Costumes

There does not exist, as far as I know, a single photograph of me in a Halloween costume, despite all those years of trick or treating.  Film and developing were expensive, so I guess we couldn't afford pictures of frivolous things like Halloween costumes.  So the pictures exist only in my head, and the truth is, I only remember a few.  Pretty sure there was a string of early years when a pillow case with holes cut out for eyes sufficed as a ghost costume.  (My mother was not exactly the creative type.)  Once we were old enough, my best friend Peggy and I made our own costumes.  Most notably, we donned an over-sized coat of her mother's and called ourselves a two-headed lady.  We had no idea what people were talking about when they hailed us as Siamese twins.  Another year, I recall trying to make a tree costume out of paper bags.  It rained that Halloween night, so I quickly became a hobo, always a good fall-back costume.  Just dress like a slob, put dirt on your face, and tie a bandana to a stick.

It was different for my kids.  I was that mother, the one who made clever costumes using fabric and a sewing machine.  Let me begin with my first child:

This is Katrina, aka Chiquita Banana.  She's hanging out with Bert and Ernie Pumpkin.

And then there was Jenna, child #2:

See?  Now Katrina has become a strawberry, and Jenna is Chiquita Banana.

But I'm not done yet.  Sam is child #3:

And there it is, my fruit salad.  Happy Halloween!  With love!

Butternut

A butternut squash has been sitting on the counter for at least a week now.    It's not mine, but gosh darnit, I'm going to do something with it.  And it's going to be good.  And I am going to fall in love with it.  So is the owner of the squash.

Thinking about this post, I realized that if a word begins with butter, I am automatically in love with it.  Butternut, butterbeer, butterbean, butterscotch, buttercups, butterflies, buttermilk, butter pecan . . . see what I mean?  These are words to fall in love with.

I'm not saying I am a fan of buttermilk, but I like the word.  I suppose there was a time when I loved the word butterball, but that was before I became a vegetarian and before people started posting stuff about the abuse of turkeys committed by a certain poultry company.  I don't think I've ever had a hot buttered rum, but damn, that sounds good, doesn't it?  Harry Potter and his friends ordered butterbeers when they went into town, and that sounded good to me.  (I could never figure out if there was actually beer in the butterbeers, though.  I'm guessing no.)

Buttercups were one of the first flowers I could name, so they have a special place in my heart.  Also, I have a pretty strong memory of going to my father's hunting camp and finding packages of butterscotch in the kitchen, which my sister and I would suck on for hours.

And who doesn't love butterflies?  What they have to do with butter, I have no idea.

My next-door neighbor, Sheila, is a hunter.  A serious hunter.  She has killed a bear.  But she gave me the best vegetarian recipe for butternut squash.  It's pretty simple:  butternut squash, garlic, Parmesan cheese, Panko bread crumbs, butter, salt and pepper, parsley.  Here it is, ready for the oven:

So that's what I made for dinner tonight.  Along with some gourmet aromatic whole grain brown rice.  And some roasted tomatoes, the last from the garden.

Buttery love.

Bedtime

It's not what you think. 

It's bedtime for my garden beds.  Today was the last mild day in the forecast, so I needed to finish (well, almost) getting the garden ready for winter.  And I literally (well, almost) put the beds to bed.

Back in April, I blogged about the pesky squirrels who'd spent the autumn burying their nuts in my gardens and then digging them up in the spring after I'd already planted some of the beds.  I had to use bird netting to protect the plants.  As a result of the squirrels being unable to retrieve their nuts, I was constantly pulling up miniature walnut trees trying to hide in the lettuces and spinach all summer.

So I'd been trying to think of a way to prevent the squirrels from doing this again.  Putting bird netting over the soil worried me.  I was afraid that the little critters would get their tiny feet caught in the netting and have a terrible time of it.  I thought about screening (the kind you would buy to replace the screens in your windows and doors), but that might get expensive.  So would lattice boards . . . and then where would I store them in the summer?

Always looking for solutions that don't break the bank, I remembered all the old bedsheets I'd stored in a downstairs closet, the ones I use to protect the floors when I paint furniture.  Hmmm . . . big enough to cover the beds, thin enough to allow rain and snow to get into the soil, easy to store, and maybe, just maybe, strong enough to thwart the squirrels' plans.  Armed with the sheets, thumbtacks, and a staple gun, I got to work.

And there they are, the garden beds, freshly made up.  (Please do not judge my decorating taste.)

I am aware that there could be a flaw in this plan, which would really suck, because I put a lot of time into this preventive measure.  If you think my plan won't work, please let me know why.  It's not too late to change the sheets.

Meanwhile, I am in love with my sleeping garden beds, safely tucked in for the winter.

Butcher's Twine

I was tying up my newspapers for their journey to the recycling center at the local landfill when I realized that my loyal cone of butcher's twine was about to be exhausted.  I've had this cone of twine for so long, I can't remember where or when I got it.  I think it might have begun its relationship with me as a two-pound cone.  And look at its emaciated condition now:

It saddens me to think that in a couple of weeks, I will literally reach the end of my rope.  (Good one, huh?)

The reason I bought the cone of twine in the first place was for a decorating project.  This was so far back in time, macrame was the hottest thing in crafts.  I failed at mastering anything but the basic knots of macrame, but I knew how to crochet.  I found a pattern for a crocheted wall hanging in a woman's magazine (as we called them back in the woman's day) and got to work.  It was a labor of love, but I was proud of my creation.  At some point many years later, Jenna and I dyed the wall hanging green for its move into her bedroom.  It's still hanging there.

And then the cone of twine took its place in a cabinet in the mudroom, always ready for some random chore that required sturdy string.  It seemed then that it would last forever.

A year or so ago, I stopped garbage pick-up at my house and began taking my kitchen waste and recyclables to the landfill, saving about $35 a month (which I see as justification for my wine purchases).  I receive two newspapers a day, so that part of the recycling effort is responsible for my twine coming out of the closet.  At least once a week, I secure my newspapers in a gift-wrap of twine and store them in the mudroom until my next trip to the landfill.

What will I do when my cone is empty?  A look into that mudroom cabinet revealed that there is a ball of twine waiting in the wings.  It's a ball, not a cone, so it doesn't hold the same appeal to me, but it will do the job.  I just cannot think about how flimsy its end will be.  Or maybe I will save my empty cone so that I can wrap the "new" twine around it as it nears the end.

Yeah, I need a life.

Ginkgo

Cleaning up the gardens on this beautiful late October day, I was taken aback by the glorious yellow of my ginkgo tree.  So of course, I had to fall in love with it.  And I have good reason to fall in love with it, because this tree has a story.

When Pete was ill, we made regular trips into New York City, as his doctors were located there.  Pete would take notice of a certain tree that he often saw along the streets of Manhattan.  At the time, he didn't know what the tree was, but he likened it to a maidenhair fern, a favorite of his.

Dear friend Jim took note of this, and in the spring following Pete's death, Jim and Lois purchased and planted a ginkgo tree in my backyard . . . a memorial to Pete.  So I guess my ginkgo has been with me for over eleven years.  And I have never once detected a "smell like vomit" from my ginkgo.  So my guess is that my ginkgo is a male.

Yes.  Apparently, it's the female ginkgo that smells.  I wonder if Jim and Lois knew the sex of the tree they purchased?

The ginkgo is hailed as the oldest tree on earth.  According to some tree experts, it's a "living fossil," unchanged in more than 200 million years.  This is one hell of a survivor; ginkgo trees in Hiroshima survived the atomic bomb.  Hence, its sturdy reputation is responsible for its designation as a street tree.  Ten percent of the trees in Manhattan are ginkgoes. 

As to the claims that ginkgo biloba can enhance memory and ward off dementia, I'm not really buying into that promise, as it's a Western idea, not a proven Asian remedy.  And who knows?  Maybe the fact that my bedroom is in close proximity to my gingko tree is enough to move those healing molecules and energy into my failing brain?

No, I didn't think so, either.

Nonetheless, "the maidenhair tree" in my backyard is a beauty, a memory, a promise, and I am in love with it, especially in its golden autumn beauty.

Curio Shelf

I have several pieces of furniture that my father made.  End tables, blanket chests, jewelry boxes, a desk, a rocking horse, a grandfather clock.  These pieces are precious to me, and as much as I love the purity of wood finishes, I will confess to taking a paint brush to a couple of these pieces.  And I don't regret it.  In fact, I am in love with the results.

And so it is with my most recent refinishing project.  Stored in my attic for years, this curio shelf had seen better days.

I'm not sure just what color this orangy-red stain is, but my father must have had a large can of it, because nearly every piece of furniture I inherited has this less-than-appealing color.  (Sorry, Dad.)  So bring on the Annie Sloan Chalk Paint; in this case, pure white.

After cleaning up the piece, I applied two coats of paint.  It probably could have used a third coat, but I get impatient.  I removed the dirty black knobs in order to spray-paint them a coppery color.

And now the fun part.  The piece gets a waxing and then a sanding in order to antique it.  Final step is a buffing to bring out the sheen of the wax.

And here it is, ready for hanging on a wall.  What will I place on the shelves?  Well, that's a story for another blog post.  Let's see what I can fall in love with to showcase in my "new" curio shelf.

Woodstock

Despite the fact that I was 19 years old and an hour away from the 1969 Woodstock Festival, I did not attend.  My excuse has always been "I had to work that weekend."  And that is true.  But the real reason that I did not attend is that my parents would have killed me.  Well, not literally, but you know what I mean.  At 19, I was still afraid of their wrath, still wanting to win their approval.  In hindsight, I wonder what might really have happened if I'd defied them and gone to Woodstock?  Well, here's another truth:  I lacked the courage to be that adventurous.

I had company today.  Jessie and Matt are the daughter and son-in-law of old friends.  They recently relocated from California to New Jersey, and drove up here from their city apartment to spend a day with me.  I drove them up to Bethel Woods, the site of Max Yasgur's farm and home to the Woodstock Museum.  I've visited the museum several times and always enjoy it.  Jessie and Matt, musicians themselves, were happy to experience it.  We first went to the site of the festival where we picnicked, overlooking what would have been the stage and the heavily populated field.  Then we explored the museum.

Although the museum's main focus is the festival, it also serves as a testimony to the times.  Through its photographs, films, quotes and collections, it is a history lesson on the Sixties.  Whenever I go there, I am transported back to a time that I, like many, have romanticized.  Our message of peace and justice should not be confined to any one era of human history, but sadly, it seems that the message went the way of bell bottom pants and beaded fringed vests.

 

Jessie and Matt are too young to have experienced that period in time, but they are old souls, and our conversation about how far the world has moved since that time of idealism was thoughtful and nostalgic.  We teased ourselves for being full of doom and gloom, but there is nothing remotely humorous about our perception that the current state of the world is not a good one, and there seems to be no way to walk it back to a time when change seemed possible.

So what am I in love with?  A memory, I suppose.  A proud moment in time when young people were optimistic, full of possibility, and dedicated to peace on the planet.  I wish it were a current reality instead of a memory, but I just have not seen enough evidence of that.  Another school shooting yesterday points in the opposite direction.

But Woodstock?  As Michael Lang, co-creator of the festival said, At Woodstock, we would focus our energy on peace, setting aside the onstage discussion of political issues to just groove on what might be possible. It was a chance to see if we could create the kind of world for which we’d been striving throughout the sixties: That would be our political statement—proving that peace and understanding were possible and creating a testament to the value of the counterculture. It would be three days of peace and music.”

Amen.

United Nations

My calendar tells me that today is United Nations Day, and I am immediately transported to my elementary school years, when patriotism and optimism informed us of all that was good in the world.  Although I would be hard-pressed to recall who has been Secretary-General of the United Nations throughout my adult years, the name Dag Hammarskjold will always be on the tip of my tongue.  This Swedish diplomat, economist, and author was the second Secretary-General of the United Nations during the post-WWII years when we all believed in a better world.  For a child growing up in a small New Jersey town of 99% white population, his very name was other-worldly, exotic, and compelling.  Just being able to pronounce it made a second-grader feel really, really smart.  Let me just say that I can still pronounce his name.

My small school community was big on field trips.  There was always a class trip, a Safety Patrol trip, a Girl Scout trip, and other sundry trips.  Being 50 miles from New York City, the cost of sending a school bus into the Lincoln Tunnel was not prohibitive.  So I recall a few trips to the United Nations, although I don't remember much of what we did once we got there.  Maybe we just drove by?  I have a clear image of the flags in front of the building.

And then there was UNICEF.  The United Nations International Children's Emergency Fund was designed to provide long-term humanitarian and developmental assistance to children and mothers in developing countries.  A good thing, right?  I don't know if it's still being practiced, but when I was a kid, there was an incentive to Trick or Treat for UNICEF, which meant that instead of begging for candy, you would beg for money, which you would then turn over to the United Nations.  I'm sorry.  Trick or Treating was my only opportunity to hoard candy in my house, as my mother would never buy anything except those benign after-dinner jelly mints.  I needed my secret stash of candy to get me through until Christmas.  (And then it was a long stretch until the jelly beans of Easter.)  I could never imagine giving up that opportunity of collecting candy in order to help starving children.  Good try, UNICEF, but no thank you.

There's a stretch of Rt. 23 that I occasionally drive, and I always take note of a hand-made sign that says something like Get U.S. Out of the United Nations!  I do not understand this mentality, and I don't think I want to.  But apparently, there were some post-WWII children who were absent the day they told us of Dag Hammarskjold's death in a plane crash while on a peace mission in the Congo in 1961.  They are apparently unaware of his unimpeachable integrity and single-minded devotion to duty, which made him a hero in my eyes.

It's a different world today, but I am still in love with the mission of the United Nations.  Just give peace a chance.

Rainy Days

How did I get 271 entries into this blog without falling in love with rainy days?  I know there were previous entries titled Box of Rain and April Showers and Summer Rain, but it's late October now, and this week has held a lot of rain.  What else to do but fall in love?

Before this rainy day dawned, I'd planned on spending it at home.  I'd scheduled my plumber to come and have a look at a slow leak under my kitchen sink, and I was content to stay home and wait for him to show up.  The fact that he didn't has been forgiven now; he called me to apologize a little while ago.  I've known Bob forever, since he wrote poetry in the English class I taught in which he was a long-haired, angst-ridden teenage boy (the best kind of teenage boy).  Bob will be here tomorrow morning.

So what to do on a rainy day when one is home-bound?  A lot of little, nagging things, of course.  And then I took a look at the pile of CDs that have been patiently waiting to be added to my iTunes account, and I decided that would be a good chore to work on while waiting for Bob.

The next thing I knew, it was 5:00, and Bob was calling to apologize for not showing up.

With over 2000 songs on my iPods, I am concerned about repeating titles, so I always check before I install a song.  I also pick and choose which songs to include and rarely install an entire CD.  All of this takes time.  But it was a rainy day today, and I had lots of time.

And that's the thing about rainy days.  They seem to stretch out ahead of us so full of time and possibility.  Sunny days tend to warn us:  Hurry up and do what you want because I won't hang around here forever!  But rainy days are languid and unhurried and open.  There's no hurry.  Pick something to do and then take your time doing it.

And that's how I spent this rainy day.  Loving every minute of it.

Clearance

I can make a dime dance.  (That's an expression my mother often used.)  You've heard me say it before:  there's a fine line between being frugal and being cheap.  I am always riding that line.

For me, shopping means walking into a store and heading for the clearance racks.  I'd say that most of my wardrobe (if you can call it that) comes off the clearance racks.  This past weekend, Jenna and I went to the Bass Outlet, and I bought two pair of jeans on the clearance racks.  They were listed at $72 each, but I paid $5.50 each.  I'd call that a good deal.  But even better:  Jenna bought a dress for $3.90.  And it looks really cute on her!

Today, I had to drive to the next town to buy cat food, so I decided to visit a few stores and see what they had on clearance.  Lucky me:  I found a quilt I've been wanting for a very long time finally on clearance.  Other than that, not much.  But that's okay.  One clearance item at a time is good.

But it all makes one scratch his/her head, doesn't it?  I could conceivably walk down the street and see someone wearing the same pants as I am.  But she might have paid $72 for hers, while I paid $5.50.  They're the same pants, but mine came with $66.50 in the pocket.

I know that there are a lot of people who think nothing of spending whatever they want on something they like.  And I'm not saying that I haven't spared all expense on a few things that were really coveted by me.  But clothes?  If they fit and they're comfortable, what difference does it make?

For me, I am in love with the possibilities that clearance provides.

CDs

I am old enough to remember 78 rpm records.  There were some to be found in everyone's home.  The ones in my house were mostly Christmas ones.  Adeste Fideles by Bing Crosby,  If It Doesn't Snow on Christmas and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer by Gene Autry.  Peg's family's collection went beyond the holidays.  Catch a Falling Star by Perry Como, Istanbul (Not Constantinople) by The Four Lads, Lavender Blue, Dilly, Dilly by Burl Ives.  These very breakable records made up the soundtrack of my childhood.

The rock and roll years introduced the 45 rpm singles.  Ricky Nelson, Elvis Presley, and Pat Boone took turns crooning to the members of my family.  There was better rock and roll out there, but these were the artists that my parents could tolerate.  I still recall when my tiny little brother bought a 45 of Jerry Lee Lewis singing Great Balls o' Fire.  They made him return it.  Before the Beatles came along, I filled my pink plastic 45s album with Bobby Rydell singles.  He did a rendition of Volare, so he passed muster with my parents.

And then came the LPs.  I know I owned at least one Bobby Rydell LP, and then there was The Beachboys.  Who among us was ready for Beatlemania?  My purchase of Meet the Beatles coincided with the onset of teenage angst.  It was all downhill (or uphill?) from there.

And just as we would get used to some new delivery system for the music we craved, things would change.  LPs gave way to 8-tracks, which gave way to cassette tapes, which gave way to CDs, which gave way to MP3 downloads, which gave way to Internet playlists.  I am fairly certain that the day will come when we can have a chip embedded into our skulls, full of the music we love.  It will play inside our heads anytime we choose.

I have a couple of iPods.  I have satellite radio in my cars.  I stream public radio music stations through the Internet.  But I also have a CD collection, and I am not ready to get rid of it.

Kathy (who will be sharing music with her significant other as soon as they find a condo to buy) presented me with her CD collection last night.  She gave her guy first dibs, but most of the titles were duplicates of what he already had, so she gave me the collection to take whatever I want.  Hence, I spent the better part of the afternoon sorting through both her CDs and my own CDs, alphabetizing, purging, adding, shelving.  Big project.

I don't really NEED all these CDs.  The music I love is on my iTunes and consequently, my iPods.  But I am not ready to donate my CD collection to the local library.  I cannot explain this to you, except to say:

I am in love with my CDs.

Down

Last night was darn cold!  I'm not sure how low the temperature actually got, but this morning revealed indisputable evidence of the drop:  the first real frost.  Looks like my prolific beans have succumbed, as have the impatiens in my windowboxes.  I find it interesting that the ten-day forecast does not show any lows even approaching the freezing mark.  So I guess that anything that survived last night can continue to grow.

That includes me.  I survived.  My habit is to leave my bedroom door open during warmer weather so that my cat can go in and out through her cat door.  It's a concession that works for both of us.  She gets to come in for a bite to eat whenever she wants, and I get to sleep undisturbed by the meowing at the door.  But last night marked the transition period in this arrangement.  Cassie will soon have to adjust to the stay-in-all-night half of the year, and I will have to adjust to more frequent changing of the litter box.  Ugh.

Cassie was outside when I crawled into bed last night, so I had to leave the door ajar.  I settled into my bed to watch another episode of The West Wing.  (I'm only half-way through Season 3.)  I found myself creeping further and further down into the bedding as I realized how cold it was.  And there's the key word:  down.  I discovered some years ago that down pillows were the best, and now I have a hard time resting my head on anything else.  But it was only last fall that I discovered the luxury of a down comforter.  I bought a lightweight one (to fit inside a duvet), which I use in spring and fall.  (That heavy non-down winter comforter is going to be a big disappointment in a couple of months.)

I remember seeing scary memes on Facebook about what critters suffer at the hands of humans harvesting down feathers, so I did some research.  Live-plucking, as it's called, is illegal in the United States and Canada, but is tolerated in countries like China.  The percentage of down products that are a result of live-plucking ranges anywhere from 1% to 80%, so that information is rather useless.  All I can say is that I purchased my down pillows and comforter before I knew anything about live-plucking.  If I buy any additional down products, I will be sure to check the country of origin and the methods used.

In the meantime, I am in love with my down bedding.  Heck, I'm in love with anything natural that allows me to have a good night's sleep!  If snuggling under a down comforter makes me feel warm and cozy and safe, then that's love-worthy.

Peggy

I didn't fall in love with Peggy today.  I fell in love with her when I first met her.  I was three and she was two.  At least that's how we always remembered it.  In my mind's eye, I see these two tiny little girls staring at one another in their adjoining back yards.  I have always had this picture in my memory for 61 years now, so it must be true.

Peg missed the cut-off date for kindergarten, so although we were both born in 1950, Peg wasn't allowed to start public school until a year after I did.  I think perhaps this was a good thing.  Peggy and I were the very best of friends before and after school, on the weekends, during holidays, and all summer long.  That friendship was never compromised by the complexities of being in the same classroom all day long.  And we were free to have our best friends in our own classes, always considered separate from our bff status at home.  Despite the several close friendships I have enjoyed over my lifetime and the many people I have referred to as my best friend, in my heart that designation has always and will always refer to Peggy.

In a perfect world, Peg would have turned 64 today.  She has been gone nearly eleven years now, a victim of the world's greatest terrorist, Cancer.  But I am choosing not to dwell on that today.  I would rather fall in love with a celebration of Peggy.

Time and age deplete so many of our memories, but there remain many that seem indelible.  When I think back to the 15 years that Peg and I were next-door neighbors, these are the images that appear in my head:  the cherry tree we climbed in Peg's backyard, the rusted-out barrel where we burned papers at night, the lily-of-the-valley that grew under the pines, the morning glories that worshiped the sunlight by the bay windows, a fallen home-made lemon cake that we were moving from my house to hers, the cots in the Army tent in her backyard in summertime, her picnic table and hammock, the Kraft caramels in the candy cupboard in her dining room, Betsy McCall paper dolls, her English setter Vaughnie, my English setter Susie, the dollhouse we built from cardboard boxes, blood-sister rituals under the pine tree, the Chums Club under her front porch, the Halloween that we thought we were a two-headed lady only to have people ask if we were Siamese twins, the Christmas morning phone call to answer the question, "What did you get?"

As we got older, the memories take on a loss of innocence.  Climbing up the water tower, stolen cigarettes in our pockets, only to find that once we reached the top of the tower to taste the forbidden fruit, the cigarettes were broken.  Sneaking into Peg's mother's bedroom to read the copy of Lady Chatterly's Lover hidden in the nightstand.  Going through old newspaper clippings in Peg's attic to discover what Peg had never been told:  that her father had been married before.  Peg driving the old Plymouth up to New York state where a fake ID allowed us to be served alcohol.

If I were to write about all the things I remember about Peg, this blog would have to take on a whole new identity.  I've remembered and written enough to wrap myself in a glow of memory of my best friend.

I've loved you forever, Peg.  And I always will.

Bookshelves

Jenna came home this weekend.  To do her laundry and see her cat.  But I would like to believe that she also wanted to see her mother.  The fact that her mother was willing to help her build a bookshelf for her apartment should support that belief.

Off we went to the local lumber store, not a big box store.  I knew we'd have a better chance getting them to rip our boards if we went local.  And sure enough, they were more than willing. Jenna bought three 1 X 12 X 8 boards and asked to have them cut at five-and-a-half feet.  The cut boards were loaded into the back of her Impreza and home we went.

It was after I glued and screwed the first joint that we realized that the man had cut the wrong lengths.  Our boards were now 5' and 3' long, and 3' was too high for the under-window space that the shelf would go.  Damn.

I located the jigsaw, the one that I've never used, the one that I bought for Sam (who is in California and no help to us here).  Of course, there were no instructions.  And you can bet I was cursing up a storm.  This was supposed to be so easy!

Jenna took charge, figured out how to install the blade into the saw, and we proceeded to make the cuts.  Are they straight?  Well, close.

And then Jenna had errands to run, so I was left to do the build and the staining by myself.  And I did.  As I am writing this, I am almost over the contact high from being in a closed space with the fumes of dark walnut stain.  And nail polish remover did a pretty good job of getting the stain off my hands.

So today, I built a bookshelf for my daughter.  But here's what I'm in love with:  seeing the finished project, all Jenna could say was, "I guess I'll have to buy more books."

That's my girl!

Water

I went up to Bethel Woods last night to see John Hiatt in concert with friends.  Matthew treated us to the concert, and Jeffrey made a to-die-for tailgate dinner which consisted of the best mushroom soup I've ever tasted, salad, empanadas, and sour cherry tarts.  And wine, of course.  With friends like these . . . I am a very lucky and grateful woman.

John Hiatt was great!  Not only is he an accomplished songwriter, he's an amazing guitar player.  And his unique voice has incredible range.  He had a captive and appreciative audience from the start.

I kept quiet throughout the performance, but when he reappeared for an encore, I couldn't hold back.  I needed to hear my favorite John Hiatt song.  Thank God the Tiki Bar Is Open! I yelled out.  "Oh, it's always open," he dead-panned.  And then, yes, he played it for me!

So why is this post titled Water?

As Hiatt has been touring, he has been championing a humanitarian nonprofit organization called World Vision.  In their own words: World Vision is a Christian humanitarian organization dedicated to working with children, families, and their communities worldwide to reach their full potential by tackling the causes of poverty and injustice.

Specifically, on the Hiatt tour, World Vision is seeking to provide water to children and families in Zambia.  Concert-goers' donations have built more than a couple of wells in Zambia at a cost of $15,000 per well.  (A well provides water for an entire community.)  The import of this can not be understated.  I will share with you a few of World Vision's statistics:

~ Today, 1 in 9 people in the world (748 million) do not have access to safe water.

~ Every day, 1,400 children under age 5 die from diarrhea linked to lack of safe water, adequate sanitation, and hygiene -- that's about one child every minute.

~ Children in sub-Saharan Africa spend 4 million hours collecting water each day, with the average trip taking around 30 minutes and often needing to be completed more than once.

So, yes, I am in love with the water from my well, a "luxury" I often take for granted.  I assume you love your water, too.  If you are interested in helping other people fall in love with water, visit www.worldvisionwater.org.

Harp

I have an old friend whom I don't see very often, despite the fact that we don't live that far apart.  John was a colleague at a high school where we both taught.  He was also one of my husband's best friends and helped us build our log home back in the 80s.  In turn, Pete helped John build his log home.  So we have those roots.

During the years that Pete was living with cancer, we hosted an annual bonfire at our home just before Thanksgiving.  I remember those occasions fondly.  Although I've lost touch over the years with many of Pete's friends who participated in those bonfires, a few have remained in my radar.  John, always the first to arrive and the last to leave, brought a case of Harp to every one.  Harp has become a kind of code word for us.  Meaning we should catch up with one another over an Irish beer.

Last week, John posted something on Facebook and I commented in one word:  Harp.  He got the hint.

This afternoon, John came by with a six-pack of Harp.  The warm weather was still here, with a steady rain throughout most of the morning.  About an hour before John was to arrive, however, the sun came out and the skies were blue.  Harp on the front porch!  Perfect!

What did we talk about over the four hours that we sat on the porch?  A little bit of everything, I suppose.  Travel, politics, education, family, friends, cars, houses, gardening, pets . . . and Pete.

Obviously, I love a good Irish beer.  But my love for Harp is more than that.  It's a connection to an earlier time in my life, a time before Cancer screwed things up.  Harp is a memory, a good one.  Harp is an autumn afternoon with an old friend.  A comfort.  And a buzz.

Indian Summer

First of all, this unseasonably warm weather does not qualify for being designated as Indian Summer.  But I'm going to write about it anyway.  I mean, it was 83 degrees today.

According to The Old Farmer's Almanac, there are four criteria that have to be met for warm weather to earn the Indian Summer name.

First of all, there can't be any wind and the nights have to be chilly.  Today's winds are threatening thunderstorms, and the temperature is only going down to 66 degrees tonight.

Secondly, there has to be a moving, cool, shallow polar air mass which converts into a deep, warm, stagnant high pressure system.  That would cause it to be hazy.  Not happening.

Thirdly, timing is important.  A true Indian Summer would follow a hard frost.  That has not happened yet.

And last of all, these conditions must occur between St. Martin's Day (November 11) and November 20.  That's a month away.

So it's not Indian Summer.  That doesn't mean I can't be in love with this delightfully warm weather!  Next week, high temperatures will only be in the mid-50s, so today, I am going to sit on my porch with bare feet and no sweater, hanging on to that last bit of summer, Indian or not.  Whatever you call it, I am in love with it.

Nematodes

Beneficial Nematodes are microscopic, non-segmented roundworms that occur naturally in soil throughout the world. Inside the nematode's gut is the real weapon — symbiotic bacteria that when released inside an insect kill it within 24 to 48 hours. The nematodes enter the larvae via the mouth, anus, respiratory openings, or directly through the body wall of the pest. The nematodes then eject their symbiotic bacteria inside the pest's body. The bacteria multiply and cause blood poisoning of the pest, leading to death. The bacteria also convert host tissue into nutritive products, which can easily be taken up by nematodes. Inside the dead insect, the nematodes feed and multiply. As the food resources within the dead pest become scarce, the nematodes will exit the dead insect and immediately start searching for a new host (Arbico Organics).

Okay, I'm not usually this violent or sadistic, but those damn grubs left me no choice.  They destroyed about 50 onion sets in the spring and made me crazy trying to kill my cabbages and Brussels sprouts.  I hand-picked hundreds of them, digging up and replanting the cabbages and sprouts after scouring the soil for the little white curly-ques.  The other day, I was pulling out the spent broccoli plants when I spied them at work again.

You have to get the nematodes live, so going to a local box store was not an option.  I ordered my nematodes on an Internet site on Sunday.  Today is Tuesday, and they arrived on ice via FedEx.  They come on a sponge which you wet and squeeze into a bucket of water, then put into a sprayer or watering can.  I'd like to imagine that my little nematode friends are already seeking out the evil grubs and destroying their slimy little bodies.  Yes, call me sadistic.  I don't care.

I would like to say that I am in love with my nematodes, but I'm not sure they have earned that love yet.  And I'll probably have to fork over another $50 in the spring to seal the deal.  Since this 365-day blog will be completed by spring, I will have to fall in love today on faith.  Faith that the little guys will eliminate my grub problem and assure me some pest-free gardening.

Indigenous People's Day

My father was born on Columbus Day.  His parents named him Valentine.  In fairness to them, however, Columbus Day wasn't Columbus Day in the United States until 1937, sixteen years after my father was born.

As a child growing up in the 50s, Columbus Day was as big a deal as any of the patriotic holidays, with art projects that consisted of making construction paper cut-outs of the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria and singing In fourteen-hundred-and-ninety-two / Columbus sailed the ocean blue / He sailed and sailed and sailed and sailed / to find this land for me and you.  If anything was certain in our world, it was that Christopher Columbus discovered America.

How gullible and naive we were!  It's a different world today, and the fact that Columbus didn't discover a land that was already inhabited by Native Americans and was responsible for the genocide of said natives means that the entire idea of celebrating him and his accidental "discovery" has been called into question.  Several states do not recognize Columbus Day at all, among them Alaska, Hawaii, Oregon and South Dakota.  The movement to change the day to Indigenous People's Day began in Berkeley, California in 1992, the 500th anniversary of Columbus' voyage.  Several cities, including Minneapolis, Portland OR, and Seattle, have followed suit.  There are over 30 cities and towns in the United States named Columbus, but so far, there have been no name changes suggested.

I am a traditionalist in many ways, but I am also a believer that wrongs must be righted when possible.  This one's an easy one.  I mean, it's not like we're changing Christmas to WalMart Day or anything.  I love the idea of celebrating Native Americans instead of the man who tried to kill them off.

Before writing this blog post, I watched John Oliver's sketch Columbus Day: How Is This Still a Thing?  Of course it's funny.  (It's John Oliver.)  But it's also spot on.  Google it and treat yourself.

Happy Indigenous People's Day!

Eggplant

My garden produced several "mini eggplants," but only three regular ones.  That's two more than I get most years.  So it's a win.  I picked the last two this afternoon.

I've always found eggplant hard to grow, so this bounty made me very happy.

Guinea Squash.  Brinjal.  Melongene.  Aubergine.  Those are all names for what we know as eggplant.  And why in the world is it called eggplant?  Apparently, in the early 1700s, early European versions of eggplant were smaller and yellow or white in color.  They looked like hens' eggs.  Hence, the name.  I doubt if many people even think about the odd name for a purple vegetable.  Which, by the way, is technically a berry.  Yes, a berry.  Look at the seeds.

My daughter recently bought a couch.  The color was eggplant.

So what did I do with my two eggplant beauties?  Eggplant rollatini!  I roasted the slices instead of frying them, so it was all pretty easy.

I think it looks pretty yummy.  But how does it taste?  I think it tastes pretty yummy.  Like eggplant love.

A Clean House

This is my 260th post and the first time I have fallen in love with a clean house.  What does that tell you?

The late afternoon sun is shining on my clean tile floors now, but for most of the day, it was raining or cloudy and damp.  I cranked up the tunes and got to work. I am always surprised to discover that it's really not that hard to clean the house.  Unless I'm being manic and washing the log walls and painting the heat registers and stuff like that.

None of that today.  Just dusting, vacuuming, washing floors, cleaning bathrooms, and a few other things.  It took a few hours, and then I cleaned the shower and myself.

But then I got carried away.  I thought I was over the seasonal decorating thing.  But I took down the screens, and the colored leaves got brighter outside the cleaned windows.  Next thing I knew, I was in the crawlspace attic, hauling down boxes of decorations.  Now, I gave up Halloween decorating a few years ago, but I do have two ceramic jack-o-lanterns that I love, so they made the cut again this year.  The rest of the stuff consists of candles, floral arrangements, framed family photos, wreathes, and a few knick-knacky things.  No overkill, trust me.  Just a pretty autumn celebration.


And now I am sitting in my clean house, admiring the subtle touches of autumn decorations.  I like it.  No, I love it.  I have always said you have to love your space.  And I do.  It's clean, it's festive, it's seasonal.

And I am in love with it.

Pesto

When the day's news is about the depravity of humankind, I think that there cannot be a god.  But then there is pesto.  Surely the divine is at work here.

My basil had blight this year, so I lost a lot of my crop.  The new leaves were fine, but a day or two later, they too would succumb to the gray and the black.  Diligently picking off the diseased leaves helped a bit, but then I went to California, and when I came back, it was slim pickings for sure.

Nonetheless, I hand-picked what I could and ended up with enough basil leaves to make one batch of pesto.  The recipe is simple:  basil, pine nuts, garlic, Parmesan cheese, olive oil, salt and pepper.  Throw it all in the food processor and let 'er rip.

I like to freeze my pesto in ice cube trays, then put two frozen cubes in each baggie, then put them all in a zip-lock freezer bag.  In a good year, I might freeze four batches of pesto cubes.  Sigh.

So last night, I made my one batch of pesto and froze it in the ice cube trays.  Today, I stored my little baggies of pesto in the freezer.  Basically, this means that there will be six evenings when I can add my pesto cubes to pasta and veggies.  Maybe I'll be stingy and only use one cube per saute.  So twelve evenings.  That sounds better.  Or maybe I'll just break down and go to the farmers market and BUY some basil to make more pesto.

I'll have to think about that.

I also froze garden peppers tonight.  I diced them according to color (don't judge!) and then filled baggies with red, green, yellow and orange squares.  I think there were twelve baggies full.

Pesto love almost makes winter seem bearable.

Complaining

Did that title surprise you?  If you know me, it didn't.  But I have a specific reason for complaining.  And for loving it.  And part of that is because I get to anticipate the response to my complaint (which I should receive in 10 - 14 business days).

I finally got around to typing a message to United Airlines on my "airline experience" when I flew home from visiting my son in California.  Let me tell you about it:

To get to and from Reno, you have to go to San Francisco.  Which seems like a waste of gas and time, if you ask me.  When I flew out, I landed at SFO and then boarded a puddle-jumper to RNO.  The reverse was true for the flight home.  But the puddle-jumper that was to take me from Reno to San Francisco was over an hour delayed, seriously compromising the possibility that I would make my connecting flight to take me from SFO to EWR.  When I asked the attendants at the podium at RNO, I was told not to worry, that I would have plenty of time to make my connecting flight.

Oh, how wrong they were!  For one thing, my carry-on was too large to fit in the overhead bin, so it had to be stowed underneath the plane.  That meant that I had to wait for it to be brought back up after the plane landed.  Once it appeared, I grabbed it and ran up the ramp.  I checked the board for my departing gate to see that the word BOARDING was flashing in red.  I'd arrived at Gate 76.  My departing flight was at Gate 62.  That can't be that far, right?

Wrong.  I started running.  Let me tell you:  I cannot RUN.  At 64 years of age, I left running behind long ago.  Regardless, I tried to run, carry-on behind me.  Halfway there and my mouth was dry and my heart was pounding.  But I kept running.  At Gate 60, I heard my name announced.  I was being paged!  I got to the gate and was allowed to board with perhaps a minute to spare.

By the time I got to my seat (and evicted the person that was sitting in it), I felt nauseous, headachy, dehydrated, and scared.  But the plane was ready to take off, so I could not summon an attendant to bring me a cup of water.  I sucked it up, tried to be still, and took some deep breaths.

Eventually, my heart and I calmed down.  But I haven't been able to shake the experience.  What if I'd had a heart attack?  That thought has continued to haunt me.

So today, I composed a letter to United Airlines, because they tell me they want to do whatever they can to make my flight experience a good one.  What I would like is to never have an experience like that again.  (By the way, a regular passenger on the RNO to SFO flight told me that the plane is always delayed.) 

But I'm sure you all know what I am hoping for!  A free flight?  A coupon to use on my next booking?  An upgrade?  Yes!  I am hoping for something!  And I am greedily in love with the possibilities! 

I'll let you know.

Blood Moon

I did not view the blood moon early this morning.  Having gotten home from a Jackson Browne concert in the city at 2:00 a.m., I was in no condition to rise early enough to step outside in my jammies and look for a red moon.

But my friend Jan saw it in Delaware and shared her pictures.

Makes me kind of sad that I didn't make the effort.

So I didn't see it.  But aren't there a lot of things that we don't see but we are still inspired by?  Love, for instance?  Think of all the gods and saints and spirits who are unseen but possibly felt by believers.  So let's say that I felt the blood moon.  And it felt red.

Lunar eclipses happen when the moon, sun, and Earth are aligned in such a way that the Earth’s shadow covers the moon. During a blood moon, the moon turns a red hue because of the way the sun is filtered through Earth’s atmosphere, projecting a crimson color onto the moon’s surface.

A simple google search will reveal that there are a series of four blood moons, a tetrad, appearing in roughly six-month intervals.  This morning's was the second one.  Further googling will provide information on Texas pastor John Hagee's assertion that it's all a sign from God that the end times are at hand.  I'd tell you more about that, but I'm sorry, I couldn't continue reading such nonsense.  "Be afraid.  Be very afraid."  No, thank you.

So I pick inspiration over fear.  The blood moon is a gift from the universe, a wonder to be awed by, an opportunity to review one's place on this planet and consider the fragility and strength that the cosmos embodies.  I look at Jan's picture and feel inspired by the simple beauty that was available to those who chose to wake up early enough and take the time to look.  Admittedly, I am embarrassed now that I was not among them.

The next blood moon will appear on April 4, 2015.  I plan to be outside in my jammies that early morning, falling in love.  But just in case I'm not, I hope Jan is outside with her camera again.

Peppers

What will I do with them all?  And there are more in the garden!

These days, I am racing against the season, trying to get everything out of the garden before the first killing frost.  Well, not everything.  Kale, carrots, and beets will be fine for awhile longer.  The Brussels sprouts absolutely must experience a frost or two in order to sweeten them and make them palatable.  But the peppers will be the first to succumb to frost, turning black overnight.

So there it is, a basketful of peppers.  Don't be fooled by the shapes and colors; they are all sweet peppers.  Speaking of the colors, how beautiful are they?

The easiest thing to do is to remove the stem and seeds, slice or dice them, put them in a ziplock bag and pop them in the freezer.  Vegetable sautes and chilis will welcome them back in winter.  So that's what I'll do.  The work of it tires me before it even begins, but I know I will be grateful when I can make a meal in January that came from my garden.

Better get busy.  In order to fall in love with the task, I just might have to bite into a few of those little red ones.  Little sweet hearts.

Frost

It's coming soon to a meadow near you.  I took this picture this morning when driving home from Vermont.  Look closely at the shaded area in the front of the picture.  So much frost, it appeared like snow when it first came into view. 

I was startled by the beauty.  I don't even think it was safe where I pulled over to take some pictures, but I could not drive past without capturing an image of the fleeting splendor. And of course, I had to fall in love with it.

Now, there are two ways of looking at frost.  It is my nature to look at the negative, so I am compelled to think of the death of my garden peppers and beans and tomatoes.  I shiver in anticipation of a harsh winter, of never feeling warm despite layers of clothing.  I dread a world lacking color and promise.

And then I look again at the pictures of the morning, and I see such incredible beauty and stillness.  Words like shimmer and sparkle are hard to avoid.  Blue sky and white meadow.  Sun and shade.  The inevitable victory of the sun over the crystals, but the certainty of the insistent frost returning on another night to claim revenge.

I used to tell my children made-up stories of Jack Frost, and I can still see their happy faces when they would wake up to a front yard painted silver by the devilish little imp.  I miss those children and I miss those stories. 

One morning soon, I will awaken to a glittering white lawn.  I hope I see love.

Seeing Stories

I drove up to Vermont to visit Jenna this morning, and what a beautiful drive it was!  The further I drove, the more beautiful the autumn colors against the azure sky.  On an early Sunday morning, the leaf-peepers were not on the road yet, so I was free to sail through the gorgeous landscape unfettered.

Our visit began at the local library book sale where we scored a few treasures.  We enjoyed lunch at a small cafe, and then we browsed a few second-hand/antique shops.  With some time left in the afternoon, we drove down to Brattleboro, where a literary festival was taking place.  More bookstores, more treasures, and then we strolled down to the Brattleboro Free Library for a reading.

Rick Bass, from Yaak, Montana, is a writer and an environmental activist.  Jenna was familiar with his work, but I wasn't.  How lucky for me that I was introduced to his stories up close and personal! His comfortable and engaging story-telling is peppered with surprises that evoke laughter and renewed attention.  One does not want to drift away into private thoughts during the story for fear of missing the surprise.

The two stories that Bass read for us were Choteau and Eating.  You can find them online (in print or video form) if you are interested.  As for me, I cannot get Galena Tom Ontz or Russell and Cindy out of my mind.  Bass' characters became real for me, and I suspect that they will continue to live in my head for a few more days.  And that's okay; I liked them.

I'm not much of a movie-goer.  I don't have cable TV.  More and more, I prefer the images that stories create in my mind.  Sure, one has to work a little bit harder to "see" the stories without the help of the television or movie industries, but it doesn't really seem like work at all.  I mean, go back and start reading this blogpost again.  I'm willing to bet that you were able to "see" the October Vermont landscape, the little village with the library and cafe, the second-hand shops and the bookstores.  Am I right?  Of course I am. 

See for yourself.

Problem-solving

My front door has a Schlage handleset.  Yep, handleset.  That's what you call them.  (We used to call them doorknobs.)  In an attempt to avoid having to buy a new door, I have refinished the oak door that my beloved Golden scratched at for a dozen years.  It doesn't look bad.  I also need to have it rehung, and I hope that eliminates the air spaces that let Winter in uninvited.  But there was also a problem with the aforementioned handleset.  The bottom screw kept popping out.  I guess it was stripped?  I tried a different screw, but it, too, popped out.  So off to Home Depot I went.

I looked for someone older, more seasoned, and I found him in the lighting section.  I showed him my sorry screw (wow, that sounds weird), and asked if he could help me find a thicker one (still sounding weird.  Sorry.) Instead, he said this:  Do you have some wood glue?  Yes, I do.  Do you have a couple of round toothpicks?  Yes, I do!  And then he proceeded to tell me what to do.

So today, I cut those toothpicks down to size, dipped them in the wood glue, and stuck them in the screw-hole.  I went about my errands, and a couple of hours later, I screwed that sorry screw into the newly-wooded hole.

Problem solved!

And that's what I'm in love with:  problem-solving.  Hanging a new door would cost me about $2000.  Instead, I refinished it and I will pay a guy about $100 to rehang it.  A new handleset would have cost me over $100.  The glue and the toothpicks?  Significantly less than $100.

Finding solutions doesn't just save money.  It saves stuff from ending up in the landfill prematurely.  And there's a great feeling of satisfaction, knowing that creativity rose to the occasion and trumped consumerism.

I love solving problems.  And I love my refinished door, too.

Protest

Right now, in Hong Kong, students and others are protesting the election process in China.  At the heart of the row is how Hong Kong elects its next leader. In August, Beijing imposed tight rules on nominations for candidates wanting to stand for election. The protesters say this move means that the polls will fall short of the free elections they are seeking (BBC).  Today, the protests took an ugly turn, and proposed meetings to discuss the situation have been canceled.  But do you think this crowd can be dispelled?

In this morning's paper, I read about student protests in Denver, Colorado.  Apparently, new standards for history classes have been proposed by the Board of Education, promoting "patriotism" and discouraging civil disobedience.  In my opinion, the students are right to argue this restrictive language.  And Thoreau is writhing in his grave at what freedom has come to.

I exercised my own right to protest today.  When Sam and I first arrived in San Francisco, we made our way to Clement Street to have lunch at Burma Superstar.  (The tea-leaf salad is to die for.)  We were thrilled to find a parking spot right in front of the restaurant, and we fed the meter using my credit card.  When we exited the restaurant, we were stunned to find a $66 parking ticket on the windshield!  We soon realized that we'd fed the WRONG meter!  We fed the one to the right of the car, whereas we should have fed the one on the left (which appeared further away from the car).

Today, I submitted my protest to the San Francisco Municipal Transit Authority.  My letter (in Sam's name, as it was his car that was ticketed) was accompanied by photographs of our car in the middle of the two meters, our receipt from Burma Superstar, showing the time that we were there, a copy of the ticket, and a print-out of my credit card statement, showing that I'd, indeed, paid for an hour of parking.  Yes, yes, I know you are applauding my attention to detail and organization!  Thank you!

Time will tell if the SFMTA accepts my sob story and retracts the ticket.  But whatever happens, I love the fact that I had an opportunity to protest, to tell my side of the story.

Because isn't that what freedom is all about?

The Dying

When I left for California, everything here was still alive and green.  Two weeks later, and it's a different story.  Everything is dying.  I'm okay with that.  It's just natural.

My poor sunflower "tree," who stood upright and glorious earlier in the summer, has bowed down to the gods of autumn.  I think the weight of the world is upon her.  Look at how sad she appears!  She's like a little old hunch-backed lady.  But in a few weeks, her center will reveal a wealth of seeds that I can harvest for the birds.  Granted, one sunflower will feed my birds for only a couple of days, but those will be happy days for the birds!  And my sunflower will have learned the reason for her existence.

And she's not the only one.  My black-eyed Susans have also succumbed to the ravages of fall.  I will not cut them back until spring.  The birds this winter will love their seeds and their shelter.  So have at it, birds!  The stark beauty of the Susans in death will be showcased by a backdrop of snowfall soon, a beautiful sight to see.

And my broccoli has gone to seed, and my cucumbers are finished.  Very shortly, they will contribute to my compost pile.  It's all good.  Regeneration, renewal, reward.

And then there's Autumn Joy.  This sedum gradually turns to bronze as the summer fades, providing color and beauty in the flower garden.  Its very name is a reminder that despite the fact that everything is dying, there is still joy to behold in the change of seasons.  And that's a reminder that I need if I am to keep love alive.

October

I suppose I just have to finally accept that it's not summer anymore.  I've been in denial.  Spending the last two weeks in California with no deciduous trees in sight allowed me to continue that denial.  Until today.  While I was away, autumn happened.

There is no doubt that October (at least here in the Northeast) is one of the most beautiful months.  So why do I have such a hard time enjoying it?  It all comes down to that human flaw . . . living in memory and anticipation instead of in the moment.  My memory of summer weather, longer days, lighter clothes, gardening, open windows and outdoor concerts leads me to mourn the passing of my favorite season.  And my anticipation of being cold, housebound, seasonally depressed, and lonely just puts another nail in the coffin.  I am not happy about any of this.

So today, the first day of October, I am going to fall in love.  To do that, I need to dismiss my concept of time.  Ha!  Not so easy!  But I need to focus on the day at hand and respect and appreciate its beauty.  Summer is gone and winter is not here yet.  October allows me to hover in the space between, and what a glorious space it is!

In the next couple of weeks, I will be putting the gardens to bed.  My head is already full of things I will do differently in next year's gardens.  (And see?  There's that anticipation rearing its head again!)  I just need to view every day with my eye on the present.  And the present is wrapped in orange and brown with gold ribbons.

I will open it every day and love what lies within.