Someone Else's List

I found a list in an old book I bought at the library sale last week. A shopping list, I realize, is a rather intimate look into someone's life and thoughts. From now on I'll be more careful about where mine end up. Here's the list:

Go to Chinatown, it begins. Who puts “go to Chinatown” on a shopping list? That’s like saying, “Get a job.” Or “Try skydiving.” But maybe “go to Chinatown” is a navigational directive. Try saying it in a GPS voice: “Go tooo Chynatown.” Could be it’s like something on a Monopoly board. Go to Chinatown. Do not collect $200.

Call Rhode Island Historical Society. When? After we get to Chinatown? And what do I say when they answer?

Get Av. Fisher Tkts. TeKanawa and PDQ Bach. Well, that narrows the year down somewhat. Avery Fisher Hall got its name in 1973. Before that it was Philharmonic Hall. So this isn’t a terribly old list. Just an unusual one. (I, too, love Kiri Te Kanawa and Peter Schickele.)

Order Garden of Heavenly Delights. This could be anything. A work of music. A film. A selection of pastries from an uptown bakery.

Library: Lulu, MG, read new MG book. I’m not sure about Lulu, but I’m curious about MG. Who might s/he be? Any ideas?

Listen to F. von St. records. Frederica Von Stade, I assume. I liked her, too. Great voice, great face. I wonder if she still records. Probably not.

Check out Arne’s Love in a Village. I had to Google this one. “Love in a Village” is a play, but who is Arne? A cast member, perhaps? A friend of the list maker’s?

Check out Church Windows by Respighi. Uh-oh…..if she (or he) is checking out a piece of music, s/he probably means check it out of the library. That makes Arne, above, all the more mysterious.

Check out The Diary of One Who Disappeared. Another Google. It’s music. By Janacek.

Check out Berlioz Les Muits de Ete. More good taste in music.

Get new shoes at Capizio. Well, that settles the gender issue. Or does it??

See Places in the Heart. Okay, we’ve narrowed the year down to 1984. Twenty-four years ago.

Go to CDSS. Is this like, “Go to Chinatown”? What is CDSS? Did CVS used to be called CDSS? I don’t think so. CDSS . . . CDSS . . . Chinese Dim Sum Soupery? Probably not.

African Art at 3 places. Oh, fine. Tell us African art is here, but don’t tell us where it is. You’ll notice she didn’t say “Go to” African art at 3 places. Even the most intrepid list-maker eventually gets tired.

Reading in the Car With Annie

Late this afternoon I went outside to close the car trunk, and found myself drawn to the interior. Said interior was even messier than usual, with the dog's comforter still draped over the passenger seat. But the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds, and the wind was picking up, and the dog comforter looked cozy.

I opened the door and got in. I was right; the car was warm inside, and once I shut the door I was insulated from all sorts of things, including the shocking financial statement that had arrived in today's mail.

I picked up the book on the front seat and started reading. David Sedaris. I saw Annie moseying down the path from the house, and I opened the door for her. She jumped in without hesitation, and went right into rub-face-on-everything-especially-the-book mode. My laughter went back and forth from Annie to Sedaris. Eventually, she settled down on the dashboard.

We didn't stay long, but it was a pleasant interlude.......Annie, me, and David Sedaris in the cozy car, apples occasionally falling on the roof.

For Gillian (1975 - 2001)

The horses are gone now
What memories they leave
Whippoorwill Aurora: the first light
Streaks of gold in the barnyard

What memories they leave
The Whippoorwill Morgans
Streaks of gold in the barnyard
Bays glistening in late-day sun

The Whippoorwill Morgans:
Such strength, such heart
Bays glistening in late-day sun
Everything my daughter wanted

Such strength, such heart
In a lovely young girl
Everything I wanted for her
And the woman she became.

In a lovely young girl’s dream,
Her Morgans carried her,
And the woman she became,
Above fear, above pain.

Her Morgans carried her far.
What memories they leave
Above fear, above pain
The horses, gone now.

Cat Caper

This really made me laugh. I’ve been wondering where Pogo sleeps in the afternoon. He hasn’t been in his basket, and I haven’t seen him on the living room chair. Then yesterday I bent down to straighten out the dog bed by the fireplace, and found that it suddenly weighed a ton. Pogo had gotten inside it! The bed isn’t sewn together; I fastened it with Velcro. Somehow he opened it up and got in. Such an enterprising cat!

Just now when I went into the living room to turn on the light, I saw the dog bed moving. I’m glad I already knew why.

"Three Days at Yale" is online

A small bright spot in this difficult week was notification from Yankee magazine that my essay, "Three Days at Yale," chosen months ago to launch their new website feature, "Memories of New England," is finally online. You can find it here. No pressure. :-)

Thank you.

Terry didn't make it. I learned in childhood how life can turn on a dime, but it's still hard to grasp sometimes.

When I saw her last month we were planning our annual fall lunch on the Delaware River. Here we are (Terry on the right) at last year's.

Harvest Moon

Pollen Caught on a Leaf

Cats and Coloration

A friend asked me today if I've ever had an orange cat. She said she's found orange cats to be the most eccentric and "human" of all the cat colors. This is a topic for more than one column, but here's a start:

I had two orange cats in childhood and one more recently. Jingles was a Persian who died from a miscalculation made when she jumped onto a table and missed, hitting the edge and injuring her organs. Rusty was an orange tabby and my dear companion. We gave him away after my mother died. (That really shouldn’t have had to happen, but that’s another story.) Fortunately, he found a good home.

And then there was Grimmy, a semi-longhair who was chosen at the shelter by my daughter Gillian, who said he had a face like a lion. She named him after the cartoon character in "Mother Goose and Grimm." (Yup, we knew Grimm was a dog.) Grimmy was shy with strangers (like many orange cats, I’m told) and quite sensitive to our emotions. He was as soft as down, and very sweet.

I think there are big differences in cat coloration and personality. The ones who have seemed most “human” to me are the blacks. I’m particularly drawn to them, and to black & whites. One of the most remarkable cats we ever had was part black & white and part Siamese. Morgan was deeply connected to us, and his personality was unforgettable. If I ever see another like him, he’s coming home with me.

Anybody Have an Answer (or Two)?

I was subjected to TV political ads while sitting in a waiting room today, and the McCain ad running over and over claims that:

He battled Republicans and reformed Washington. She battled Republicans and reformed Alaska.

Huh?? When did McCain reform Washington? And if Washington is reformed, why is he now promising to change it?

German Translation -- Ja, Right!

A gravestone I photographed yesterday had a German inscription on it. Because the stone was over 100 years old, it was difficult to read. I copied it down as best I could and asked a German lady online to translate it. It was lovely:

Here rests in peace
My beloved husband
Poem by his
Mourning wife

The woman who translated it said some of the German spellings were off, no doubt an error in copying.

Somebody suggested I try Babelfish. I've had less-than-perfect results from Babelfish, and once again it didn’t disappoint. Here’s Babelfish's version:

HERE BUHT IN PEACE
MY CELIEBTER HUSBAND
GEWIAMET OF ITS
TRAMERILTEN WIFE

Have you ever read anything quite so touching?

Head-Spinning Medical Dialogue

I have an appointment for a nuclear stress test on Friday.

I asked the stress test appointment taker why I couldn't eat something before the test. "It’s because of the test," she said.

"I know, but why do they require me to fast before the test?"

"It’s the test preparation."

"I know, but why?"

"Because it’s part of the test preparation."

"I'm afraid you’re not answering my question. WHY is it part of the test preparation?"

"Because you’re getting an injection. When people get injections, they can’t eat."

This must be the same woman who told me there are two kinds of diabetes, the high blood sugar kind and the low blood sugar kind.

Harry's Photographs

Brace yourselves . . . I've started to scan and process my father's photographic work. What a wonderful continuum: Harry's daughter working on his images. I'm having such fun with this. He developed his own film and made his own prints, so when I scan a negative and get it on my monitor screen (and invert it to a positive), I see what he saw in his darkroom. I love this.

At first I thought I wouldn't do anything with pictures of people I don't recognize. But some of them are interesting in an historical sense—the way they dressed in the 1940s, the look of their surroundings—and some are funny. Of those, some are intentionally funny, like this one.

My dad like to set up humorous or dramatic scenes once in a while. At the piano is my family's lifelong friend, Dick Dubè. His drunken fan probably wasn't drunk (although you never know). I'm not sure who she was, but she played her part well. Click on the image for a closer look.

I may start a new blog for these photographs. Or maybe I'll just post them occasionally here.

Politics and Peace of Mind

I'm beginning to think the two are mutually exclusive. As I wrote to MM tonight, I had more peace of mind four years ago when I disliked both presidential candidates and didn't care who said what about either of them.

In the years before that, I usually liked one candidate well enough to vote for him, but I lost whatever party allegiance I had a long time ago, and I never felt excited. This year I'm excited.

When we're excited about something we tend to talk about it. In doing so, I've discovered that some of my friends and relatives—even ones I thought were particularly intelligent and well-informed—are complete idiots. Politics is like that. Now I understand why the subjects of politics and religion are verboten at dinner parties.

I hope when the elections are over my friend and relatives go back to being intelligent and well-informed. And I hope I go back to talking and thinking about other things. Benign things like losing weight and cleaning closets.

Meanwhile, I've discovered the coolest Web site. I'm gonna go order myself some Obama buttons.

Anniversary

Their wedding set the standard for all weddings to come—and all the weddings that came paled in comparison. It was big, it was elegant, it was happy. It was fun!

I remember the dancing (I danced a lot), I remember the food, and I remember my cousin Barry taking me for a ride in his European sports car. My dad took lots of pictures. He drove home in not the best condition to be driving anywhere. But this was before MADD, at a time when no one talked about drunk driving, or seemed to think about it much. And I was too young to drink, and too young to drive.

Fifty years later, I attended the 50th anniversary of the wedding. This time a DJ provided the music, not two bands. My cousin Larry wasn't there, and his sports car undoubtedly turned to rust a long time ago. My favorite dance partner from the wedding, my cousin Jennie's husband, died young. The Best Man is gone now, too. This time I didn't dance at all.

But the country-club setting was gorgeous, and among the 100 guests were many members of the wedding party. The food was Lucullan. I took lots of pictures. On my completely sober drive home, the GPS (borrowed from my son) steered me into a parking lot.

With all their friends and relatives surrounding them, the bride and groom danced with their granddaughters and with each other. Everyone was happy.

It was fun.

What Boomers Talk About, Part II

My dear friend Lisa and I had one of our marathon phone calls the other day, and one of the things we talked about was the delusions of our youth—specifically when we were young mothers. "My children will always be well-behaved," we said back then. We also said, "My children will never fight with their siblings" and "My children will sail through their teenage years without a problem."

This ranks right up there with "I'll never get arthritis."

What Boomers Talk About

The drummer at the jazz club was giving me directions to his next gig, and we started talking about a couple of cemeteries that were on the way. The bass player came by and asked if we were discussing a local restaurant. I said, "No, we're talking about cemeteries. It's the next topic of conversation after we finish talking about our colons."

So Big I Measured It

The Sky Yesterday

It was like this everywhere I went. Of course, I didn't go very far. These two pictures were taken 17 miles apart.

But it looks like fall, doesn't it? Nevertheless, I hope our fall is late and our spring early.

The Mink Coat

Okay, first I'll confess that I bought a fur coat for myself once. I was 23 or 24, and I bought the coat at Saks Fifth Avenue or Bonwit Teller, I forget which. It wasn't mink; it was rabbit. But rabbit in a beautiful design, made in Greece. My in-laws were horrified that I had chosen such a lowly fur, and called from Bermuda to say so. But I loved it. I felt gorgeous and glamorous in it.

A few years later we had a country house and I learned about animal rights and animal activism. I could no longer bring myelf to wear fur. I had what I now know was the dumb idea of donating the coat to the local Humane Society for fundraising. The president of the Humane Society bought it for $20. Great.

In 1985 my mother-in-law died. She left her two newer fur coats to her daughter, and I inherited her mink. It was blonde mink and very lush. I wore it once. I had made plans with a British friend to attend a Christmas Eve caroling church service together, and when she showed up in a fur coat I thought, what the hell, and put on Mom's. I must say the two of us looked very prosperous.

After that I lost track of the coat. We hung it somewhere for safe keeping, but over the years I forgot where that was. I never thought about it, so it didn't matter. Just recently a friend spoke about the mink coat she inherited from her mother. I said, "I have my mother-in-law's, but I have no idea where it is."

Then this week my son decided to clean out an area of the barn we once used for storage. It hadn't received any attention in some time, and had sustained rodent damage. There was also way too much moisture in that room, my son said. "Some of the stuff was really gross," he told me, "and the worst was the coat." The coat? What coat? "A fur coat," he said, "covered with mold." He'd put it directly in the trash.

It's hard to imagine moldy mink. But it's also hard to imagine innocent animals being clubbed to death so women can look prosperous. One might think the image of Mom's coat thick with mold would make me feel sad for her. But if Mom is where I think she is—in a place where she now knows everything—she's planning to buy polar fleece in her next life.

Epilogue

I spoke with the second vet, the one who thought the first vet's diagnosis was wrong. She got the results of Princeton's blood work (read by a pathologist), and apparently the first vet was right. Princeton had lymphoma, in this case a cancer of the bone marrow, and he would have died of it no matter what medicines we did or didn't give him. So I guess I can stop wishing I'd done some other things differently, and envision him as Suzanne described to me: in happy kitty heaven right now, back to his old prince tony self.

Princeton is gone.

In 1996 I was in my parents' house on Princeton Road in Florida, taking apart their household after they died, when my daughter Gillian called to say she had found the perfect cat for me. One might say I didn't need a cat, since we already had quite a few. But Mystic, the lovely longhaired black & white cat I had nursed back to health after finding her, desperately ill, hiding in an abandoned washing machine, had drowned in our swimming pool a couple of years earlier, and Jill knew how traumatic that event had been for me. She decided I needed another longhaired cat in my life.

He was one of many kittens born in a horse barn where Jill took riding lessons. My daughter Suzanne drove up and got him, which must have taken some effort because he was fearful in the way of all feral kittens and not at all used to humans. He spent his first two weeks at home in my room, getting used to me. It forged a bond that will never be broken.

We called him Prince Tony as well as Princeton, and he answered to both. If I encountered him unexpectedly I'd say, "Prince Tony! My baby!" and he always responded with one of his original sounds. Princeton could be a handful, but when Jill heard me greet him that way she knew I was happy that she had brought us together.

The picture on top was taken recently, after he had lost a lot of weight and wasn't feeling well. The second photo is from his youth. He was a big cat with a magnificent coat. He was quite vocal, and would usually speak when spoken to. In recent months he would call my name (at least that's what I think he said) several times a night. I would rouse myself from sleep just enough to raise my hand, and he would put his face into it. I would pet his head, and then he'd go back to sleep.

This spring, when he was 12, he became very sick. The vet thought he had non-viral leukemia, and treated him for that. He got better with antibiotics and worse (I think) with prednisone. Last week another vet offered a different diagnosis: acute massive infection. She sent his blood to a pathologist, and I'll find out on Monday if they learned anything from it. She also ordered a strong antibiotic from a compounding pharmacy, but it didn't get here when we thought it would, and by this morning it was all too late.

He went through so much, and I wish I could take it all back because in the end it did nothing for him. If I had a second chance, I would handle his illness differently. But we rarely get second chances. I saw Jill's car twice on the way home from the vet's this morning—same model, same color, not so common anymore—and took it as a sign, though not a very dramatic one, that he was with her now. In any case, I know he is. I just wish he were with me. Prince Tony. My baby.

Cat Yawn

Yeah, I know it's out of focus. Way out of focus. But you see, Annie was at my feet in the garden, lying on wonderful weed-suppressing cardboard, when she looked up at me. And I looked down at her. And then she yawned. No time to focus.

Maybe this is a picture only a veterinary dentist would love. Or Annie's mother.

A Short Photo Essay

House Wrens nested in this pottery birdhouse for years and years. Then they disappeared about ten years ago, and I put the birdhouse away. I happened upon it this spring and impulsively hung it back up. Within days, I heard the familiar (and wonderful) trill of a House Wren. So loud for such a small bird! Surely these were not the same ones who nested hear all those years ago. But something about this birdhouse obviously appeals to House Wrens.

The other day a papa (or mama) Wren sat in the Blue Spruce scolded me (over and over) for sitting on the porch and interrupting his mission: to feed the babies. I did get up and leave, but not before taking one more picture.

'Tis the Season

'Tis the season to be outside with my camera every day, several times a day, starting after I walk the dogs in the morning, before the dew disappears. Love those photo ops of summer!!

Ant!

Who knew they looked like Darth Vader? And what's with the dent in his back?? (Click for a closer look.)

My Rube Goldberg Pole Beans

If you're old enough to know who Rube Goldberg was, when you see this picture you'll know why I used his name.

This year I planted a few vegetables on a dirt terrace along the side of my house. I chose it because it's off the deer's beaten path. When I said I wanted to grow Kentucky Wonder pole beans, my son offered to put up poles and fencing. But it turned out there wasn't enough room for poles and fencing plus squash plants.

So I devised the . . . um . . . interesting setup seen here. I hammered a piece of rebar into the ground and tied a circular tomato cage to it. Then I partially nested another cage into the first and tied that one down as well (using strips of cloth). Because the cages weren't close enough to the ground to snag the young plants, I tied on lengths of string so that they would hang down.

This caused some major head-shaking among people who saw it, but the beans climbed the string, and then the cages. All was well until last week, when a t-storm caused the beans and their support to pivot and list to starboard. I counteracted this by running string from the beans into my kitchen, going through the window and tying it to an iron pipe. That resulted in perfectly straight beans until yesterday morning, when I found that another t-storm had moved them once again. The string to the kitchen was now slack because they were listing to port.

So I ran another string out to my son's ham radio tower. I'll tell him to think of my green sisal as guy wires. To prevent us from walking into them at neck level, I hung strips of cloth. Contrary to what you might think, these white strips are not an attempt on my part to surrender to the beans.

The Not-So-Fine Art of Texting

I hadn't texted in a while, but when my granddaughter sent me a message a few months ago I figured I knew how to reply. It's like riding a bicycle, right?

Not exactly. Imagine learning how to ride a bicycle and then trying to apply those skills to a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy. What I didn't know was that my new cell phone had T9 text messaging. For those who don't know (and I still barely know it myself), T9 anticipates what you want to say and says it without requiring a lot of keying on your part. People under 18 love it. People between 18 and 25 probably love it, too. Some people between the ages of 25 and 45 probably think it's pretty cool at least some of the time. And then there are the rest of us.

Anyway, my granddaughter texted me to ask when I was going to pick her up. I don't remember the exact wording of my intended answer, but I do remember that it came out Demo nonononono. I thought I'd screwed it up, so I erased it and tried again. This time was worse: nnnon dfkawe lelamslelfn nonon. I know when to quit, so I hit send.

A minute later came my granddaughter's reply: You really need to work on this, Grammy.

I pretty much forgot about texting until today, when I received another message from my granddaughter: Is it hot out today? Let's see if you've improved any.

Still completely clueless about T9 (and any number of other things), I sat in my car in the Staples parking lot with the intention of slowly and carefully composing a reply. What I ended up with was Bacon cab cannon? It even put the question mark in for me. I sent it, and then I rolled up the window and laughed myself silly.

My 17-year-old texter par excellance wasted no time replying: Awesome! Just as I thought. Hahahahahah I love you.

Butterfly Face

My Front Yard

Craigslist Shoppers Must Be a Sickly Bunch

Yes, Craigslist shoppers must indeed be in frail health.

The latest indication came when I listed a grain mill for sale for the second time. A woman emailed, saying she was interested in it and giving the name of her town. I emailed back, saying I would be driving through her town in a couple of days. No response. A couple of days later I emailed again: I'll be coming through your town around 7:00 p.m. Are you still interested in the grain mill? No response. This morning I received a brief emailed apology, saying she was sick.

The first time I listed the grain mill, another woman was strongly interested in buying it, but she, too, dropped out of email sight for a while, and then reappeared to say she was sick.

The man who wanted to meet me in another town to buy my lab glassware was unable to do it after all because he came down with something.

And then there was the couple who wanted directions to the property I was selling. They never showed up, but I found out later that they'd gotten sick together.

I picture these people reclining on their chaise longues, pale faced, weak, longing to mingle in the world of people who walk around and buy things. Kind of like Mimi in La Boheme. With a laptop.

Statin Drugs for 8-Year-Olds????

When I heard this on the news I was appalled. Healthy children, even overweight children with high cholesterol, do not have heart attacks. Why give them drugs in childhood to prevent something that the children themselves can prevent when they grow up? And their parents, rather than administering pills like mindless characters in a sci-fi book, should give their children a healthy lifestyle from the start.

Like every other drug out there, statins are not without side effects. I know several people (adults in their 50s and 60s) who had to come off them. They hope the damage done to their livers and muscles wasn't permanent. Damage done to a young, developing body would add a whole new level of worry.

Both sides of my family have a strong history of diabetes and fatal heart attacks. I watched my dad give up smoking and change his diet, reversing the heart disease that crippled him in his forties, and live to be ninety. I have to be strict about my own diet. I would never permit my child to be medicated in this way. Nor would I be crazy about the idea of having my two-year-olds tested.

We are an over-medicated, over-diagnosed society. Sadly, a large segment of the population seems to be content with this situation.

From the New York Times, here's what I'm talking about:

AMERICAN pediatricians are recommending wider cholesterol screening for children and more aggressive use of cholesterol-lowering drugs, starting as early as the age of eight, in hopes of preventing adult heart problems.

New guidelines issued yesterday by the American Academy of Pediatrics also call for children to be given low-fat milk after 12 months of age. The recommendations are certain to fuel a continuing debate about the use of prescription drugs in children and about the best approaches to ward off heart disease in adults.

But proponents say evidence is growing that the first signs of heart disease show up in childhood, and with 30% of US children overweight or obese, many doctors fear a rash of early-onset heart attacks and diabetes.

The academy estimates that 30 to 60% of children with high cholesterol are being missed under screening guidelines. For some children, cholesterol-lowering drugs, called statins, may be their best hope of lowering their risk of early heart attack, proponents say.

"We are in an epidemic," said Dr Jatinder Bhatia, a member of the academy's nutrition committee, which is making the recommendation, and professor and chief of neonatology at the Medical College of Georgia in Augusta. "The risk of giving statins at a lower age is less than the benefit."

Dr Bhatia said that while there is not "a whole lot" of data, research shows cholesterol-lowering drugs are safe for children. Surprisingly, the paper in the journal Pediatrics that explains the guidelines notes that average total cholesterol levels in children, as well as LDL and HDL cholesterol, have remained stable, while triglyceride levels have dropped, based on data from 1988 to 2000.

The recommendations call for cholesterol screening of children and adolescents, starting as early as two and no later than 10, if they come from families with a history of high cholesterol or heart attacks before the age of 55 for men and 65 for women.

Up at 4:00 a.m.

I was mistaken . . . we didn't get in the car at 6:00 a.m. to go to the hamfest. We set out at 5:15. I set the alarm for 4:00 and got up on time, but I still didn't have everything done by 5:15. The important stuff was finished, though: The sandwiches were packed and the directions were printed out.

We lucked out on the weather. Just sunny skies; none of the rain that was forecast. My son sold some stuff and bought some stuff, all ham related. In my trip around the grounds I found a pair of needle-hosed pliers ($3), a pair of olive drab Army issue wool mittens with a trigger grip ($1), and a wonderful multi-level piece of play equipment for cats—just perfect for J & L's two new kittens. The guy was asking $8 for it, but I got it for $6. I brought it back to our tailgate, where two people (including a three-year-old boy) tried to buy it from us. I hope Oscar and Emmy like it as well as humans seem to.

My son also bought me an adjustable wrench. And I was this close to buying (for $1) a VHS edition of "Hillary and Jackie." Fortunately, I remembered in time that I own the DVD. Surprising what you can find at a hamfest.

It's Hamfest Time!!!

It may sound like a midwest pork event, but a hamfest has nothing to do with food. Hamfests are big (sometimes giant) flea markets for ham radio operators. As you can see by the photo above (taken this weekend in a tent), my son is a ham. I am his devoted companion on our annual treks to the hamfests. We have two to attend in July, and I'm really looking forward to them even though it means getting in the car at 6:00 a.m.

I'll be put in charge of selling while my son checks out the buying opportunities. Sometimes he buys to buy, and sometimes he buys to sell. And sometimes he ends up selling what he bought to buy. It's very complicated.

It's also a lot of fun, even for people like me who don't understand a word of the science behind amateur radio. Invariably, a few tables will be set up with items designed to attract spouses (or loyal mothers): usually used books and DVDs. I've also bought some interesting little tools at hamfests, and one of my all-time favorite flashlights.

I should also mention that hamfests are my excuse to eat bread. The food served at these events is usually not anything I'd want to eat, so I pack our own: egg salad sandwiches, sliced chicken sandwiches with mayo and southwestern mustard, red grapes.

Ah, bread. Just for hamfest day, I will not think about carbs and the scale. Is it any wonder I look forward to it?

Okay, here's the haircut

The Haircut from Hell

No, I'm not going to show it to you.

It's my own damn fault. I wasn't 100% happy with my last haircut (I admit I'm never 100% happy with my haircuts) so I was vulnerable when a friend told me about S. S was wonderful, she said. S was beyond wonderful. People came from all over to experience her wonderfulness. In fact, they traveled so far that she had to situate her salon near the Interstate. I had to put myself in S's hands. I wouldn't regret it.

Regret is too mild a term for what I feel. I suspect S has more than a touch of sadism in her makeup. And maybe those people who arrive via the Interstate have more than little masochism in theirs.

Okay, here's my haircut: Imagine Julie Andrews (I appreciate her charm, but hate her hair) crossed with Queen Elizabeth (I admire her . . . um . . . stamina, but hate her hair). And imagine that this person has always had her hair cut in an institutional setting. By a student. A student who is attempting to pass the course yet one more time after seven failures. A student who is in a bad mood because of this and because an outbreak of her genital herpes coincides with her third date with the cute guy who works in Laundry.

Just imagine that.

It's been five days and the urge to smash all my mirrors is just beginning to subside. And that only because I'm wearing a baseball cap.

My Garden in June

I feel the first stirrings of gardening energy in April. It peaks in May and June, begins to dissipate in July, further deteriorates in August, and by September all I can do is laugh at the articles that talk about all the fall cleanup I'm supposed to be doing. I'm beginning to see that the amount of energy I have for the garden corresponds directly to its appearance. Most perennials are at their best in May and June. The later bloomers shine in July and part of August, but by the end of summer the garden is generally looking kind of rusty—and my joints feel about the same way around that time.

The rose Abbaye de Cluny, photographed this morning, is at the top. Pink roses seem to dominate the second photo. I'm always surprised at how my pictures of this flower bed never ever look as good as it does in person. I suppose it's good that you can't see the couple of tomatoes growing in containers that I tucked in there. In another month lavender zinnias should be making a show.

In the third picture you can see my 15-year-old blue delphinium, some foxglove, a couple of spent iris, phlox waiting for mid-summer, and anchusa. What you can't see are five roses (four of them planted this year), monarda, shasta daisies, lupines, lots of iris that need to be divided, and way too much archangel.

I can't claim that I have toned arms, but thanks to gardening I have biceps that I didn't have last winter. And I think my garden has muscle, too.

I Barked at a Deer Yesterday

(Obviously, not the deer in the photo. No snow on the ground yesterday. At least not that I noticed.)

When our collie-shepherd, Caroline, was alive, we never saw deer near the house. Caroline had only three legs (thanks to an overzealous hunter) and no inclination whatsoever to chase deer, but evidently deer didn't know that. They kept a respectful distance, which was a real boon for our garden.

However, Caroline has been gone for several years now, and it didn't take the deer long to move on in. Yesterday I looked out the kitchen window and saw a large buck taking his lunch break at my plum tree. Munch, munch . . . I watched the baby plums disappear and thought about the roses, hosta, phlox, and sunflowers not far away.

Remembering the deer's response to Caroline, I opened up the back door and barked. It was a great bark—deep, aggressive, and nasty.

Nothing happened.

I took a deep breath and barked again—louder, longer, meaner.

This time I got his attention. He stopped eating and turned to face me.

And then he lifted his leg.

Inside a Delphinium

Those of you familiar with delphiniums (delphinia?) know that these individual flowers, each about 1" wide or less, grow on a tall spike. The overall effect is gorgeous, but so are the little blossoms by themselves. The center part is called the bee. And yes, the blue really is iridescent.

I'm so glad the delphinium survived yesterday's hailstorm. The rose pictured below didn't fare so well.

Everything's Coming Up Roses

Since Crystal said there were lots of flower pics on my blog, I thought I'd better post another one fast. Actually, there are lots, but they're buried in the blog in various places.

Suddenly, my yard is filled with the scent and sight of roses. Here's Prairie Princess, bred by the late Dr. Griffith Buck of Iowa. His mission was to produce beautiful, fragrant roses that would withstand harsh winters. He succeed beautifully.

Iris, intimately.

If you told me this was silk . . .

I'd believe you.

Iris Perfect Pitch in bud yesterday.

I'm off to see the wizard......

The wizard in this case is an orthopedic surgeon. Would you believe I'm having surgery—real, operating-room, anesthesia-required, fasting-beforehand surgery—because a careless move in the garden resulted in the tip of a rose thorn getting embedded in the back of my hand?

My regular doctor sent me to the orthopedist because the little invader (the thorn, not the physician) is sitting on a nerve and a tendon. I thought he (the orthopedist, not my regular doctor) would whip out a scalpel and maybe a little needle for a little Novocaine, but no, he said the operating room was necessary.

In the meantime, I got another tiny thorn tip stuck in the end of my index finger, same hand. Yes, I've been good about wearing gloves, but one cannot pluck caterpillars off rose bushes with anything other than a bare (and sometimes bleeding) hand. (See caterpillar above and note thorns!) I figure by the time I arrive for the surgery on Tuesday I'll have three or four more.

A busy surgeon is a happy surgeon.

If I've learned anything from Grey's Anatomy, it is that.

The Long and Short of It

I learned shorthand when I was 19. I'm not 19 anymore. (Or even 20.) Back then they taught the Pitman method. Today Pitman is obsolete. Come to think of it, the more "modern" Gregg method is probably obsolete, too. Is shorthand even taught anymore?

Anyway, I haven't had much occasion to use shorthand over the years, even when working as a reporter. My little Olympus recorder, all of four inches long, hears everything I need to remember. But I had just barely started interviewing a woman the other day when my little Olympus recorder began blinking strange messages at me. Oblivious to my plight, the woman proceeded with her monologue as if nothing had happened. I had to recall some shorthand in a hurry.

I'm not sure how to grade my effort. I have to conclude that when using shorthand for the first time in decades, one must choose between speed and accuracy. Since my monologuette was rattling off facts without pausing for breath, I chose speed.

I covered a lot of notebook pages with the squiggles I learned at the Mary Byers School. But I discovered that translating them into a newspaper article presented a bit of a challenge. Do you have any idea what Presses for put good my you means?

Or how about this: Local man for all about direct up.

And my favorite: Getting to it some full I like thing there it.

I'm thinking of using one of these as a direct quote. I may have lost my ability to take notes in shorthand, but it's good to know I haven't lost my sense of mischief.

I Win! (a poem)

I Win!

I eat a grapefruit every day.
So does Martha Stewart.

I have blonde hair.
So does Martha Stewart.

I have dogs and cats.
So does Martha Stewart.

I grow flowers and vegetables.
So does Martha Stewart.

Martha Stewart married a Yalie.
So did I.

Martha Stewart needs a new hairdo.
So do I.

Martha Stewart is post-menopausal.
So am I.

Martha Stewart has a net worth of $638,000,000.
I have a granddaughter.

Insane Day, Weatherwise

It was hard to believe the date when I took the dogs out this morning. The air temperature was 41º with a wind chill in the 30s. The wind was fierce, and it felt for all the world like fall. I fully expected to see leaves blown off the trees, not apple blossom petals.

The sun came out, encouraging me to try to do some digging. With my Raynaud's Syndrome, I avoid working outside when it's this cold. But I'm expecting five rose bushes to arrive very soon, and I need five deep holes to plant them in. So I tucked a disposable body warmer into my waistband, put on a pair of gloves, pulled a fleece top over my long-sleeved shirt, and ventured out.

I got one hole mostly dug and came inside for a bit. I was gathering up trash when I heard a crack and a CRASH. I went outside to see what had happened, but discovered first that it was pouring rain. I quickly pushed my wheelbarrow under cover in the garage and then took a peek down the road. A huge tree—which turned out out to be two trees—had come down across the road. It was now impassable.

I called the Township Supervisors to come deal with the trees, and by then we were having a hailstorm. I looked out at the dime-sized balls of ice bouncing all over the deck, and thought, It's the 19th of May, for heaven's sake!

The hailstorm ended and the sun came out. It was a tossup what I needed to do first, dig or mow. I needed to mow (badly), but the grass was wet from the storm. I decided I'd mow as soon as the wind dried the grass. I got back to digging. About three shovelsful later, the sun disappeared and rain came down. I rushed the wheelbarrow back to the garage.

It was like that all afternoon. No exaggeration. Sun comes out. I put my gloves back on and retrieve the wheelbarrow. Digging commences. Rain starts. Get the wheelbarrow under cover. Rush back to the house. Start a chore. Sun comes out. I put my gloves back on. And so it went for hours. I don't know how many times that pattern was repeated. At 5:30 I gave up and put the wheelbarrow in the shed.

I have one-and-a-half holes dug. The grass, having spent most of the day sucking up rain, is growing.

The Lusty Month of May

I remember Vanessa Redgrave as Guinevere, singing this song in "Camelot." Easy for her, with her flowing skirts, flowing hair, and full-to-bursting breasts. Not to mention her Maypole. Do you know anyone who has a Maypole? Think of what AC Moore would charge for all those ribbons. Or maybe they're available cheap on eBay. But Guinevere didn't have to worry about such things. Queens just demand ribbons, and they appear—borne on a pillow carried by a lustful knight.

The month of May traditionally finds me in the garden. What man in his right mind would lust at the sight of me digging in the dirt in my grubbiest of grubbies with black-rimmed nails, stringy hair, and face smeared with sunscreen? I am breathing hard, but only because the weeds are stronger than I. As for my passion, it is soaking in a five-gallon bucket, awaiting the planting that will take place as soon as I finish digging a big enough hole.

But judging from the activity my son saw yesterday in the woods, and the noises we heard last evening, May is indeed a lusty month if you happen to be a turkey. Or a duck.

So Much For Quitting My Rose Addiction

I thought at the very least I could take a year off from acquiring any more roses. I need to take better care of some of the ones I already have. I need to win a few wars with the weeds. I need to improve the soil. I need to work on the inside of my house!

But Saturday afternoon I opened up a thread on the Rose Forum about a Chamblee's order. And I read the stellar comments about Chamblee's. And I read someone's request for their website. So I gave her a link. And then I went to the website myself. And I saw all those wonderful Buck roses. And I remembered that last year I wanted to get more Bucks. And I thought about things like age and arthritis, and how it would be smart to put more roses in while I am still able to dig big holes (at least I hope I can still dig them), and how I want to plant as much as possible now so I can enjoy them sooner rather than later. And I thought about the fact that the next day was Mother's Day.

So I bought myself a Mother's Day gift: Quietness, Earth Song, and Aunt Honey.

Chamblee's prices were good, but the shipping cost more than the roses. That wasn't the case, however, with the Home Depot Website Sale, which I heard about on Tuesday. A selection of roses were half-price with FREE shipping! I ask you, how could I possibly resist??

I ordered two yellow roses: Sunsprite, a very fragrant floribunda everyone RAVES about, even gardeners in northern zones, and Strike It Rich, a new (2007) grandiflora, also very fragrant. This one grows tall and looks super vigorous. Whether it will look that way in my garden is anybody's guess, but at that price I'm more than willing to give it a shot.

I figure I deserve them because I've been a good mother. Most of the time. I think. At least my intentions were the best.

Look what my closeup lens spied!

He measured about 1.25" including his tail. So sweet! I love the skinny little "arms." These guys start out as tadpoles (aquatic), then grow to this Red Eft stage, living on land for two to three years before turning into a brownish aquatic form again. They live a long life—12 to 15 years. Jill and I always loved to see their soft little orange forms appear at the roadside in spring.

Again, click on the photo to see the larger size.

Who Knew Dandelions Were So Exotic?

Click on the photo to enlarge for more detail!

Don't Quote Me

The other day I read a newspaper article that quoted a friend of mine. The quote made it sound as though he didn't know where he lived. I couldn't believe my friend could have said something so stupid, so I asked him about it. No, he hadn't said anything even remotely like that. But there it was, between a pair of solid, reassuring quotation marks.

I used to see this all the time when I covered meetings alongside a reporter who was making a lot more money than I. She would sit there, playing solitaire on her laptop, and the next day file a story with quotes that bore no relationship to reality. As a reporter, it pissed me off. As a reader (and occasional reporter), it still does.

Back in the 1970s my husband's chemical company had an explosion. The press descended upon us. One article had me pointing to some white stuff on the ground and announcing it was hydrogen. Huh? Never happened. Never came close to happening.

Can we assume that the Big Guns of journalism don't do this? Can we trust the major newspapers (and, of course, the gazillion websites that are hustling to get the news to us instantly) to print accurate quotes and accurate everything else? Or should we question everything we read . . . even this?

For Rose People Only

Anyone else would be bored silly.

It wasn't a good winter for roses. I knew this (ice, thaw, ice, thaw, ice, more ice), but still I was unprepared for the number of dead canes I had to prune away. Some of the roses have very little left to them, and trying to create some shape isn't even a possibility. (Well, it isn't helped by the fact that I'm a rather unskilled pruner.)

For those concerned with hardiness, here's the rundown. Bear in mind that winter protection is a four-letter word at my house.

Scarlet Meidiland
They look good, actually, except for the one I planted last year, which has disappeared entirely.

Robusta
I thought Robusta would live up to its name again this year, but I had to cut away about half the bush. What remains looks a tad spidery at the moment, but I expect that will change as it leafs out more.

Knock Out
Or is it Knockout? In either case, it always looks weird to me, as though it isn't sure whether to thrive or migrate south. No change from last year. Or the years before.

Roseraie de l'Hay
Sadly, this huge, indestructible rugosa was no match for the snowplow a few years ago, and will probably never fully recover. This spring I had to cut away about a third of what was left, which doesn't leave much.

The Rock Garden Roses
The fact that I've forgotten their names should tell you something about their performance. Let me think . . . oh, yeah, White Meidiland (the oldest and most reliable of the bunch), Baby Blanket (a shade of pink the exact color of a baby's blanket, when they appear, which isn't often), and Carefree Marvel, which is neither. In fairness, I don't think their lack of vigor is their fault. I blame the chipmunks, which dig tunnels under the rock garden, and I blame the weeds, which rock gardens specialize in, and I blame me. In the garden, it always comes down to the gardener.

The Rose Below the Rock Garden
This one has always been nameless. I acquired it 30 years ago from an old woman who grew up with it. She didn't know the name either. It's not a bush; it's a mass of skinny canes about 2-3 feet tall, blooming once a year with vivid red buds and loose semi-double dark pink blooms. I'm fond of it. The canes appear to propagate underground, with runners. I don't think the winter bothered it at all.

The Walmart Mistake

I have no idea what this is. It was supposed to be Sir Thomas Lipton, to replace the one I lost after many years. But it most definitely is not. It looks like a rose cane. Its leaves look like rose leaves. But so far, after three years, it still has not produced a rose. Maybe its out-of-the-way spot is to blame. On the other hand, its out-of-the-way spot is probably the reason why I haven't tossed it. People have this experience with Walmart (and other big stores) all the time. They aren't exactly my main rose supplier, but sometimes you can find great deals there (see Wildberry Breeze and Lady Elsie May, below) and sometimes I'm tempted by the adventure of the unknown.

Crimson Sky
This was new to me last year. In fact, it was new to everybody last year, having been introduced in 2007. I got it on sale at the end of the season, paying $3.99 or some other ridiculous amount. Good thing, too, because I'm not at all sure it's going to survive in my climate. The canes died back all the way. Two thick red shoots are showing from the base, and I just hope they're from Crimson Sky and not the rootstock. One good thing is that it's a climber. It may never get to climbing height in my zone, but if it grows well enough to produce some of its lush red blooms every year I'll be happy.

Gertrude Jekyll
I was shocked to see how much damage this rose suffered this year. My Gertie is well over 20 years old, and has survived the rollercoaster of my gardening life, waiting patiently for me in the weeds during the years when I could do nothing for her or any other plant. But she was hit hard this winter. Lot of plant left, though, so I'm not too worried.

Gertrude Jekyll No. 2
I think of this one as a male, though I have no idea why. I liked Gertie No. 1 so much that I acquired a second one a few years ago. No. 2 is a great deal shorter, at least so far, but equally good at producing pink roses in a form that's perfection and a scent that's beyond perfection. It suffered some winter kill, but not too much.

Champlain
A stronger rosearian would have "shovel pruned" this Canadian Explorer rose years ago. "Puny" is a good word for its performance in my garden. But then in fall, when everything is long finished, it produces a second flush of startlingly red roses, and I know I'll never dig up the plant. Right now it's so small that it's hard to tell if it has any winter damage.

Dart's Dash
Not my favorite name for a rose, but what a wonderful shrub! A small rugosa with heavenly-scented blooms, it came through the winter with no damage whatsoever.

Blanc Double de Coubert
Planted last year, and apparently unfazed by northern winters.

Prairie Princess
A Griffith Buck rose that went crazy last year, producing one gangly way-too-long cane. Most of the cane seems to have survived winter, but it didn't survive my pruning shears, which cut it by more than half.

Cherries 'n' Cream
Another rose that should have been shovel pruned. The flowers are pretty, but their much-touted scent is nonexistent in my garden. And the plant is so spidery and unattractive. But it's the most expensive rose I ever bought (how dumb is that?). I don't know how well it survived the winter because I haven't looked yet.

Henry Nevard
Completely gone. Again, I blame the gardener, who dug it up by mistake last year.

Lady Elsie May
I was tempted to buy this floribunda a few years ago because my Aunt Elsie was the best gardener I've ever known, even if her middle name wasn't May. It was a good purchase. Love the color! Her original site proved to be too shady, so I moved it last year. It seems to be okay. Not too many dead canes.

Carefree Beauty
Another Buck rose. This one stunned me last year with its vigor and gorgeous blooms, and all indications are that it will do the same this year.

Distant Drums
Yet another Buck. Died to the ground this winter. A shoot or two is emerging, so we'll see. Its blooms are so extraordinary; I hope it survives, but I'm not overly optimistic.

The Nameless Buck Roses
Well, they do have names; I just don't remember what they are. They seem to be doing so-so in my garden.

Belinda's Dream
Died over the winter after being moved last year. :-(

Angel Face
Also gone. This was probably my fourth or fifth attempt to grow this gorgeous lavender rose that smells like raspberries. I'm not tempted to try again.

Betty Prior
Gone as well. My second attempt on this one, mostly because I can hear my late mother-in-law's voice saying, "Nothing outblooms a Betty Prior!"

Sharifa Asma
Barely surviving. I probably should give up on David Austin roses, but the pictures on his website and in his catalogs are soooo seductive! Plus Gertie is an Austin, and look how well she's done.

Wildberry Breeze
Can you think of a worse name for a rose? Maybe "Bat Droppings." Wildberry Breeze sounds like a wine cooler or a room deodorizer. But what a lovely little rugosa it is! No winter damage at all, and a mass of wonderfully scented, single blooms to look forward to. Maybe I should stick to rugosas.

William Baffin
I'm in love. I planted this guy last year, too late to see any blooms, but I have the feeling I'll be in for a treat this year. No winter damage at all.

John Cabot
I was pleasantly surprised to find this Canadian Explorer climber at the Farmer's Market last year. I didn't think I had a place for it, but of course I bought it anyway. Then I thought of the tall garden gate that Joe made many years ago. It's still in place, though no longer serving as a gate to anything. It will be beautiful covered in roses. And, from the looks of the plant after its first winter here, that may well happen.

Abraham Darby

Another Austin. Growing nicely for me (although not as large as I'd like) until this year, when it took quite a winter hit. I'm prepared to give Abe some TLC as he's one beautiful rose.

Abbaye de Cluny (pictured above)

This was a pure impulse buy, and not cheap. I think divine intervention was involved. I don't know if it was all that divine a decision for Abbaye, as she lost all her canes over the winter. I actually dug the plant up last week, but replanted when I saw shoots emerging. It seems to be doing okay. Again, TLC more than worth it. Can you imagine that this rose smells as good as it looks?

If you'd like to see or read about any of these roses, Rose HelpMeFind is a great resource.

Female Troubles

No, I don't have any. At least not at the moment. But it struck me as odd this morning that the term "female troubles" is still in use. I thought we had progressed past vague euphamisms for bodily functions. Practically everyone I know will tell you about their colonoscopy, or the ten reasons why they refuse to get one. You can't turn on the news without learning about a new study that links breast cancer or testicular cancer or ovarian cancer to something or other (hopefully not to each other). Everything is out there. Everything.

And yet, in some circles women are said to have female troubles. This phrase encompasses a lot of stuff: irregular periods, endometriosis, fibroids, a difficult menopause, a falling uterus, you name it. Doesn't it sound a tad sexist? To have "female troubles" is almost to be troublesome ourselves.

"Eh, she's on the warpath again. Female troubles, ya know."

I find it rather significant that men don't have "male troubles." Why don't they? Is it because men are never troublesome? Is it because in a man, nothing falls, bulges, migrates, or fails to be on time? Um . . . I'm not going to answer either of those.

Rose Gardeners Beware (serious!)

On Saturday a rose thorn stuck me hard in the back of my hand. It really hurt going in, so I went inside and made it bleed, then washed it. My hand ached that night, and yesterday morning I could see a red streak going into the knuckle at the base of my ring finger. As the day went on, most of my hand hurt more and more. I went to see Suzanne's new house-in-progress in the afternoon (gorgeous), and then I went food shopping, and my hand was pretty useless at the supermarket as I couldn't hold onto much of anything with it.

When I got home I noticed the red streak had gotten longer, now heading for my wrist. I know that roses are associated with a couple of kinds of dangerous bacteria and a fungus, and I know of two people who ended up having surgery after being pricked by a rose thorn. One lost part of a finger. So although I really really hated to do it (the loss of time . . . the cost . . . the gas . . . I was tired!), after I put my groceries away I got back in the car and drove to the Emergency Room. Both the triage nurse and the doctor said rose thorns can be quite dangerous, and nothing to fool around with. He (the doctor) didn't think any part of the thorn remained in my hand, but he said it looked like I had a bacterial infection. The area was red, swollen, and hot. He prescribed ten days worth of antibiotics, gave me one to take immediately and one for this morning, and also gave me a tetanus shot.

It's not like me to run off to the ER. Had I not known about the evil side of roses, and had some online rosarians not pushed me—hard—out the door, I would have blown this off. That might have been a bad mistake.

This has been a public service announcement.

Short Story: Casual Friends

How about a little light fiction for a change? This is one of my rejected (by Woman's World) romances.

Casual Friends
         I think there should be a word to describe someone who’s more than an acquaintance but not quite a friend.
         Friends are the people you talk to on the phone, and invite into your home. Friends have you over for dinner. Or lunch. Or no reason. Friends send you emails. They might even remember your birthday.
         Acquaintances have names and faces that you recognize, but the only things you know about them are what other people have told you. Most of the time they don’t even rate a Christmas card.
         I’m not sure what’s in between. “Friendly acquaintance” doesn’t quite do it for me. Maybe “casual friend”? Whatever the word or phrase should be, Will Shaw was it.

          I’d never invited Will to my house, and I had no clue about his birthday. But I could make a pretty good guess what year he was born because we graduated high school together. And I knew quite a bit about him—stuff he told me himself. Because we did talk. But we only talked on the road in front of his house, when I happened to be driving past.
         After high school, Will had studied photography in New York, while I got my teaching degree at a state college. He eventually came back home, moving into his parents’ old farmhouse after they retired to Florida. Will didn’t talk much about his photography, but the word around town was that he did quite well with it, selling his prints through a major gallery, wherever that was. We didn’t have a “major” anything in our little neck of the woods.
         I never saw Will in his studio, although he sometimes had a camera or two slung around his neck when I’d see him outside his house. Now and then I’d take the back way home from school to buy eggs down the road from Will’s place, and if I saw him outside I’d stop to say hi.
          “How’s life in second grade, Molly?” he often asked.
          “Noisy,” I sometimes replied. Or “Sweet,” if we had celebrated a holiday involving candy. (When you teach second grade you learn that almost all holidays involve candy.)

          On this particular day, I answered, “Chaotic.” School was one day away from breaking for summer vacation, and second-graders weren’t noted for their patience.
          “What do you have going on this summer?” Will asked, leaning on the shovel he’d been using to dig a hole.
          “Nothing much, really,” I said. “I need to work on my house . . . get rid of some clutter . . . paint the shed . . . tend to the garden. Grow more flowers. The usual.”
          “And then there’s your annual stack of summer reading,” he said.
          I laughed. “Yes, there’s always that.” I wasn’t sure why, but I was pleased that he remembered.
          “How about you?” I asked.
          “Nothing too exciting,” he said. “Except for the new lens I got this week—I’m excited about that. I’ve been out every morning photographing dewdrops.” He grinned.
          “Dewdrops?”
          “Yup, dewdrops. You’d be amazed at how they look close up. Perfectly round and sparkling. Like tiny crystal balls. Except when I blow up the prints to 11x14 or so, they’re not so tiny anymore.”
          He added, “You should see them.”
          “I’d love to.”
          It was true. I’d often thought about asking to see his work, but I didn’t want him to think I was inviting something more. I remembered those old stories where lecherous men invited young women to “come up and see my etchings.”
          I thought Will might take the opportunity to invite me in, but he didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject.
          “Did you hear George Kinkade got married?”
          I remembered George from high school: A tall, thin geek, intense about his schoolwork. “No, I didn’t hear that. Who’d he marry?”
          “No one we know,” Will said. “He imported her from Rhode Island. Probably someone he met in college.”
          “I did hear that Joanie Klein and Bruce Altman got married, though. And Denise and Ray.”
          “Denise and Ray, who need no last names,” he said, smiling.
          “I know. It’s been Denise-and-Ray ever since 8th grade.”
          I remembered someone else. “Oh, and just the other day I heard Cheryl Matthews got engaged to Ted McAllister. I wonder if some of our classmates are rushing to get married before they turn 30.”
          “How about you?” Will asked. He had dropped the shovel and was leaning against my car.
          “Me? I have a good eight months to go before I turn 30.”
          “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Do you have any marriage plans?
          “Marriage plans?” I asked, startled. “Who would I marry.”
          “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I thought you’d tell me.”
          I laughed, a little nervously. “Nope,” I said. “No plans and no guy.”
          I tried to turn the conversation back to him. “What about you? Are you planning a trip down the aisle?”
          But he ignored my attempt, and said, “I seem to remember that you’ve been courted.”
          “Courted? That’s a rather old-fashioned word. I wouldn’t say the guys I’ve dated were courting. ‘Storming the gates’ was more like it.”
          Will grinned at me. “That sounds subtle.”
          “And accurate,” I said, “which probably explains why I haven’t dated anyone for quite a while.”
          I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started up. “Gotta go home and get started on my end-of-the-year paperwork,” I said. He stepped back from the car and gave me a short wave.

          The following Monday I indulged myself by sleeping in until 8:00 a.m. I came downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and brought it out to the front porch, where I found a large flat object wrapped in brown paper leaning against a chair. I put down my tea and removed the paper. It was a framed print of a stunning photograph: dewdrops—perfectly round and glittering in the sun—resting on the edge of a leaf.
          Later that morning, a floral delivery van pulled into my driveway. The driver came to the house and handed me a huge bouquet covered in crisp white tissue. In the kitchen, I carefully unwrapped it. Roses—white and peach and apricot—mixed with lilies, daisies, and wildflowers. It was enchanting.
          I removed the small envelope, almost afraid to open it. I didn’t want to be disappointed. Only one word was written on the card, and it wasn’t signed. But I wasn’t disappointed at all. The card read, Courting.

My Iris Addiction is Alive and Well

After accepting my own determined rule that I would not buy any new roses this year (see below), I rewarded myself for this stellar bit of self-discipline by ordering 15 new irises. Furthermore, I am actually going to plant them on time this year.

Last year I ordered around the same number, and set them out on newspapers on the butcher block because they arrived during a rainy spell. I got surprisingly used to seeing them there (well, actually that's no surprise, considering my housekeeping habits or lack thereof), and as a result the sun came out but the irises didn't. They got planted eventually, but in some cases too late to establish good root systems before the cold set in. I will do better this year. I will.

As usual, I chose most of them on the basis of appearance, with many of those picked because they are fragrant as well as beautiful. And then there were, as always, some that I included because their names triggered meaninigful memories.

Dear Dorothy, light purple and yellow, ruffled . . . that's easy. Dorothy was my mother's name.

Orinoco Flow, white stitched with purple . . . an Enya song, yes? Jill gave me that CD.

Carriwitched, fabulous dark purple . . . this is a bit of a stretch. Jill had a close friend name Ceri once, pronounced Carri.

Ascent of Angels, two lovely shades of blue . . . I have a dog named Angel. She's 15.

High Point . . . a mistake actually. I was thinking of a place in the Catskills where my dad spent a lot of time when he was young. But I realized later that he used to talk about High Mount. Oh, well, High Point is a very pretty bi-color, with pink-tinted white standards and plum purple/violet falls.

Rinky Dink, gorgeous, described as "greyed orchid and vanilla". . . don't ask me why, but this name reminds me of Mama. Something she used to say, no doubt. It makes me smile and remember the fun we used to have.

Dream of You, pastel blue, white on top edged in pale yellow . . . yes, I do. Please keep those dreams coming forever.

I'm Quitting My Rose Addiction!

I'm determined to go cold turkey this year. Clearly, I'm not the rose gardener I thought I was, and that's okay. There's a few things I do well in the garden, like sunflowers. Sunflowers are good. If I can stay ahead of the slugs, rabbits, and deer, my sunflowers come out on top. Literally.

But too many things conspire against me with roses. Big things like winter. I always do my homework and plant hardy varieties (I would never choose a hybrid tea, for instance, and I've learned to avoid floribundas). But even so, most of my roses stay small while I, thrilled that they even survived, ooh and aah over every blossom. All three of them.

This year we had a lot of ice and a lot of freezing and thawing. I looked at the plants that didn't make it, and for the first time didn't feel inspired to replace them with more roses. However, all it took was one visit to a rose website to rekindle my desire to pick out new ones.

I don't think that's the best idea. Maybe we can blame it on my two elderly dogs, who interrupt my sleep a lot, but I'm tired! Tired of digging big holes, tired of wondering if I'm giving the roses proper care (I'm probably not), and most of all tired of trying to reconcile the glorioius images in my mind of large, healthy, blooming roses with the reality in my yard.

So.....this year I will enjoy the rugosas, which are popping out leaves all over the place as I write this, and the Bucks, and my intrepid Gertrude Jekyll, and the William Baffin, and the vigorous Robusta, and the Scarlet Meidilands, and (what's left of) the Abraham Darby, and the few unnamed antiques, and when I feel a craving coming on I'll prowl a iris website.

Sounds like a plan.

What are you known as?

I never knew the names of the two female gym teachers who used to live a couple of miles down the road; they were always referred to as "the lesbian couple." (Actually, my neighbors didn't use the term lesbian, but we won't go into that.) Other nameless people live on the road as well. For example, we have "the retired teacher," "the artist," and "the woman who has peacocks." And how could I forget "the family with the pool"?

When we first moved here we were known as "the New Yorkers." I would hope at this point I've been given credit for my 32 years in this house, but you never know. I do know some people who used to think of me as "the flower gardener," but I doubt that applies anymore. I hope some still think of me as "the blonde," although these days that does seem doubtful. But some labels stick . . . and stick and stick. "The guy with the limp" will probably still be known that way long after he's had his knee replaced.

Labeling doesn't just happen in rural areas, of course. At a certain age, most of us are thought of, at least by strangers and casual acquaintenances, as "old woman" or "old man." Children are children. Teenagers are teenagers. Gays are gays, unless you live in a more evolved community than mine. As for colorblindness, I hope it will happen in my lifetime but I'm not counting on it.

Getting back to my dirt road, I've heard mention of "those people from Maryland," "the old man with the buckets" (he feeds his horses), and "Edna's sister's kid." As for me, I'm probably known as "that city woman who always has a camera around her neck" or "the one who lives in the Indian's house" (people from India lived here in the 1950s, but my neighbors have long memories) or "the one who doesn't go to our church." I don't know any of this for sure, but I know I'll never ask.

Oh, wait! I just remembered that our veterinarian calls me The Big Boob . . . because I founded the county's first La Leche League group. :-)

"Do you have a difficult Pit Bull?"

I had the TV on in the kitchen the other day, not paying much attention to it, when I heard someone say, "Do you have a diffcult Pit Bull?"

Oh, I thought, I wonder what they'll recommend? I don't have a Pit Bull, but the breed is controversial and I was curious. So I left the bathroom sink I was cleaning and went into the kitchen to look at the screen. I saw a woman rubbing something on her face. Pit Bull repellant, perhaps?

No, acne medication. It was a commercial, and the announcer had said, "Do you have a difficult pimple?"

Grey Flannel Fleece

I realized the other day that I spent the entire winter in grey fleece, at least when I was home. There were the two pairs of Danskin yoga pants (and a navy blue pair as well, but I'm talking grey here), a Champion v-neck pullover (courtesy of my daughter), another pullover from the Gap (courtesy of the Salvation Army), and another SA find—an oh-so-useful longish grey fleece cardigan by Tapemeasure. I wore that cardigan over everything . . . on and off throughout the day, depending on the temperature. Big buttons, so I suppose it was made for old hands. Mine are getting there.

I have mixed feelings about putting away the grey fleece if and when the season changes (it's 18º as I write this). I suppose it will be nice to see lighter, brighter colors. But fleece is soft. I like soft. And I like the fact that my winter wardrobe covered everything. Everything. And required no effort on my part. Like holding in my stomach.

Spring means work.

The Flu Review(s)

I spent a week in bed with the flu this month. Although it was my first flu experience in 15 years, I keep a collection of DVDs for just this purpose. I normally require at least a month to watch an entire movie (who wants to sit quietly for two hours?), but being sick is another story entirely. I went through several, little bits at a time. Unless you've been quite sick recently, you'd be surprised how much energy it takes to watch a movie, even a fluffy one.

I tried to watch The X Files Movie, but it stimulated my already overstimulated adrenals and I gave up after 10 or 15 minutes. Here's what I did watch:

To Catch a Thief. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. God, they were gorgeous. Cary had such enormous appeal, and to think he did it without abs. That is, he probably had abs somewhere, but they were secondary to his voice, his manner, and that wonderful face. Who needs biceps when you have a chin like that? I saw this movie for the first time as a teenager, and understood it a lot better this time around. I also noticed Cary's butt this time. Nice.

Shall We Dance? This is the American version, starring Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, and Jennifer Lopez. I'd forgotten that Lopez was a dancer before she became ThePhenomenonKnownAsJLo, but this movie reminded me. I'd like to see the Japanese original, too, which I heard was very good. I'd also like to look like that other Susan, Sarandon, once in a while. And to dance. To dance.

Maid in Manhattan. Another JLo movie. Cute, as was the kid who played her little boy. But it made me think, in a way the creators of the movie probably didn't have in mind. Two characters were attracted to the male star, whose name escapes me. (I wasn't attracted, can you tell?) One was a rich and jaded Brit; the other was JLo, a hotel maid living in humble, hard-working circumstances. In one scene, Lopez accompanies Male Star to the zoo, where they are entranced with the antics of the seals. It's clear that the rich and jaded bitch Brit could never be delighted with such simple entertainment. Watching it, I thought about people and money and stimulation and overstimulation, how quickly some people lose their ability to be delighted. Can't wear the $20 t-shirt anymore (not to mention the $7 one); gotta pay at least $300. Nice quality, plain leather purse? Hell, no! Gotta have the $6,000 designer model, the bigger the better. Everything big, everything fancy. Simple pleasures are for the simple-minded. That mindset is soooo repugnant to me. So as I watched the movie I hoped "Jennie from the block" was still able to enjoy the small things in life and find joy in nature. And then I remembered what I'd read a week or so earlier, about JLo's incredibly expensive nursery for her new twins, and the fact that the cost of their delivery (when you factor in her designer hospital gowns) broke all records. Ugh.

Prelude to a Kiss. This was the original version with Meg Ryan and Alec Baldwin. Boy, does Baldwin look young in this film! Meg never seems to change. She's always adorable, always wonderfully coiffed and dressed, and always seems like she has the potential to be a real pain in the ass. At least that's how she comes across to me. I liked this movie, which addresses fear—a constant in my life. Apparently (according to the movie) the way to rid yourself of fear is to have your body taken over by an elderly, terminally ill man. I don't think I'd attempt this cure without some sort of guarantee.

In Good Company. I loved this movie, despite the fact that Scarlett Johannsen's charactor showed all the personality of an eraser. It's about meaningful work. And thinking you know what you want, and trying to fit that mold. And ethics and morals. And overcoming hurt. If you don't think you could possibly care what happens to a Carrera 911 and its driver, give this movie a try. (I myself care what happens to all cars.)

Now I'm watching Season One of Hill Street Blues. My crush on Captain Furillo is alive and well. And I'm feeling a little better every day.

I used to be a hooker (of rugs)

I used to do old-fashioned rug hooking, using strips cut from discarded wool clothes and hooking them into burlap. It was my winter hobby, and I loved it. I stopped a number of years ago when things got difficult at home, and I left a couple of projects unfinished. I got one of them out recently, a table runner I designed ten years ago. The seven cats we had at the time are pictured: Puma, Eve, Nocci, Grimmy, Houdini, Buddy, and Princeton. Today only Princeton is left.

I found evidence that moths have visited it, but I don't see any obvious damage. I hope they haven't weakened it badly. I'm thinking I should finish it. I know my daughter Jill would want me to. She enjoyed hooking, too, as well as the cats (and all animals!) and really liked this design. We thought it was fitting that the cats should be on a table runner because we were always chasing them off the table.

Rihanna ______ ______?

It's possible, maybe even likely, that my granddaughter might want to take up crossword puzzles at some point. Maybe she won't. But if her generation starts sharpening their pencils when they see the New York Times, Will Shortz and his disciples are going to have to get out their erasers and delete many of the old clues. They'll also have to add a bunch that reflect the current . . . um . . . culture.

I was working a puzzle last night, and thought about how, if I were doing the puzzle with Liz, she wouldn't, well, have a clue. At least for these:

Pearl _______ Bailey
Pinza and Chaliapin
Al Hirschfeld's daughter
"Knute Rockne, All American" star
Succotash bean (does anyone eat succotash any more?)
Bandleader Winding
"_________ Romantic?"

Maybe I should invite Liz to do a puzzle with me. She'll think I'm smart, whereas in fact I'm only old.

She'll be sitting there, awestruck, while I zip through these:

"The Caine Mutiny" captain
Peter Weiss drama, "________/Sade"
Skater Midori
"Picnic" playwright
"The Magus" setting

No, wait. She'll be sitting there with her laptop, Googling. Feeding me the answers faster than I can write them in. Laughing triumphantly. Not to worry, Will Shortz.

Seductive Genealogy

For about a week this month I was bitten hard by the genealogy bug. It's seductive—so much information on the Internet! In just a few days I traced one line back to 1790 in Germany. I was able to see (online) actual photographs of two of my great-great grandparents' gravestones, one written in Hebrew. I've stopped for now. To go any further would involve paying to join one of the genealogy websites, which I'm not ready to do at this point. I also don't want to spend a lot of time on it right now. But it's so much fun........kind of like a mystery you solve bit by bit.

I discovered that my great-great-grandfather is the great-great-great-grandfather of Nigella Lawson, the famous (and very beautiful) British chef. And I was very excited to find this photograph of my grandfather the opera singer in the New York Public Library's Performing Arts collection online. I sprung for a $50 enlargement, which I'll frame myself. I have other pictures of him in costume, but I'm sure the quality of this print will be excellent.

After doing this, for the first time I fully appreciate how large a pyramid of ancestors stands behind each of us. The numbers double with every generation . . . two sets of grandparents . . . four sets of greats . . . eight sets of great-greats . . . 16 sets of great x 3, etc. When you follow one line, as I've been doing, it's easy to say, "He was my great-great grandfather" and see the direct connection between us. But then I remember that I have seven other great-great-grandfathers that I never heard of.

PS: If you're wondering how we got from my grandfather's black hair to Jill's (and my) blonde, it's like this: The handsome Jewish baritone married the lovely blonde Scottish Presbyterian soprano. (They met on stage.) They had two children, a gorgeous daughter with his hair and a handsome son with hers. The handsome son was my dad.

The Boss of Bossa Nova

From my old 40x365 blog:

A diabetic octogenarian, Ira is in and out of the hospital. He insists his girlfriend dumped him because he asked the wrong question. Slim, barrel-chested, elegant in rolled-up sleeves and pleated pants, he says I’m his favorite bossa nova partner.

I found out last night that Ira died last week. I only knew him in one capacity--as my bossa nova dance partner of several years. I started going to the jazz club some years ago.......maybe 2002. Ira was one of the regulars. He was about 80 then, a handsome Jew who wore Italian clothes and danced beautifully. He always danced with his much-younger girlfriend. After a while my friends and I became regulars, too. Got to know the band very well and a bunch of the others. Ira's girlfriend was in a terrible car crash, and she moved away. It was a hard time for him.

I don't remember when I started dancing with Ira, but I became his favorite partner. He was a nice person, had a good heart and a sense of humor, and he was fun to dance with.

About a year ago he developed complications from diabetes and was hospitalized. I brought flowers, but didn't go up to see him. I just wanted him to know his friends from the jazz club were thinking of him. After the hospital. he went into a nursing home. It was posh, more like a resort. He called and invited me to come dance with him one day when a band was playing, and so I drove up with a friend. He was so proud to dance in front of all his new friends. I took pictures that evening and sent them to him.

Amazingly, a couple of the nurses drove Ira to the jazz club on ocasional Wednesdays. By then I had stopped going so regularly, so I didn't see him very much. He would call once in a while to see if I was going to be there. The answer was usually no. He told me he hoped I'd come even though the nurses had gotten angry with him for dancing with me! Weird. What was their agenda?

I was at the jazz club the week before this past Christmas when Ira showed up without the nurses, having gotten a ride from someone else. The band played his favorite "Girl From Ipanema" in his honor. He tried twice to dance with me, but couldn't stand up that long. He said he felt sick. Less than a month later, he was gone.

I had to read his obituary to find out if he had children. He didn't. It said he had once owned a nightclub. I could easily envision him there, working the room and dancing with all the ladies. It said he served in WWII and lost his brother in that war. It said over the years he lost two sisters. It left me wanting to know more.

Odd to have such limited knowledge of someone who was rather a fixture in my life for several years. Still, I miss him no less than I would if I'd known everything.