she was not going out much, so her wardrobe consisted of cozy sweatpants, housecoats and slippers. Anything we took from there, a sweater or sweatshirt, would just be in order to feel physically close to Mom. As we were sorting through these things and making piles for ourselves or to donate, I pulled out a heavy cotton nightgown and bathrobe set that looked pretty new, almost as if it had never been worn. I usually wear an old ratty hoodie sweatshirt around the house in lieu of a bathrobe. I’m not a bathrobe kind of a person. But I figured the nightie and robe might be a useful thing to have for the winter, kind of an upgrade, especially since it was in great condition and also because it had been hers. So I put it in my take-home pile.
Suddenly my sister Charlotte flew into a rage and started screaming at me, with all the built up grief and pressure that losing your mother just hours before can do to you. “I gave that to Mom!!!! That was MY present to Mom!!!!” Well, OK! Sorry! I didn’t know! This is absolutely not a problem at all. I handed it to her. I don’t need it. It’s yours, it belongs to you, if it means something to you, please take it. I didn’t think anyone would care about it. The connection was hers, not mine. I thought that was the end of it. But the issues with Charlotte always ran far deeper. Whatever childhood resentments, competitiveness, whatever she held inside her just exploded out, triggered by our mother’s death, and I was her target – which was not the first time. She was like some seething, wounded animal. The next morning, all of us broken and in a daze, we got into our cars, got to the airports and traveled back to our homes, our jobs, our families, children and our new reality.
A few weeks later a package arrived for me in the mail. When I opened it up, inside was the nightgown and the bathrobe set. There was no note included. I wasn’t sure if she sent it as a form of apology. Maybe she suddenly realized that it was too hot where she lived in the south to be wearing a heavy nightgown and bathrobe. Maybe she really was remorseful. She had been so verbally abusive and hostile to me that at this point I didn’t want it. I wrapped it up and sent it back to her.
A few weeks later the robe and nightie arrived in a package on my doorstep again. I sent it back again. This happened a number of times, I don’t even recall how often we sent it back and forth. We never discussed it. And I have to tell you that as I type this I am both smiling and welling up a bit with tears, which has always been the case when it comes to the situation between Charlotte and myself. Finally I relented and just took the package. I hung the robe in my closet and wore the nightgown. I think the nightie must have worn out, because I save clothing for years, yet I don’t seem to have the nightie anymore. The bathrobe is still hanging in the closet on a hook under a pile of stuff. I still wear an old hoodie around the house, not a bathrobe, so it never gets worn and is rarely seen. But I have kept it. It does not have an invisible scent like that shirt did that sends my senses into a hyper-alert, but visually it sets something emotional in motion.
Charlotte passed away years ago. I have very few physical reminders of her. Some photographs. A silver bracelet my father gifted each of us – we used to wear them together every time we planned to see each other. Now I have both hers and mine. I wear them both together on her birthday. A tiny gold squirrel charm that my mother gave her when we were young, because she was very squirrel-like. A pair of little bronze squirrels that I had gifted her and came back to me, for the same reason. And The Robe, a representation of words and emotions that were never able to be expressed. Extending grace and compassion is a difficult thing to do after you have been hurt. Lately I have been challenged in this department. The re-emergence of The Robe has sent my thoughts in a stream of different directions.
Yesterday morning I wore the bathrobe for the first time in years. I am going to try to wear it more, perhaps sit on the porch in our back-and-forth robe, drink some coffee, eat some raspberries and process the complicated and emotional nature of relationships.
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