THE PUMPKIN COACH

There are football coaches and pitching coaches and Lamaze coaches and life coaches and coaches for just about everything under the sun. This year, I got myself a pumpkin coach.
Lest you immediately get a mental image of a squat little Disney fairy godmother waving her wand to produce a carriage suitable enough to haul Cinderella off to the ball and happily ever after, rest assured that Bainbridge resident Jim Domo is not a bibbity-bobbity-boo sort of guy. However, he annually wields his magic to produce pumpkins that, while not able to cart off Cinderella and her poofy ballgown, might make a nice home for a whole castle full of singing mice. And nice guy that he is (nobody who grows pumpkins can be nasty), he agreed to take on the challenge of helping me achieve my life long dream of growing my own pumpkins.
We started off with some basic truths about pumpkin growing. You need lots of room. Right off the bat, I knew I was in trouble, at least for growing giant pumpkins. Jim’s garden is about the size of my living room. Mine is 8’ x 4’. So I extracted a promise from my husband that he would not mow anywhere there were vines. This helped enormously since my plants escaped like toddlers from their playpens as soon as they had a couple of leaves.
Then, there’s the issue of seeds. I had saved some from a particularly nice pie pumpkin I’d purchased last year. Jim added to my stash by providing me with a handful from his 2008 specimens, weighing around 750 – 800 pounds, cautioning me that I would probably only use one or two plants and as a first-timer, might only get some in the 50 lb. vicinity. Hmm, I thought. Maybe we ought to declare a moratorium on any mowing!
I started my pie pumpkin seeds fairly early in April in the house. I actually waited too long to plant the giant ones. I was out of town and wanted to make sure they were watered, etc. Big mistake. They never really did get going with any degree of energy. My pie pumpkins, however, took off like crazy as soon as I transplanted them in my garden.
Then came the tricky part. You have to know the difference between a male and female pumpkin flower. This had always puzzled me. They sure looked the same to me. But, Jim told me, the female flower is very different, when you got up close and personal, and only by going out every day and checking, can you be sure when one shows up. When I finally took the time to look, it was pretty evident, even to me. But since the female flower only blossoms for one day, the chances of fertilization is an iffy thing. I resorted to taking a Q-tip with me and “playing bee.”

“I actually pick the males and bring them in the house,” Jim told me later. “In the morning, I take a paintbrush and a glass of wine and transfer the male pollen onto the female flower.” A twinkle in his eye says he might be joking about the glass of wine, but maybe not. It sounds like a good idea to me.
Only a few days after the bee thing, I discovered green bulges on the bottom of two of the female flowers. Heady with excitement, I relayed the information to Jim. “Houston, we have pumpkins!” I chortled. Jim agreed.
A sudden fear struck me. What about the numerous deer who traipsed through our property. Would they be in the mind for a bit of pumpkin appetizer? I grabbed some netting that I often used to keep birds off the raspberries and other things, and draped it over my babies. I also shoved a piece of Styrofoam underneath to keep out critters who came up through the ground. I have to admit I didn’t have the energy around my project that Jim has. I didn’t fertilize or debug--pretty much left well enough alone. But soon, without the fertilizer and extra water or interference from Bambi, they progressed from marble size to golf balls, to tennis balls, and onward.
Meanwhile, Jim was reporting progress in his own garden. His two “babies” were already topping 30 pounds! At one point, he covered them with fabric to keep off the sun, which might dry them out and cause them to crack. And they grew, and grew, and grew.
Giant pumpkins are an obsessive sort of thing. Just Google the phrase and see what comes up. Or ask Jim’s wife, Mary Kay.
To make a long story short, we both recently harvested our pumpkins. I was surprised to discover how hard it is to cut through a pumpkin stem. Plus, both stems had sent out roots into the ground which required a bit of tugging. Jim actually uses this phenomenon, covering his vines so they’ll grow roots for additional nourishment. Right now, mine are sitting on our front step, waiting for their next starring role, which will be in a pie shell with real whipped cream on top. Maybe some pumpkin muffins, too. That’s about as far as they’ll stretch.
In front of the Domo house sit his five pumpkins, three of which he only discovered after pulling up the vines. He had to construct an elaborate tripod and pulley system to get them out of the patch behind his house and into the front yard. The largest weighed in at 925 lbs and captured tenth place at the Giant Pumpkin Weigh-Off in Dublin, OH. But half the fun of growing pumpkins is turning them into glowing jack-o-lanterns, and this is where Jim’s pumpkins are headed. Trick or Treaters trekking up Jim’s driveway each year are probably a bit startled, and perhaps a Cinderella or two will begin dreaming of rolling off in it to find Prince Charming.
Next year. “You’ve caught the fever,” Jim tells me. I think he’s right.

Addendum

Here's a couple of pictures that will give you some idea of what happened in that very long period of time between posts. The posts that I didn't delete, that is.

That's me, hanging around in Hocking Hills, Ohio! What fun!

And Baby Kate having her first up close and personal encounter with the ocean. (P.S. She loved it!) Hilton Head, SC

BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN

Okay, so I've been a slacker. I never was too good at keeping a lot of balls in the air, and this one fell in the midst of a whole bunch of issues, vacations, and just plain LIFE. I've made a date with myself to post to my blog every Monday morning, first thing. I'm even putting it on my calendar so I remember. Meanwhile, I'm sending along this essay that I did for a local newspaper. That committment has at least kept me writing something. Enjoy!

SCRAPBAG

Fall comes with a slight tilt to the sun that brings thoughts of fuzzy socks and wool sweaters and a sudden longing for a bowl of soup and a chunk of hearty bread.
Like Richard Nixon, I am not a cook. Something like that. What I mean is that in over four decades of being the primary source of meals in our family, never once did anyone ever complain about e-coli or salmonella. You may, to this day, hear them cast aspersions about my Creamed Tuna on Toast or Peanut Butter Meatballs, but they had the good sense to wait until they were out of the house.
There is one area, however, where I shine. Or at least throw off a few glints. Baking.
Some might argue that there’s no difference between baking and cooking, but I disagree. The difference is simple: ingredients.
With cooking, you’re always faced with buying stuff like jicama and tahini and bean threads and orzo and a thousand other ingredients that you might use once and then spend the next several years worrying about their expiration dates.
Baking is a lot less complicated: flour, butter, eggs, yeast, salt, maybe some honey and seeds and oatmeal, things like that. It just depends on how you put them together. I recently made some rye bread and used caraway seeds that I guessed were at least 25 years and three or four moves old. (Not to worry. Nobody in this viewing area had occasion to ingest them and those that did, didn’t die. To my knowledge.)
Another thing about baking. With cooking, there’s always what I call the Euwww factor, as in “Euwww. I don’t like turnips (or venison or Brussels spouts or garbanzo beans or fill in the blank).” That’s why the entrée offerings on a menu are always more plentiful than the dessert list. Rarely do you see anyone turn a nose up at a chocolate brownie, for example, or a thick slab of Italian bread, or a doughnut.
Baking is also a lot more fun than cooking. With cooking, you have hoards of family or company hovering like vultures, often drooling, right there in the kitchen, waiting for you to put something on the table. You have to placate them with offerings of wine and little crackers on which they spread all kinds of weird stuff like artichokes or sauerkraut or goat cheese or jalapenos or crab meat. You might get a few minutes of rest while you’re eating, but then it’s time to clean up the dishes.
When I bake, it’s very often a quiet day, on the cool side, and with nobody else around. I put on my apron (or not—jeans often suffice) and soon I’m happily covered with flour and stirring and mixing and kneading my frustrations out with a vengeance. By the end of the preparation process, I throw the whole thing in the oven or in a bowl to rise and spend the next half hour or so reading a good book. When I feel like it, I leisurely wash up the measuring cups and spoons and add the bowls to the dishwasher.
Later, when whoever shows up for dinner, they enter the house and immediately exclaim, “Oooohhh! What smells so good!” This is the power of yeast and/or chocolate—the Oooohhh factor that is the complete opposite of the Euwww factor. I smile, pull boxes of frozen chicken and frozen broccoli out of the freezer, grab a potato or two and toss everything in the oven, serving it by the time you can boot up a computer and check e-mails, complete with a slab of warm bread and butter. Fresh bread that has the power to overcome any culinary deficit.
Bon appétit!

Happy Holidays!

Just to let everyone know that I'm alive and well and have been pretty busy, what with one thing or another. Some good, some not so good. But now I'm on the cusp of a New Year and of course, one of my resolutions (do I need more than one to keep track of?) is to be a more faithful blogster. So, please return in 2009 and see what's new and interesting in the life of this writer in her quest to Catch the Bad Guys! (Hint: a new project will be underway shortly. Resolution #2, I guess.) Blessings!

Snippets from the Scrapbag

In my "spare" time, I've been writing a column for a small local paper. It's kind of an off and on thing, but I thought it might work to post my scribblings to this site. The column is called SCRAPBAG, because in days gone by, people used to keep scraps of fabric in a bag to use in mending or making quilts. So, these are little snippets of thoughts from my brain. Here are a couple of the most recent.

I call him Jim, because he reminds me of a guy I knew who could be found each and every morning standing at the local Dunkin’ Donuts, jump-starting his day with high test coffee. (I almost changed my mind and renamed him “Mike,” after the gangly Olympic wunderkind with whom he has so much in common—especially an affinity for anything water. But, well, named is named.)
Each and every morning, I see Jim standing in the middle of Lower Bear Lake or in the reedy fringe, his body perched high on stork-like legs. I like his summery suit of pale blue and white, almost like a seersucker. Ready for the office. Thin neck crooked, he peers into the depths as if contemplating the day’s assortment of pastries. Let’s see. Sunny? Bass? Hmm. Maybe too much of a tangle with that one. Then, suddenly the neck uncrooks and a sharp beak stabs the surface of the water, returning seconds later with a flapping piece of breakfast. A few quick gulps and he’s back to his musing. If I get too close, he flaps his huge wings and skims off to a more remote spot.
The past month or so has been excellent for early walks, before the day heats up and I find more excuses than I need not to get out and stretch the muscles. I, like Jim, need a jolt to get my day going. And it’s good to be out among the rest of the world, whether it’s Jim or the man who moseys along with his two elderly dogs or runners and cyclers or the little clutch of ducklings who seem a bit small for this time of year. The other day, I thought I saw a kingfisher, and a couple of deer paused on the path that leads to the house. We all paused, politely waiting for the other to pass, but I won that round and they eventually wandered off. Then, there are the smaller wonders—gossamer spider webs or a leaf that has already turned bright red or slanting rays of sunlight piercing the trees like golden fingers. I have to remember to bring my camera. Once in a while I have captured a special image to upload onto my jigsaw puzzle web site. It’s fun to put them together, recreating the moment piece by piece.
A few times this week, we’ve taken the longer bridle path through the woods. There are more ups and downs than on the lake trail and my muscles eventually feel the strain. I take comfort in the thought that I’m doing them some good. I’ve taken the time to stretch before my walks lately, which seems to make a difference. Sometimes I make a game of it, standing Jim-like on one leg to see if I can balance, but keeping close to something solid in case I topple.
It’s been a gorgeous summer for being outdoors. I’ve visited quite a few places, some purporting to be paradise, but nothing can compare to a splendid day in Northeast Ohio. I think if we could ask Jim, he’d agree.



“See? This is why I don’t want to get old.”
It was July 4, 2008, and my son and I were standing on the aft deck of a boat that was cruising along the Kona Coast of Hawaii’s Big Island. Up top, a couple of surfer dude-looking guys were scanning the ocean for a pod of spinner dolphins that had been lazily digesting their nocturnal meal of squid as they swam. The intent was to position the boat ahead of where the dolphins were moving so that we could all jump off.
On the boat were perhaps fifteen or twenty people, ranging in age from about ten to—well, me. We were all excited to see these gentle beasts of the sea up close and personal. I was especially happy to be doing it with kids and grandkids. It would certainly be an adventure to share.
A stir in the water to the left signaled that we had found the pod. Several dolphins had surfaced, some skimming the water in the traditional arc, others leaping into the air with the twisting motion that gave this particular species its name. Fascinated, we watched for a while, then the boat put on a bust of speed to get in front of them. The engine came to a halt and the signal was given to enter the water. We had been told to just lay flat on our stomachs and use our flippers. Flailing hands might scare the dolphins.
I’d like to say I gracefully eased into the water, but from a foot or so above the water, a splash is inevitable. I managed to get my mask and snorkel in place and took off after those already moving away. Head down, hands at my sides, I paddled along, my eyes shifting from side to side. Then I remembered that the surfer dudes had said to look down.
Suddenly, there they were, several feet below me, moving along like huge silver bullets. I didn’t even think to be afraid. They looked so peaceful and for sure, they weren’t interested in the rather odd shaped pink fish up above. Movement to the side of me. A trio of dolphins swam by about a yard away. I almost could have reached out and touched them. One had a neat, circular bite mark near its tail, the result, we discovered later, of an encounter with what’s called a “cookie cutter” shark. As they passed, one playfully nudged another with his nose and they all disappeared into the murky distance. Moments later, more dolphins appeared. I tried to swim after them, but of course it proved futile. My muscles are no match for theirs.Back on board, the excited chatter began. “Did you see…?” “Did you hear them talking?” Everyone had a story.
Five separate times, we were privileged to enter the dolphins’ world. I didn’t want the day to end. Which what had prompted my comment to my son.
At some point, we both agreed, everything will come to an end. The trick is to stretch it out as far as you can. So far, I’ve been blessed with the healthy genes that seem to run in my family, although I’m beginning to understand what my mother meant when she often said, “If they only knew how much effort it takes to look this good!”
Old is what you make of it. Live it to the max. Do some kind of work. Play. Laugh. Learn something new every day. Eat right. Make your body move as much as possible, even when it hurts. Read. Help somebody else. Have friends. Have faith. And hope. And love. There’s no better way.

NEW BOOK!

Join me in welcoming Twitcher McGee, a mouse with a problem. Food. In this case, a decided lack of. But one magical Christmas night, a tree appears outside Twitcher's mouse hole. And it's decorated with cheese! Who has been so thoughtful of a small, grey mouse? In short order, he finds out.

This is my first attempt at doing my own illustrations, but I think kids will enjoy them.

Anyway, the publication date is September, 2008, the price is $4.95 and they're available from Dragonseed Press, P.O. Box 23266, Chagrin Falls, OH 44023.

Erin and Friends

I wish this was me, body-wise. It's my granddaughter, but I was in the water, too, experiencing the same thing. Erin is one of those people who immediately attract animals. She was having a wonderful time just playing with these spinner dolphins. And they with her, I think.

Happy Summer!

I hope everybody didn't give up on me when they clicked on my blog address and found--hah! Nothing new! (Okay, I just snuck one in that had been saved and not posted in May. So sue me.) But that's the problem with summer. No nose-gnawing winds to keep one inside writing things. Since the Big Freeze left, I've been out and about, planting seeds, visiting family and friends, and just generally making memories to keep me warm when I'm back inside shivering inside my woollies.

I just returned from a five week trip--my longest ever. The first few nights home I found myself waking up wondering where I was and in what direction the bathroom might be, just in case I had to make fast tracks. I think I'm over that and the jet lag and it actually feels like I have a whole new wardrobe! Try wearing the same things over and over for 35 days! (In case you're wondering, yes, I did toss them in somebody's washing machine every so often.)

Anyway, where I was, mostly, was Washington State. For three weeks I stayed with our youngest son and his family in the Tri-Cities area on the eastern (and dry) side of the mountains and had a great time crawling around the floor playing trains with PJ, who is three. I'm obviously not three. My muscles told me that every time I tried to get up. I finally convinced PJ that I had "old bones" and couldn't follow him indefinitely. We came to an acceptable compromise where I could sit on the front steps sometimes.

After that, Pat and I drove through the Snoqualmie Pass to the western or wet side, although it was actually kind of nice there for a change. We regrouped our suitcases and then headed for Hawaii for a week. My first time ever. Beautiful. Stunning sunsets, tiki torches, lush vegetation, and mai tais. Hawaii, if you've never been there, seems almost like a foreign country. Although once you master "aloha" and "mahalo," you're pretty much home-free in the language department, there is a decidedly different look to street and town names. It's like the founding fathers got feeling giddy and just started throwing vowels and accent marks into perfectly good words. Kilauea, Honolulu, Hawai'i, a'ama--and those were the easy ones. They actually had three kings named Kamehameha. In all honesty, one you mastered some of them, they were kind of fun to say. I'm still trying to figure out the Hawai'an name for Place of Refuge, which is a sanctuary and historical site. Don't try it when you've had a few mai tais: Pu'uhonua o Honaunau. Also, almost everyone tells you, steer clear of poi, which is a purplish paste that is the staple food of the Hawai'ians. My kindergarten paste tasted better.

On the Fourth of July, we boarded a boat and went out in search of dolphins. And that's another story for when I get my pictures. Until then, aloha!

STAYING BETWEEN THE LINES

This must be my week/month/year for weird things. The other day, I was pulling out of the driveway to run an errand when I noticed this little piece of paper stuck under my windshield wiper.

My first thought was that it was a parking ticket, so you can imagine my relief. But then what was it doing under my wiper blade? I flipped it over and found--

Another puzzle for me to solve. But it didn't take me long to figure out that this was a rather civil form of road rage. Obviously, I hadn't parked my car cleanly within the space marked. I tried to think, but couldn't even remember exactly where I'd been in the past few days. Just about every parking lot I go to has room for about a gazillion cars. The other thing was that if there's anybody who's a "between the lines" person, it's me. I took great pride (still do) in neatly coloring in my coloring books. This person must have been seriouisly ticked off to grab whatever was handy--some box--rip off part of it and furiously scribble "Yellow lines!" I'm assuming it was a male. I hope he didn't fire his secretary or something when he got to work. Sheesh. Get a life.

And by the way, if there are any of you still onfused by "entropy plaza," here's a picture of it. Notice the "order into chaos?"

OF SHOES AND DEAD MICE

Wow! It's been quite a long time since I tapped out a new message, hasn't it? Many things going on these days.

I was going on an errand one day a while ago and had come to an intersection onto the main highway. Lying in the street was a white sneaker. A fairly new one, and small, perhaps a child about six or eight. I chuckled as I thought of the kid who liked to go barefoot nonchalantly tossing the sneaker out the car window as the car rolled to a stop and how the mom would probably tear up her house looking for it later that day or the next. Of course, if it had been my kid, it wouldn't have been so funny. Socks not returning from the washing machine were bad enough.

On my way home from my errand, coming to the intersection again from a completely different direction and on a different side road about a half mile south of the other side road, I saw another sneaker. White. Small. New. Now my writer's mind kicked into high gear. Possible scenarios: Mom put both sneakers on the roof of the car as she was hustling everybody off to soccer practice. Then forgot about them. Sneakers eventually fell off. Except--how did the second sneaker survive the turn? Or did the kid dangle the second sneaker by the shoelace for a while before letting go? Was this an abduction and someone was trying to leave a trail? Better than breadcrumbs, certainly. Weird.

Of such everyday events are stories made. Perhaps the errant sneakers will eventually find their way into a book or story. One never knows.

The worms are officially dead. Well, actually, a couple survived, but they went into the compost heap to see if they'd fare better with even more neglect.

And the mice are gone. All four of them. We caught three of them--one still alive, but doomed to spend the rest of his days hopping around with a tiny crutch, like Tiny Tim Cratchitt. The last mouse had spent the last four years attached to my computer. When it didn't move anymore, I suspected foul play, especially when I took it to the computer store and it worked fine there. The tech, however, suggested I might want to get a backup, just in case. Smart man. Back home, the mouse still wouldn't work, but the new one did. I'm glad I got it, too, because I just purchased a new laptop and will need one there.

Hope you're enjoying the trans-seasonal weather wherever you are!