Facebook.
Love it!
Hate it!
I could care less.
What’s Facebook?
Unless you’ve been living under a rock lately, you’re aware of Facebook, the popular and controversial social networking site. Where we used to get our personal news from the town crier, and then Mabel, the gossipy telephone operator, and more recently, the annual Christmas letter, we now have our own giant cyberspace bulletin board. Is there such a thing as TMI? Too Much Information?
Legitimate worries abound: privacy, stuff you post coming back to haunt you in a job search or college application, ads targeted to your spending habits, crooks looking to see when you’re going to be on vacation so they can break in and make off with your plasma TV. And more.
Facebook probably isn’t going to go away any time soon. I don’t know how many gazillion users it has at the moment, but it’s a huge number. I’m one of them.
I like to think I use Facebook sensibly. I limit viewers to those people I invite to be friends, I check in periodically to see who’s doing what, I try not to put anything personal out there, and I’ve pretty much trained myself to ignore any and all web-based advertising. Maybe you’re not a business or need to stay connected with everyone you ever met, but there’s no reason not to use it. And several good reasons why you should.
Few families live around the corner from each other any more. More likely, it’s around the world. I currently have close relatives in Japan and Thailand and at least a quarter of the 50 states. It’s hard to keep up with everyone, and everyone with me. Facebook has been, therefore, like an ongoing family reunion, without Aunt Sally’s famous baked beans and the water balloon tossing event. I can even pass around my photos and see the latest additions to the clan, sometimes only hours after birth. During the recent upheaval in Thailand, my nephew was able to quickly assure everyone that he was okay. I learned when a friend had returned from Paris and it was a lot easier for a wife who was meeting her relatives for the first time because she’d “met” them already on Facebook. During the winter, one of my nephews posted something about Robert Frost’s “Stopping By the Woods on a Snowy Evening” and several people had fun chiming in with the subsequent lines. There are frequently calls for help in finding things to amuse a sick toddler and I’ve been able to assure a college-age grandkid that we’re praying for him during exams. The older I get, the more these connections mean to me.
Maybe you’re not a computer person. There are plenty of you out there. Rest assured, I’m still going to enjoy getting those hand-written Christmas cards with the yearly family updates.
NOTE: This is not posted on Facebook: My potatoes are doing great, at least as far as the foliage is concerned. It’s pretty frustrating when the only part of the plant I’m interested in is underground.
6/29/10
6/7/10
SUMMER GARDENING
It’s planting time again and since I added Growing Pumpkins to my “Done That” list last year, I decided it was time to move on to other adventures in agriculture. I’m going to be growing potatoes.
I have to admit that up until a few months ago, I knew absolutely nothing about potatoes, except that you don’t want to toss raw ones in your compost bin and that as French fries, they really dress up a burger. But my master gardener sister gave me one of her Ozette potatoes and I was smitten.
Ozette potatoes, at least the one I had, looked more like a hot dog. It was long and skinny and well, kind of funny-looking, and came complete with a history that captivated me even more than its unusual appearance.
The Ozette Indian tribe of the Pacific Northwest once lived on a little slice of land on the westernmost side of the Olympic Peninsula, which is still only accessible by water. They had quite a culture, including the ability to make wooden boxes out of a flat piece of wood without sawing anything. I saw an example of this at the Makah Cultural and Research Center in Neah Bay, Washington. My sister had worked for the US Public Health Service in Neah Bay for several years and was eager to see the new display about the Ozette people when we visited there last October. It seems the tiny coastal village was decimated around 1700 by a mud slide. The survivors paddled up the coast to Neah Bay and were eventually assimilated into the Makah tribe.
The town lay buried and ostensibly forgotten, until it was discovered that tidal erosion was gradually washing what remained of the settlement out into the Pacific. Thus began a massive 11 year project to remove the ancient artifacts. Water was pumped into the site as a means of uncovering the artifacts, as digging and other common means of excavating would have damaged them beyond repair. Some 55,000 objects were retrieved and are on display at the Makah museum. If you ever wander out to what is frequently referred to as the westernmost part of the contiguous United States, be sure to visit the museum. It’s well worth spending a half of a day, and its new Welcome Statues, some 30’ high, are delightful introductions to the small fishing community.
Ozette potatoes were introduced to the Northwest by explorers from Central and South America. There has been renewed interest in the tasty tubers in the Seattle area and elsewhere, so I feel myself honored that perhaps I can introduce them to our area. My sister adds to my collection of one potato by adding several more smaller seed potatoes.
How to grow them, though. I needed to find that out. Potatoes like lots of sun, which is in somewhat short supply on our property. Where can I dig a hole that doesn’t impact the septic system and which is out of the shade? As I mull this over, my sister comes to my rescue once again. There is, she e-mails me, such a thing as a potato bag. I go to the link and find that indeed there is—a large container that appears to be made of perhaps landscape cloth. Fill it with dirt and potatoes and plop in a patch of sunlight, water well, and voila! Spuds for the upcoming winter months. I order two of the bags. I figure I can use the other for either regular potatoes or maybe some squash vines. Although enticed by the availability of special pre-mixed soil, I draw the line. There’s something about paying for shipping dirt that just doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense.
As of this writing, my potato bags have not arrived, but rest assured I’ll be detailing my progress as the summer (if we ever get one) waxes and wanes. Happy growing, all you gardeners!
I have to admit that up until a few months ago, I knew absolutely nothing about potatoes, except that you don’t want to toss raw ones in your compost bin and that as French fries, they really dress up a burger. But my master gardener sister gave me one of her Ozette potatoes and I was smitten.
Ozette potatoes, at least the one I had, looked more like a hot dog. It was long and skinny and well, kind of funny-looking, and came complete with a history that captivated me even more than its unusual appearance.
The Ozette Indian tribe of the Pacific Northwest once lived on a little slice of land on the westernmost side of the Olympic Peninsula, which is still only accessible by water. They had quite a culture, including the ability to make wooden boxes out of a flat piece of wood without sawing anything. I saw an example of this at the Makah Cultural and Research Center in Neah Bay, Washington. My sister had worked for the US Public Health Service in Neah Bay for several years and was eager to see the new display about the Ozette people when we visited there last October. It seems the tiny coastal village was decimated around 1700 by a mud slide. The survivors paddled up the coast to Neah Bay and were eventually assimilated into the Makah tribe.
The town lay buried and ostensibly forgotten, until it was discovered that tidal erosion was gradually washing what remained of the settlement out into the Pacific. Thus began a massive 11 year project to remove the ancient artifacts. Water was pumped into the site as a means of uncovering the artifacts, as digging and other common means of excavating would have damaged them beyond repair. Some 55,000 objects were retrieved and are on display at the Makah museum. If you ever wander out to what is frequently referred to as the westernmost part of the contiguous United States, be sure to visit the museum. It’s well worth spending a half of a day, and its new Welcome Statues, some 30’ high, are delightful introductions to the small fishing community.
Ozette potatoes were introduced to the Northwest by explorers from Central and South America. There has been renewed interest in the tasty tubers in the Seattle area and elsewhere, so I feel myself honored that perhaps I can introduce them to our area. My sister adds to my collection of one potato by adding several more smaller seed potatoes.
How to grow them, though. I needed to find that out. Potatoes like lots of sun, which is in somewhat short supply on our property. Where can I dig a hole that doesn’t impact the septic system and which is out of the shade? As I mull this over, my sister comes to my rescue once again. There is, she e-mails me, such a thing as a potato bag. I go to the link and find that indeed there is—a large container that appears to be made of perhaps landscape cloth. Fill it with dirt and potatoes and plop in a patch of sunlight, water well, and voila! Spuds for the upcoming winter months. I order two of the bags. I figure I can use the other for either regular potatoes or maybe some squash vines. Although enticed by the availability of special pre-mixed soil, I draw the line. There’s something about paying for shipping dirt that just doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense.
As of this writing, my potato bags have not arrived, but rest assured I’ll be detailing my progress as the summer (if we ever get one) waxes and wanes. Happy growing, all you gardeners!
4/22/10
Scrapbag
Sometimes of an early morning, as I stir and stretch, my mind drifts in the stillness of a new day and I begin to wander through the homes where I have lived.
Today, it’s my childhood home—a lovely Tudor-style single family that my mother and father had built just before the end of WWII. It was a split level, unusual for its time, with four bedrooms, a bath and a half, a family room, laundry room, basement and attic. It cost $12,500. We moved in the summer of my fifth birthday.
I enter through the milk chute. In those days of home delivery, it was a handy place for the milkman to stash the bottles, but also provides an emergency hatch if you find yourself locked out. For a few years, anyway, until you get too big..
Once inside, I’m standing in the laundry room—a full sized room with washer/dryer, double laundry tubs and a whole wall of built in cupboards and closets. I envy it now. In winter, the popular feature is the Mitten Rack. I think my dad built it. It comes out from the wall with arms on either side to slip on soggy mittens after a day on the slopes.
Through a short hall is what we call the Pine Room, paneled in knotty pine. It houses our upright piano and also a wonderful vent in the wall that pours hot air out between the couch and bookcase. In one corner is the infamous Dragon Vase, which I inherited. With good reason. I used to stash my old apple cores and tangerine peels in it.
Up a level is the kitchen with its family table in front of a picture window. There are glass shelves on it that hold an assortment of knickknacks. I can almost taste the mashed carrots and baked potatoes that kept our insides warm in winter and the exquisitely decorated birthday cakes.
On that floor is the dining room, scene of Sunday dinners with family, as well as Thanksgiving. Also, the living room, traditionally furnished with a cheery fireplace. In front of the picture window, I see our German feather Christmas tree, decorated to within an inch of its life. It’s a comfortable place and used quite a bit. In Lent, I see us all kneeling to say the Rosary, and in a sadder time, it holds my father’s casket.
The major staircase, where I learn the words “newel post,” leads up to my parents’ bedroom and mine. For a time, I shared it with my sister Kathy, six years younger than myself. I think we may have engaged in a few hostilities here and there. There is a cubby hole in my bedroom. I think it was to keep blankets in, but it was also great for trying out my brand new super-duper glow-in-the-dark decoder ring as soon as it came in the mail.
Up a few more stairs is a landing and a full bathroom. It’s there I construct my May altar to the Blessed Mother, with strings of blue and white crepe paper and vases of sweet-smelling lilacs, tulips, and lilies of the valley.
Off the landing is my brothers’ bedroom with its plaid wallpaper and my older sisters’ room, with its huge walk-in closet where I once hunted for Christmas presents in early December.
All windows have storms on them in winter to keep out the cold. However, at the bottom is a slot that can be moved up to expose three holes that let in the crisp night air.
The attic tops the house. It’s where our Christmas tree is kept, and the old glass-fronted bookcase that holds my dad’s medical books. I love thinking of the fact that it now holds our son’s medical books.
I cast my mind around one last time, spying the fruit cellar in the basement where my mom keep the jars of tomatoes, from which she makes the most awesome spaghetti sauce, simmered for hours in the deep well in our stove. I see the screened-in back porch so good for summer sleeping without mosquitoes, and the detached garage and double drive-way where I once practiced three point turns because nobody could go out and work on my driving with me. Sheltering the yard is the huge split-trunk maple I brought home as a small twig from Aunt May’s house. I climb it and sit among its branches once again.
There are other houses that I will wander another day, perhaps none with quite so many memories. Satisfied, though, for the moment, I rise and start the day.
Today, it’s my childhood home—a lovely Tudor-style single family that my mother and father had built just before the end of WWII. It was a split level, unusual for its time, with four bedrooms, a bath and a half, a family room, laundry room, basement and attic. It cost $12,500. We moved in the summer of my fifth birthday.
I enter through the milk chute. In those days of home delivery, it was a handy place for the milkman to stash the bottles, but also provides an emergency hatch if you find yourself locked out. For a few years, anyway, until you get too big..
Once inside, I’m standing in the laundry room—a full sized room with washer/dryer, double laundry tubs and a whole wall of built in cupboards and closets. I envy it now. In winter, the popular feature is the Mitten Rack. I think my dad built it. It comes out from the wall with arms on either side to slip on soggy mittens after a day on the slopes.
Through a short hall is what we call the Pine Room, paneled in knotty pine. It houses our upright piano and also a wonderful vent in the wall that pours hot air out between the couch and bookcase. In one corner is the infamous Dragon Vase, which I inherited. With good reason. I used to stash my old apple cores and tangerine peels in it.
Up a level is the kitchen with its family table in front of a picture window. There are glass shelves on it that hold an assortment of knickknacks. I can almost taste the mashed carrots and baked potatoes that kept our insides warm in winter and the exquisitely decorated birthday cakes.
On that floor is the dining room, scene of Sunday dinners with family, as well as Thanksgiving. Also, the living room, traditionally furnished with a cheery fireplace. In front of the picture window, I see our German feather Christmas tree, decorated to within an inch of its life. It’s a comfortable place and used quite a bit. In Lent, I see us all kneeling to say the Rosary, and in a sadder time, it holds my father’s casket.
The major staircase, where I learn the words “newel post,” leads up to my parents’ bedroom and mine. For a time, I shared it with my sister Kathy, six years younger than myself. I think we may have engaged in a few hostilities here and there. There is a cubby hole in my bedroom. I think it was to keep blankets in, but it was also great for trying out my brand new super-duper glow-in-the-dark decoder ring as soon as it came in the mail.
Up a few more stairs is a landing and a full bathroom. It’s there I construct my May altar to the Blessed Mother, with strings of blue and white crepe paper and vases of sweet-smelling lilacs, tulips, and lilies of the valley.
Off the landing is my brothers’ bedroom with its plaid wallpaper and my older sisters’ room, with its huge walk-in closet where I once hunted for Christmas presents in early December.
All windows have storms on them in winter to keep out the cold. However, at the bottom is a slot that can be moved up to expose three holes that let in the crisp night air.
The attic tops the house. It’s where our Christmas tree is kept, and the old glass-fronted bookcase that holds my dad’s medical books. I love thinking of the fact that it now holds our son’s medical books.
I cast my mind around one last time, spying the fruit cellar in the basement where my mom keep the jars of tomatoes, from which she makes the most awesome spaghetti sauce, simmered for hours in the deep well in our stove. I see the screened-in back porch so good for summer sleeping without mosquitoes, and the detached garage and double drive-way where I once practiced three point turns because nobody could go out and work on my driving with me. Sheltering the yard is the huge split-trunk maple I brought home as a small twig from Aunt May’s house. I climb it and sit among its branches once again.
There are other houses that I will wander another day, perhaps none with quite so many memories. Satisfied, though, for the moment, I rise and start the day.
Scrapbag
The Arizona sun feels warm on my face and my whole body is just sucking up all the Vitamin D it can absorb. Peering out from my sandals, my toes look the happiest they’ve been for months, even though a pebble occasionally jumps up from the trail to lodge under my foot. After enduring piles of snow for the past two months, everything feels delicious.
Moving ahead, trailing behind, or amiably ambling next to me are my two brothers and three sisters. We’re exploring the fascinating Desert Museum outside of Tucson. It’s a museum, zoo, and botanical garden all in one and I’ve been making the acquaintance of some animal species I’ve never encountered before, such as the somewhat pig-like javelina, which roams wild and like our deer, can do a number on local landscaping. In one cage is a roadrunner, running, of course. The video on my camera isn’t fast enough (or I’m not) to capture him, but he climbs up on a pile of rocks and poses for a still shot. One of my sisters comments that until recently, she thought a roadrunner was just a cartoon figure. That’s not an uncommon belief, I’ve discovered. But he’s real enough. Just doesn’t go “meep-meep!”
As we wind around the museum’s paths, we also encounter a variety of cacti and other desert flora. Some of it is in bloom, although they do say in a few weeks, it will be quite colorful. (Which seems to be the story of my life, at times. Either too early or too late.) We find a hummingbird garden and see a mother hummingbird sitting on her nest. Also, a bird sanctuary, which sports quail and other birds unknown to easterners. We see a wolf, rattlesnakes, a gila monster, bobcat, birds of prey, and iguana, to name a few, before deciding that our feet need a rest and head for the charming open-air restaurant and lunch.
We are spending the week in Tucson, the six of us. Every day is a new adventure: the Saguaro National Park, Sabino Canyon, the Mission of San Xavier, the Tubac art colony, Biosphere 2, Old Tuscson (an old West movie set), and the Kartchner Caverns. At night, we relax and have a happy hour, during which time we dredge up all the old stories/arguments and do a lot of laughing. Then we eat dinner, followed by a soak in the hot tub (or gene pool, as my brother calls it) until bedtime. For a bunch of old—well, a bunch of seniors, we’re doing pretty well. In fact, we are mightily blessed.
This is the third time we’ve taken a “siblings trip,” the first about ten years ago, right after we officially became orphans. Ranging from our 60’s to our 80’s, we live a fair distance from each other and so it makes sense. We’ve been gravitating to the Southwest, which is fine with me. Yes, at times tempers flare and the old “I did not!” “you did, too!” surfaces. Kids, take note: some things really do never change.
But generally speaking, we’re family. And in the long run, all that counts.
Moving ahead, trailing behind, or amiably ambling next to me are my two brothers and three sisters. We’re exploring the fascinating Desert Museum outside of Tucson. It’s a museum, zoo, and botanical garden all in one and I’ve been making the acquaintance of some animal species I’ve never encountered before, such as the somewhat pig-like javelina, which roams wild and like our deer, can do a number on local landscaping. In one cage is a roadrunner, running, of course. The video on my camera isn’t fast enough (or I’m not) to capture him, but he climbs up on a pile of rocks and poses for a still shot. One of my sisters comments that until recently, she thought a roadrunner was just a cartoon figure. That’s not an uncommon belief, I’ve discovered. But he’s real enough. Just doesn’t go “meep-meep!”
As we wind around the museum’s paths, we also encounter a variety of cacti and other desert flora. Some of it is in bloom, although they do say in a few weeks, it will be quite colorful. (Which seems to be the story of my life, at times. Either too early or too late.) We find a hummingbird garden and see a mother hummingbird sitting on her nest. Also, a bird sanctuary, which sports quail and other birds unknown to easterners. We see a wolf, rattlesnakes, a gila monster, bobcat, birds of prey, and iguana, to name a few, before deciding that our feet need a rest and head for the charming open-air restaurant and lunch.
We are spending the week in Tucson, the six of us. Every day is a new adventure: the Saguaro National Park, Sabino Canyon, the Mission of San Xavier, the Tubac art colony, Biosphere 2, Old Tuscson (an old West movie set), and the Kartchner Caverns. At night, we relax and have a happy hour, during which time we dredge up all the old stories/arguments and do a lot of laughing. Then we eat dinner, followed by a soak in the hot tub (or gene pool, as my brother calls it) until bedtime. For a bunch of old—well, a bunch of seniors, we’re doing pretty well. In fact, we are mightily blessed.
This is the third time we’ve taken a “siblings trip,” the first about ten years ago, right after we officially became orphans. Ranging from our 60’s to our 80’s, we live a fair distance from each other and so it makes sense. We’ve been gravitating to the Southwest, which is fine with me. Yes, at times tempers flare and the old “I did not!” “you did, too!” surfaces. Kids, take note: some things really do never change.
But generally speaking, we’re family. And in the long run, all that counts.
Scrapbag
SCRAPBAG
Hate taking pills?
You’re not alone. None of us likes to think of our body as less than perfect, and unfortunately, the older we get, the less perfect it is. At some point in our lives, most of us will face the fact that we need a little help if we want to hang around awhile.
I’m not talking about tossing down an aspirin or Tylenol once in a while for a headache or sore toe, or maybe a few of the big boys after major dental work or open heart surgery. It’s the every day, maybe several times a day, for the foreseeable future pill popping that’s the most irritating, and the type that everybody in their 30’s and 40’s claims they are never going to succumb to.
Hah!
About ten years ago, I could answer the question “What drugs are you taking?” pretty easily. In fact, the nurse used to look up and say, “Is that all?” Well, no more. The vials in my bathroom are now lined up like a platoon of those Chinese terra cotta warriors all around my sink.
Let’s say your doctor has given you the good news (you’re alive) and the bad news (it’s questionable how long). And say you’ve finally gotten to a grudging acceptance. You fill the prescription, only to have a new host of problems arise. Your bottle might have a little label that says “take with food. Pretty easy. However, what if your doctor adds yet another drug for that or another condition. Which, of course, says, “take on an empty stomach,” so taking them together is not an option. And that’s if you only have to take one pill a day. But what if one is once, but the other is twice of three times? It’s easy to see that as things add up, you’re going to have a scheduling issue similar to Amtrak.
Fear not. Medical science is wonderful. Even now, they are trying to come up with ways of reminding you about your meds so that you won’t have to worry. The Wall Street Journal recently published a story about some of these developments. One company is considering putting what is known as a “GlowCap” on top of your prescription bottles equipped with a wireless transmitter that plugs into the wall and which “emits a pulsing orange light” when it’s time to take your pill. “After an hour,” the Journal article goes on, “the gadget starts beeping every five minutes, in arpeggios that become more complicated and insistent. After that, the device can set off an automated telephone or text message reminder to patients who fail to take their pills.”
OMG! as they say. And what if when, as has been known to happen, I completely forget the entire morning array? I can see my bathroom looking like a “Q” performance of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. And if I happen to be a complete no-show there (i.e. I’m off running errands), Verizon would be absolutely delighted to put through those calls and texts on my cell phone. At an additional charge, if I go over my allotment of minutes that month. There are other options, too, including a micro-chip that you swallow and which alerts you to a missed dose, an iPhone app, or even a personal call from your pharmacy if you haven’t renewed your prescription lately, asking if you need more information.
A brave new world, indeed. Best option? Stay as healthy as possible. And invest in pharmaceuticals.
Hate taking pills?
You’re not alone. None of us likes to think of our body as less than perfect, and unfortunately, the older we get, the less perfect it is. At some point in our lives, most of us will face the fact that we need a little help if we want to hang around awhile.
I’m not talking about tossing down an aspirin or Tylenol once in a while for a headache or sore toe, or maybe a few of the big boys after major dental work or open heart surgery. It’s the every day, maybe several times a day, for the foreseeable future pill popping that’s the most irritating, and the type that everybody in their 30’s and 40’s claims they are never going to succumb to.
Hah!
About ten years ago, I could answer the question “What drugs are you taking?” pretty easily. In fact, the nurse used to look up and say, “Is that all?” Well, no more. The vials in my bathroom are now lined up like a platoon of those Chinese terra cotta warriors all around my sink.
Let’s say your doctor has given you the good news (you’re alive) and the bad news (it’s questionable how long). And say you’ve finally gotten to a grudging acceptance. You fill the prescription, only to have a new host of problems arise. Your bottle might have a little label that says “take with food. Pretty easy. However, what if your doctor adds yet another drug for that or another condition. Which, of course, says, “take on an empty stomach,” so taking them together is not an option. And that’s if you only have to take one pill a day. But what if one is once, but the other is twice of three times? It’s easy to see that as things add up, you’re going to have a scheduling issue similar to Amtrak.
Fear not. Medical science is wonderful. Even now, they are trying to come up with ways of reminding you about your meds so that you won’t have to worry. The Wall Street Journal recently published a story about some of these developments. One company is considering putting what is known as a “GlowCap” on top of your prescription bottles equipped with a wireless transmitter that plugs into the wall and which “emits a pulsing orange light” when it’s time to take your pill. “After an hour,” the Journal article goes on, “the gadget starts beeping every five minutes, in arpeggios that become more complicated and insistent. After that, the device can set off an automated telephone or text message reminder to patients who fail to take their pills.”
OMG! as they say. And what if when, as has been known to happen, I completely forget the entire morning array? I can see my bathroom looking like a “Q” performance of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. And if I happen to be a complete no-show there (i.e. I’m off running errands), Verizon would be absolutely delighted to put through those calls and texts on my cell phone. At an additional charge, if I go over my allotment of minutes that month. There are other options, too, including a micro-chip that you swallow and which alerts you to a missed dose, an iPhone app, or even a personal call from your pharmacy if you haven’t renewed your prescription lately, asking if you need more information.
A brave new world, indeed. Best option? Stay as healthy as possible. And invest in pharmaceuticals.
1/22/10
We never ventured onto Lockwood’s Hill during the summertime, but once the first crunchy layer of white coated its slopes, we knew the witch was snowbound and we would have the place to ourselves. Then out of the garage would come the wooden Flyers and the sounds of singing runners echoed again through the winter air.
Probably one of the few land uprisings of any proportion in the entire city of Buffalo, NY, Lockwood’s Hill still crouches low between Downing St. and Dorrance near the Lackawanna city line. But although the old dirt road still runs up past the water town and the ancient house, streets have been carved into the sides where we spent so much of our childhood winters.
There never really was a witch who occupied that Victorian dwelling on the crest of the hill, but rumors were rampant. The mere thought of coming to a toe-to-toe meeting with Old Annie deep in the woods was enough to keep me away. There were, however, a few devil-may-cares who scorned the relative safety of the windswept slope in order to attempt a slalom run through the trees, often ending in a bone-jarring collision with a sturdy oak.
The hill was good enough for me. Taking a good lengthy run off the top, I’d flop down on my outstretched sled and careen madly down, wind singing in my ears and a spray of snow blinding all vision. A good run was one that ended in a low soggy place near the sidewalk on Downing St., and although it might result in a soaked mitten or boot, that was the ultimate. One could literally go no further.
One winter, someone built an ice slide. It was slick and bumpy and extremely dangerous, but it eliminated the problem of dragging your sled back up the steep and slippery incline. As I recall, it was given a coating of ashes after a near fatality. There was also a group of madcaps who actually had skis! They were usually older boys, but occasionally girls, and they constructed small jumps to test their skills. For the reset of us, though, sleds were fine. They were a lot easier to steer than today’s molded plastic or inflatable tubes.
What I remember most of all was the six block walk back home, after darkness had fallen, though silvery mica crystals of snow. Tired, hungry, and cold, thoughts ran on ahead to a warm house, a welcoming family, a hot meal of mashed baked potato and carrots, and a quiet evening around the radio.
Although we didn’t know each other then, Pat and I had actually zipped down the same hill, possibly passing each other or narrowly avoiding a collision halfway down. We walked through that same winter air to different houses, but to the same feelings of warmth and belonging. Every age has its simple pleasures. I doubt if they’re any different now for our own children and grandchildren. It only seems that way.
A few weeks ago, while driving home, Pat said he had a sudden urge to grab me and a sled and head over to the hill at Beartown. My first thought when he mentioned this was a deep shudder. Then I thought about it. True, a few years had gone since that last bellyflop on Lockwood’s Hill and we were too fond of our bones to risk that again. But did it mean we were too old for a little fun? Not on your life!
Probably one of the few land uprisings of any proportion in the entire city of Buffalo, NY, Lockwood’s Hill still crouches low between Downing St. and Dorrance near the Lackawanna city line. But although the old dirt road still runs up past the water town and the ancient house, streets have been carved into the sides where we spent so much of our childhood winters.
There never really was a witch who occupied that Victorian dwelling on the crest of the hill, but rumors were rampant. The mere thought of coming to a toe-to-toe meeting with Old Annie deep in the woods was enough to keep me away. There were, however, a few devil-may-cares who scorned the relative safety of the windswept slope in order to attempt a slalom run through the trees, often ending in a bone-jarring collision with a sturdy oak.
The hill was good enough for me. Taking a good lengthy run off the top, I’d flop down on my outstretched sled and careen madly down, wind singing in my ears and a spray of snow blinding all vision. A good run was one that ended in a low soggy place near the sidewalk on Downing St., and although it might result in a soaked mitten or boot, that was the ultimate. One could literally go no further.
One winter, someone built an ice slide. It was slick and bumpy and extremely dangerous, but it eliminated the problem of dragging your sled back up the steep and slippery incline. As I recall, it was given a coating of ashes after a near fatality. There was also a group of madcaps who actually had skis! They were usually older boys, but occasionally girls, and they constructed small jumps to test their skills. For the reset of us, though, sleds were fine. They were a lot easier to steer than today’s molded plastic or inflatable tubes.
What I remember most of all was the six block walk back home, after darkness had fallen, though silvery mica crystals of snow. Tired, hungry, and cold, thoughts ran on ahead to a warm house, a welcoming family, a hot meal of mashed baked potato and carrots, and a quiet evening around the radio.
Although we didn’t know each other then, Pat and I had actually zipped down the same hill, possibly passing each other or narrowly avoiding a collision halfway down. We walked through that same winter air to different houses, but to the same feelings of warmth and belonging. Every age has its simple pleasures. I doubt if they’re any different now for our own children and grandchildren. It only seems that way.
A few weeks ago, while driving home, Pat said he had a sudden urge to grab me and a sled and head over to the hill at Beartown. My first thought when he mentioned this was a deep shudder. Then I thought about it. True, a few years had gone since that last bellyflop on Lockwood’s Hill and we were too fond of our bones to risk that again. But did it mean we were too old for a little fun? Not on your life!
1/4/10
A Piece from the Scrapbag
Before we’re even finished dealing with the train wreck that was last year’s New Year’s resolutions, it’s time to make more. Or again, as it were. What possesses us to set ourselves up for failure every January 1? It most assuredly has something to do with hope. Hope that one of these days, one of these years, one of these decades, we can affect some meaningful change in our lives. Nothing wrong with hope. Here, therefore, is my list for 2010.
1. Run the Boston Marathon
2. Bring about world peace
3. Make every deadline for the Spirit of Bainbridge
4. Eat healthy, exercise more, lose weight (yadayadayada)
5. Finish my novel
6. Keep up with my blog
7. Grow a bigger pumpkin
8. Go gray
9. Read The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
10. Regularly check myself for breast cancer
Now, as every politician and diplomat (is there a difference?) knows, it’s always best to have a fallback position—something you can live with in the event you don’t get exactly what you want.
1. I probably won’t even visit Boston, much less run there. Last summer, I did start trotting from the park path to my back door, a distance of about 60 yards, about half uphill. It took me a few weeks to work up to it, but I finally made it. It wasn’t pretty, and took me an equal amount of time to catch my breath, but I didn’t die. That I know of. The beauty of this resolution is that I can wait a few weeks until the snow goes away and the weather warms up a bit.
2. I’m pushing things a bit here, I know, but I (and definitely my husband) will be happy if I learn to hold my tongue instead of informing him that OF COURSE THE PEANUT BUTTER IS IN THE CUPBOARD. IT’S BEEN THERE FOR 16 YEARS, FOR PETE’S SAKE!
3. Anne will love me for this and I’m really going to try. Hey, I’m one for one already!
4. This is fuzzy enough that if I have a carrot stick, walk to the mailbox, and pass up that chocolate chip cookie, I can check that one off the list.
5. Well, I’d like to at least get past Chapter 2, which is where I’ve been stuck for two years.
6. Blogs are sort of like having a new baby. They require lots of attention. I have to confess that I’ve been cheating a bit and posting my Spirit articles, so if you’re reading this, it’ll just be a repeat. But on the off chance I occasionally take off on some other flight of fancy, the URL is www.entropyplaza.blogspot.com
7. I’m not aiming to break Jim Domo’s 925 lb. record, but I’d like to see something that resembles a basketball, instead of a softball. I have some seeds from a white French heirloom pumpkin that has bright orange flesh and cool warts all over and I’d love to bring that off, as well.
8. No way.
9. I’ve heard this is a great book and I already have the sequel on my MP3. If I start now, I might be able to finish by December 31. My problem is that where I used to read until all hours of the night, anything longer than a Robert B. Parker mystery gives me a good case of zzzzzz.
10. Since I got blindsided by this in 2009, you can be sure it’s one resolution I intend to keep. And it would behoove all you ladies out there to do the same.
Happy New Year!
1. Run the Boston Marathon
2. Bring about world peace
3. Make every deadline for the Spirit of Bainbridge
4. Eat healthy, exercise more, lose weight (yadayadayada)
5. Finish my novel
6. Keep up with my blog
7. Grow a bigger pumpkin
8. Go gray
9. Read The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
10. Regularly check myself for breast cancer
Now, as every politician and diplomat (is there a difference?) knows, it’s always best to have a fallback position—something you can live with in the event you don’t get exactly what you want.
1. I probably won’t even visit Boston, much less run there. Last summer, I did start trotting from the park path to my back door, a distance of about 60 yards, about half uphill. It took me a few weeks to work up to it, but I finally made it. It wasn’t pretty, and took me an equal amount of time to catch my breath, but I didn’t die. That I know of. The beauty of this resolution is that I can wait a few weeks until the snow goes away and the weather warms up a bit.
2. I’m pushing things a bit here, I know, but I (and definitely my husband) will be happy if I learn to hold my tongue instead of informing him that OF COURSE THE PEANUT BUTTER IS IN THE CUPBOARD. IT’S BEEN THERE FOR 16 YEARS, FOR PETE’S SAKE!
3. Anne will love me for this and I’m really going to try. Hey, I’m one for one already!
4. This is fuzzy enough that if I have a carrot stick, walk to the mailbox, and pass up that chocolate chip cookie, I can check that one off the list.
5. Well, I’d like to at least get past Chapter 2, which is where I’ve been stuck for two years.
6. Blogs are sort of like having a new baby. They require lots of attention. I have to confess that I’ve been cheating a bit and posting my Spirit articles, so if you’re reading this, it’ll just be a repeat. But on the off chance I occasionally take off on some other flight of fancy, the URL is www.entropyplaza.blogspot.com
7. I’m not aiming to break Jim Domo’s 925 lb. record, but I’d like to see something that resembles a basketball, instead of a softball. I have some seeds from a white French heirloom pumpkin that has bright orange flesh and cool warts all over and I’d love to bring that off, as well.
8. No way.
9. I’ve heard this is a great book and I already have the sequel on my MP3. If I start now, I might be able to finish by December 31. My problem is that where I used to read until all hours of the night, anything longer than a Robert B. Parker mystery gives me a good case of zzzzzz.
10. Since I got blindsided by this in 2009, you can be sure it’s one resolution I intend to keep. And it would behoove all you ladies out there to do the same.
Happy New Year!
11/11/09
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.”
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.
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.
9/17/09
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!
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!
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