Easter Then, Easter Now

I was raised a Lutheran in a Catholic neighborhood in Queens. On Easter, the two religious seemed to meld into one big fashion statement. My friends and I followed the strict tenets of the city that gave the world the song "Easter Parade." Each of us left the house Easter Sunday wearing a new dress, a new spring coat in a pastel shade, matching shoes (patent leather or pastel) and bag, white gloves, and a hat.

The hats were usually made of white straw, often with a pastel ribbon. Or ribbons. Or flowers. Or lace. Whatever the style, one thing remained constant: We never wore the hat again. It was also unlikely that we ever wore the coat again. We certainly didn't wear the gloves again. The dress and shoes (and maybe the bag) might to to a party at some point, but the rest of the outfit stayed in the closet after Easter.

We wore the outfit to church, and then we hung around on the sidewalk in our Easter clothes. We did this all afternoon. My dad often took pictures. Then we went back home and ate a lot of chocolate.

Religions can be such curious phenomena. At what point did fashion become allied with the resurrection of Jesus? Is it a symbolic thing........new hat equals new life?

By the time my children came along, my concept of Easter had changed. My husband and I didn't go to church, and pastel spring coats just didn't fit in on the old farm. We colored eggs and did Easter crafts, and I filled baskets with little gifts in lieu of candy. My mother sent Easter outfits for them every year, and the girls enjoyed wearing pretty dresses as they hunted for Easter eggs in the front yard.

Now that they're grown, I'd probably ignore Easter if left to my own devices. But fortunately, today I wasn't. My daughter Suzanne's brother-in-law and his partner invited me to their Easter dinner. This is a Slavic Catholic celebration, different from the Irish and Italian Catholics of my childhood. Today's gorgeous table was decorated with Pysanky eggs in various sizes.

There were other differences, too. I wore beige pants, yellow shoes, and a linen top in spring colors. My 19-year-old granddaughter wore a strapless swirl dress in pink and white. The men wore shorts. In the house, most were barefoot. At one point my son-in-law ran home (literally ran, through the woods) to don a dry suit (it's like a wet suit, only dry) and go water skiing in 40 degree water.

But some things never change. After a delicious traditional Easter dinner, we sat in the living room surrounding a spread of desserts: Apple Crisp, Lemon Lush, Banana Bread, and something else. Mounds of pretzels surrounded a fondue pot of bubbling chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

Happy Easter, everyone.

Why I Love the Internet, Part......oh, I forget.

I'm sure I've reported many examples of why I love the Internet. This is probably Part VIII. Or Part LXXXVIII.

Anyway, another example happened this week. A couple of years ago I got involved in a discussion of old silver on an antiques forum, and inquired if it was possible to date souvenir spoons. I posted lots of pictures of spoons from my grandmother's collection. She picked up spoons in her travels as an opera singer.

Today, a Ph.D. candidate researching tourism in Arizona was very excited to find one of those photos. The picture confirmed for him that Casa Grande Ruins souvenir spoons were in fact sold in 1891. He wrote to thank me.

The world was so much bigger when I was a child. I like it better this way.

I love the way children think.

" . . . and the princess was delighted," I read to Gillian when she was three. I paused.

"Do you know what delighted means?" I asked.

She nodded confidently. "It means dark."

Asleep in the Snow

This looks cruel, but really, it isn't. The vet explained Wolfy's reluctance to come indoors: "He's a Husky." Yes, Huskies like the cold. But I also think the snow cools his inflamed hips better than his pricey medications. I managed to get him inside after I took this picture because his coat was starting to ice up.

Suffice it to say Wolfy doesn't appreciate the woodstove nearly as much as I do.

The Art of Memorization

I wrote this 14 years ago. The memory is still vivid......


The Art of Memorization

He is your last baby, I told myself,
Put this where you can find it again.
He was four months old. The hour was midnight.
The dogs were asleep. The baby nursed.

I held him in my left arm, cradling his head
with my right hand. Snow fell outside.
New milk trickled across my stomach.
He is my last baby, my last baby.

My son is seventeen now, and shaves.
He bench presses two hundred pounds and above.
His language flies from high-tech to hard-core.
His car roars, his guitar screams.

But I took that moment to impress forever
an hour of infancy into my brain.
Seventeen-year-old senses come alive,
smelling my nursling, hearing him swallow.

I feel the silk of his baby neck,
and my palm against his diapered back.
My kiss on his head is as real as the grin
I’ll be lucky to get in passing tonight.

To prepare for my quiet retirement, for the longing
for amplifiers turned up high and rumbling
dual exhausts in the drive, I practice
now the art of recording time.

To Pay or Not to Pay?

Blame my frugal nature (which is a blessing, I tell you, a blessing!), but I have an aversion to websites that charge a fee. For me, the sole exception is Flickr, which I enjoy and don't mind paying for. Oh, and I paid for GardenWeb for several years before it was free.

Several times a week, Classmates.com notifies me that another of my classmates from William Cullen Bryant High School has visited my profile and signed my guestbook. According to Classmates, 72 people have signed that book. In order to find out who they are, I'd have to pay a monthly fee. At best, I'm only mildly curious, mostly because I remember only two names (and one additional face) from my graduating class. Most of my friends went to Catholic school.

A few years ago, one of my brilliant cousins set us up with our family tree on Geni. Since then, I've added many names, dates, and photos. It's a neat site. And it's free. At least I thought it was free. This week I learned that one can upgrade to a Pro account for $5/month. Why would one want to? Well, one (like me) might like to access another family tree if it happens that a relative is sitting on a branch of it.

That's what Geni emailed to tell me this week. They said my grandfather, George Campbell, had shown up on someone else's family tree. I was rather excited to hear this. All I know about George Campbell is that he was born in Scotland, lived in Hartford, CT, was married to Margaret, fathered Alice, Maggie, and Anna, as well as a slew of sons, and was a servant. With Campbell being such a common name, and my genealogy skills being on the skimpy side, I thought that was all I'd ever know about George. That is, until I got the email from Geni.

If I wanted to see George's other relatives, Geni said, all I had to do was sign up for a Pro account. They offered me a free 14-day trial if I'd fork over my credit card number. Oh, and by the way, my great-great-uncle Samuel Gluckstein was also on someone else's family tree. Samuel didn't tempt me all that much. Thanks to the Glucksteins' founding of the Lyons Tea Co. in England, I knew quite a bit about that branch of the family. But George...... father of Alice, the opera singer whom I so strongly resemble (if not in looks, in many other ways)......I got out my credit card.

As soon as I signed up for the Pro account, I clicked on George. Turns out the other guy's George was born in 1942. He has a bunch of kids, none of whom are named Anna, Maggie, or Alice. He's still living.

I canceled my 14-day free trial immediately. I hope Geni agrees that it's canceled. I hope they'll burn my credit card number. I hope they'll slink off and leave me to enjoy Geni the way I always have: without the hype, and for free.

I Can See (the Olympics)!!

I haven't been able to get NBC on my TV since the changeover to digital. I missed being able to watch Jeopardy, but since I work evenings and wouldn't be able to see it most of the time anyway, I wasn't too distressed by this. But I wanted to see some of the Olympics, so I emailed the Chief Engineer of our NBC affiliate and asked for his advice.

He sent back a lengthy email, of which I understood almost nothing. It was all highly technical, and included a long list of what he called "extra information." He wanted to know precisely where I lived, in case a cable line or radio station might be interfering with my reception.

Before responding, I forwarded the email to my son. Within minutes, I received an email back. Joey said, "They moved their operating frequency from Channel 28 to 11, or down about 350MHz, which tripled the wavelength of the signal being transmitted."

The part I understood was ".....from Channel 28 to 11." I picked up the remote, pressed the number 1 button twice, and was delighted to see NBC come in perfectly clear. As they probably say at the U.N., there's nothing like a good translation.

How I'm Doing (with my goals)

In December, 2008, I wrote about my vision board. In choosing pictures to add to it, my intention was to spur action on my part. In brief, I wanted to:

Keep a neater house. Invite friends over more. Write more. Get paid more for writing. Make more progress processing my dad's old photographs. Hook rugs. Sing.

The vision board didn't last long. Well, it's still semi-intact, actually, but last summer I temporarily leaned a very large art pad against it, and it's still there, covering the vision board completely. I guess I should call it an envision board. But perhaps the act of creating it had an effect. Because when I look at those goals I realize I'm doing pretty well.

My house isn't perfect, and will never be perfect. But I've achieved a consistent level of relative neatness and cleanliness that surpasses all previous efforts.

I had guests here after Christmas, so I suppose I can say that's a start. I have plans to invite more soon. Really.

I'm definitely writing more. And I'm writing the sorts of things that have the potential to bring in more money. Time will tell, but I'm doing my part. Now the editors and publishers will have to do theirs.

I've made more progress with my dad's photos, and was on a roll when I got a new computer and then a new operating system, both of which screwed up my ability to use my scanner. But that will get straightened out eventually.

I got back to rug hooking! I say that with enthusiasm because I really love hooking and am surprised I stayed away from it so long. I finished the table mat I wrote about in March 2008, and am now working on a chair seat I designed in Mickey's memory. I'm so happy to be doing this. (One of the first chair seats I made is pictured above.)

And yes, I've been singing again. Determined to push myself out of my comfort zone, I volunteered to sing the 1955 pop song, "Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby" for a friend's 80th birthday party. It didn't happen (long story), but it will, a little belatedly, when I sing it for him here, at my piano, soon. To prepare, I sang every day. For a while, with my determination at a fever pitch, that was the only song I sang. But I've branched out, turning to many of my old jazz and standards song books and even buying myself a new (and pricey) one for Christmas: a 1200-song fake book.

My vision board also contained a picture of a new Mercedes and a 1996 Chevy Caprice. (What can I say? I'm a car person.) Oh, and a wheelbarrow full of money. (A shallow car person.) I'm no closer to acquiring these things. But all things considered I still say I'm doing pretty well.

Mickey Lives On in a Bedtime Story

The bedtime story is nothing new; I wrote it more than a decade ago. But it was inspired by Mickey and his sister Minnie, and I'm happy that it's still available for reading on the Internet. I had to misspell Mickey's name for gender neutrality, but he won't mind.

Two Grey Cats

Tonight I happened upon this little quiz related to the story. Will merchandising follow? Mickey and Minnie t-shirts, perhaps? Or maybe Mickey and Minnie dolls. Soft, eminently huggable dolls, with a resonant purr.....

Two Grey Cats Quiz

Kitten Update

The kitten hasn't been seen since Tuesday night. I hope this means she has a home. A good home.

A Heaven-Sent Kitten?

I should start by telling you that years ago we found a stray cat that was emaciated and terribly sick. My son named her Mystic. I was the one who cared for her most of the time, and she thought the sun rose and set on me. Mystic slowly regained her health and grew into a long-haired "luxury cat," as my DH put it. She was a black & white tuxedo cat. We sometimes called her "Miss Tickle," and we adored her. One night she slipped out of the house in the dark as I let a dog out. I didn't see her leave, and she drowned in our swimming pool. We all took it very hard.

A year later my daughter Jill announced that I needed another long-haired black & white cat, and she found me the next best thing: a long-haired black kitten. We named him Princeton, a.k.a. "Prince Tony," and he lived for 12 years.

Anyway, as you know we lost Mickey last week. My son suggested I might like a kitten, but I said not yet. For one thing, I'd like to minimize the vet bills for a while. For another, I'd like to wait until Wolfy passes on. He's 14. Meanwhile, I wouldn't mind some peaceful time to enjoy Wolfy and my two cats, Pogo and Annie.

So that brings us to tonight, when a man came into the library where I work, and said there was a cat outside, trying to get in. I looked, and it was a kitten—not tiny, but not grown—and it was trying hard to open the glass door. And guess what.......she was a black & white tuxedo cat with a bushy tail, a sure sign she'll be long haired, or semi-long haired.

I thought about her all evening. I couldn't bring her into the library, where she could easily disappear, but I did go out and pet her (so soft—except for those needle claws). I finally, and reluctantly, decided that if she was still there at 9:00 when I left, I'd take her with me. But she wasn't there.

Tomorrow I'm going to put a cat carrier in my car, along with some food. If she's still around, I'll pick her up and try to find out if she has an owner. I doubt it, because I think I saw her on the campus, curled up at the side of a road, before Christmas.

I'm so ambivalent about this. My reasons for not wanting another cat right now still stand. But the possibility that Jill picked this one out for me seems very strong, and too compelling to ignore. We'll see......

Mickey is gone.

This is such a shock for me, as I know it will be those of you who know I've had an injured cat sequestered in the downstairs bathroom for two months. Mickey was 15. In mid-November he had a chunk of his leg removed by what the vet guessed was a rat. Home care involved soaking his leg four times a day at first, and what turned out to be four series of antibiotics. He had to wear a cone collar to prevent him from reinfecting the wound by licking. We made six visits to the vet.

It was a long haul, but Mickey was doing wonderfully well. The whole family was excited to see him get close to complete healing. He finished his antibiotics, and we stopped the soaks this week. I weighed him yesterday, and was happy to find he'd gained another pound, up to 11.5 pounds.

We had a nice routine going where I would take his collar off in the morning (or twice a day on days I didn't have to go to work) and then hold him and pet him for a while before feeding him. He loved this, and so did I. He had this great habit of rubbing his face against mine, hard. Purr, purr....

We did that this morning, and everything was fine. It was still fine later when I changed his litter and cleaned the floor. But at 2:00 p.m. I heard him cry out. I opened the door and found him panting and salivating, unable to walk. I called the vet immediately, and they said it sounded like he'd thrown a blood clot.

I took him right in. The vet said if a cat throws a clot, it's likely to lodge in the artery that supplies blood to the hind legs. This is what happened to Mickey. He was paralyzed, and in great pain, and there was nothing we could do except end his pain.

The vet, who treated Mickey all along for his injury, felt so bad for both Mickey and me. She and I talked afterward for a long time. I told her that although I'm sorry Mickey had to suffer with his leg injury, I'm not sorry we had these two months of intensive contact. Before he was hurt, Mickey was a rather elusive indoor barn cat who had to be coaxed out of hiding. But he and I bonded strongly while I was caring for him. Although this makes it harder for me now, I'm so glad to have had the opportunity to get to know, and to deeply love, this wonderful cat.

I'm also so grateful that it happened while I was home. I had to leave for work at 1:00 p.m. two days this week, and at 2:00 yesterday. I was planning to leave today at 3:00. If this had happened to him even one hour later, I would have been out of the house until 10:00 p.m. and Mickey would have suffered all that time.

On the drive to the vet I hoped he could be saved, but I told him if I had to let him go Jill would be there to meet him, and she would take good care of him. I said I would join them someday, and when I did I would take him in my arms and feel his face rub on mine, hard. Meanwhile, I will remember that feeling always.

Thursday, Thursday

It's only 9:15 a.m., and my day is getting more annoying with each shift of the digital clock.

The two bags of canned goods I bought last night and left on the dining table when I went to bed are still there. (Yeah, I know I live by myself, so of course they're still there. But it's still annoying.)

Wolfy's been panting and nudging me ever since I got up. I filled his water dish, took him outside, and gave him treats. But I haven't managed to divert him from nudge mode.

My right hand, which took took a lot of hits from the cold recently, looks and feels like a leper's. (Well, sure—I have no idea what it feels like to be a leper. But maybe my hand does.)

Dog turds await my attention in the snow. Enough said?

I got up an hour early today to scan some of my dad's negatives, a process I started last year. But I can't seem to get the scanner to do what it's supposed to do. No doubt my new computer factors into this problem somehow, but I don't know how. So here I sit with a stack of negatives on my desk, the scanner blinking its taunting blue eye.

Mickey is feeling better. This is wonderful. But during the night he apparently kicked cat litter all over the bathroom, and then washed his feet in his water dish. This is not wonderful.

Is there a reason why I can't get a fire going in the woodstove this morning? Impatience, maybe?

If one more person emails me to tell me how much they loved Avatar, I'm going to block them from Outlook.

I know what I need.

I need someone to cross my yard tapping a white-tipped cane, or rolling in a wheelchair, or walking behind a hearse, to show me what an absolutely splendid day I'm having.

Or maybe I just figured it out.

The A Word (and no, it's not adultury)

I bought myself a new sewing machine for Christmas. I already had one, given to me by my husband in 1975. It cost $400, a tidy sum in those days, and was the top of the Kenmore line at the time. It still works well, but it's so bloody heavy! Like all sewing machines of that vintage, it's made entirely of metal. I used it a lot for years, making the kids' clothes when they were little, and making curtains, etc. But more recently on the occasions when I've gotten the urge to sew, the thought of lugging that machine down the stairs has erased my creative impulses.

So I bought a new machine last month. Like many of today's vintage, this one is made of plastic. I'm not a big fan of plastic, but the machine is delightful to look at and has an excellent reputation. And it's light! Hoist with one hand light. "Wow--is there really a sewing machine in this box?" light.

I thought by now I'd be sewing. But I discovered that when the urge to sew strikes, it isn't only the thought of the heavy machine that squelches it; it's also the thought of climbing the stairs to go get it.

I go up and down stairs all the time at work. But there's something about being alone—even though I often say I probably do better living along than most people, given all the practice I got as an only child—that makes me feel my age and beyond. This is especially true when I've been away from civilization for a stretch of time. Tomorrow I go back to work after 25 days off.

When my mother-in-law was the age I am now, she looked at me imploringly and said, "It's hell getting old." I was 33 at the time, so I told her what I thought she wanted to hear: "Oh, you're not old, Mom!"

The truth was, she had aged dramatically over the course of a decade. When I first met her, she was a stunning woman with a beautiful face and a tall, elegant body that carried her expensive clothes well. Ten years later, she'd had back surgery, and didn't move around much. She lived in a big house in the desert, and had a lot of time to think about her aches and pains.

I had two little children, and not much time to think about my mother-in-law's ailments. It wasn't that I didn't care; it was that I did. It's not pleasant watching someone you love deteriorate. I remember the first time I saw my adored father shuffle like an old man. My initial reaction wasn't sympathy; it was more like irritation. What was he doing walking like that? This was my dad—my tennis-playing, bicycle-riding, marvelous natural athlete dad, the person who could make up any game if you put a ball in his hands. No matter that he was by then well into his eighties. He had never been old, and I didn't want him to start.

I plan to tell these things to my children someday (you think they read my blog? Ha!), to prepare them for their own feelings of irritation, of annoyance, to alleviate some of the guilt they are bound to feel, and also because I hope that being forewarned will enable them to summon patience when it is needed.

I often look back and wish I'd taken my mother-in-law's hand in both of mine. I wish I'd sat down next to her, and looked into those imploring eyes, and waited for her to tell me what she needed to say.

I guess it's a good thing I'm going back to work tomorrow.

The Beautiful Face

Wolfy's Hanging in There

His Husky side still loves hanging out in the snow, even in bitter cold, and even though he's 14.

Soft

I sat at my computer this morning (on my microfiber-upholstered chair), wearing a microfiber sweater, polyester fleece yoga pants, SmartWool socks (thanks to my daughter), and Lands' End fabric-and-suede zip-up Weatherly rubber-soled shoes (oh, and microfiber underwear, if you must know), and looked at a picture of a Civil War-era woman.

She was not unattractive, but looked a tad pained, I thought. This could be due to the necessity of holding a pose long enough for the film of those days to be exposed, but I think it must be at least partly due to her clothes. Everything looks so stiff! Those buttons must have been a real trial to do up. And everywhere she went, she had to haul around yards and yards of whatever, with more yards and yards of even stiffer whatever underneath. And way underneath you can be sure she wore a boned (as in real, once-living bones) corset to give her that nice waist. They didn't put much stock in breathing in those days.

Later this afternoon, I lay on my bed—mattress covered with memory foam and latex, cotton sateen sheets over that, then a down duvet topped with a down blanket, and me topped with the microfiber "minky" throw my granddaughter gave me for Christmas—and thought about that woman. She sat on a small, straight-back wooden chair. Her feet were probably crammed into something stiff and pointed. Yes, I know . . . not so different from today's fashionable shoes. But at least today we have a choice. One hundred and fifty years ago, what did people do for soft??

I love soft. I dress fairly casually for work, but even so, when I get home at night I can't wait to change into something soft. Fleece is my friend. I have a throw on the loveseat, and another in my car for winter. I have great affection for my bed and its airy mounds of down. On coldest nights I sleep in cashmere, courtesy of the Salvation Army. Did you know that cashmere sweaters come out of the washer and dryer marvelously fluffy? Try it—with the $2 variety you find at a thrift shop.

So I'm thinking our Civil War ancestors had down pillows (or feathers, more likely), but for the most part their clothing scratched, poked, pinched, and strangled them. It's no wonder the North and South turned on one another; they were probably perpetually irritated. And just maybe the South resented the North for its cooler, and therefore more comfortable temperatures. It isn't as though southerners were able to wear shorts in summer.

We've had the Iron Age and all that . . . maybe we're living in the Microfiber Age. The Age of Soft. And isn't that a pleasure.

A Pileated Woodpecker has arrived!

I think it was right after we moved here, in 1975: A Pterodactyl-size (or so it seemed at the time) woodpecker flew noisily over the property, traveling east to west, and absolutely commanding our attention. I had never seen a bird quite like it, and I didn't see one again until about 30 years later, when two fellow wedding guests and I dashed away before the vows were spoken in order to photograph a Pileated Woodpecker that had been spotted across the lawn.

And now, this winter, a Pileated visits my suet feeder every day, several times a day. I wonder when I'll get used to him; I wonder when I'll stop rushing to get my camera. It's hard to tell from the photo, but this bird is the size of a crow.

In the almost 40 years I've been feeding wild birds, more have left than have arrived. I would love to see and hear Evening Grosbeaks again. I'd love it if Rufous-Sided Towhees would come back to kick leaves around, and Bohemian Waxwings once again treated me to the experience of seeing them pass Cardinal Autumn Olive berries to one another. A migrating flock of Redpolls once landed on me simply because they saw Chickadees and Evening Grosbeaks doing the same. I haven't seen them since. I miss all these birds. They all brought life and color and their distinctive sounds to the property. When I tell people I love living close to nature, it is the birds I think of first.

But the House Wren that disappeared more than five years ago came back to sing and raise babies on my porch this past spring, and now a Pileated Woodpecker has a serious suet addition. The sheer size of him must count for something. These things give me hope.

If you just found this blog.........

.......after hearing about it at tonight's reading, here's my promise to write in it more often. I was going to promise to try to write in it more often, but we all know what happens to those kinds of promises. Anyway, thanks for finding me!

Thanksgiving 2009

My friend Lisa posted a couple of Thanksgiving memories on Facebook. The first one I thought of from my Thanksgivings past was an image of my daughter Gillian at 23 months old, sitting in her feeding chair and daintily eating cubes of homegrown rutabaga, one at a time, over and over. She grew to become a vegetarian, and rutabagas remained one of her favorite foods.

I also remembered one of the first Thanksgivings Joe and I spent in our first house—a little cottage on two acres of woods that we bought when we lived in Manhattan. That year three feet of snow fell on Thanksgiving, and we were grateful for the gas range and fireplace that allowed us to enjoy a 20-lb. turkey (yes, just for the two of us) and the rest of Thanksgiving dinner even though the storm took down our power line.

We always had turkeys. Big ones. And stuffing made from my dad's recipe. And creamed celery from Joe's family tradition. Plus lots of other vegetables, many of which we grew ourselves. And pies, always homemade. Everything always homemade. The house started smelling good early in the morning, and by noon I was on the phone to Florida, wishing my parents a happy Thanksgiving and comparing turkey stories with my mother. Thanksgiving is one of those things we think will never change.

Change is hard. Even inevitable change—children grow up, we get older, whatever—is difficult to fully anticipate. We know it's going to happen, but we can't exactly go there before the fact. When we bring home a new baby someone is bound to tell us that the first year will fly by. "You should savor this time," they say. And we try to. But no matter how much savoring we do, that first year flies by. The thing they didn't mention is that the first year is only the tip of the iceberg. When our third child entered Kindergarten, I envisioned a long stretch of time during which we would have children in school. In my head (and remember, there's a reason why we have blonde jokes), this period stretched on for what seemed like forever. But then it was over in a blink.

There are, of course, changes we can't plan for even if we tried, because we only know so much. A stack of plastic pails sits outside at a corner of what used to be the vegetable garden. Joe used them to extend the growing season, planting early and covering plants when necessary. He used them for years. When he stacked the pails neatly for the last time, I'm sure he had no idea that the following year they would go untouched, and a few years after that he would not be able to articulate what they were for.

And so it's Thanksgiving, but I'm not cooking a turkey. I'm not cooking anything; the most time I spent in the kitchen today was when I soaked a cat's foot in Epsom salts (four times). Mickey, our 15-year-old barn cat, was badly hurt a couple of weeks ago, and we almost lost him to a massive infection. So I've been Mickey's nurse this week. I moved him into the house, and the vet put us on a schedule of antibiotics and and soaks.

I can think of worse ways to spend Thanksgiving Day. Truly. Because although I probably sound as though I'm feeling sorry for myself, I'm not. I'm grateful that my surviving children live relatively close to me. I grateful that my son worked on the barn today (and even let me play with his nail gun). I'm grateful that we'll gather at Suzanne's house for a Thanksgiving dinner on Saturday. (Traditions can be flexible.) I'm grateful that I still live in this house that holds so many wonderful memories. I'm grateful that my granddaughter is recovering nicely from the flu. And I'm grateful that my efforts are paying off, and Mickey is showing signs of improvement.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Petunia

Mali reminded me that I hadn't posted the pic that won the DPReview Leica challenge last month. This is the one.

Update on Wolfy

When I wrote about Angel and Wolfy in June, Angel, the older by two years, was beginning to fail, and it seemed as though Wolfy wasn't far behind. And after Angel was gone, Wolfy seemed to decline a little more. But that turned out to be temporary.

Wolfy, I'm happy to tell you, is thriving as Only Dog. He enjoys all the treats and toys that our dominant-to-a-fault Briard never allowed him to have when they shared the house. He soaks up (or, more likely, tolerates) my baby-talk. On our walks, he gets to travel at his own pace. He no longer trashes the pantry or exhibits any other sign of depression or anxiety.

One very welcome change, from my standpoint, is that he has stopped having so many accidents in the house. Most days he "holds it" during the seven hours I'm away at work. Ditto overnight. This is wonderful! I may be deluding myself, but I think the house is beginning to smell better.

I'm not without concerns, of course. He is 14, after all. One big worry is that he loves our walks more than anything—more than dinner, even, some days. But winter is coming, and I don't anticipate being able to walk him then. Our dirt road will become an ice road, and I try to avoid situations where I'm likely to fall. Also, as many of you know, I have wicked Raynaud's. Two of my fingernails are just starting to look halfway normal after nail-bed damage from last year's cold. Most winter days I don't even like to open an outside door unless absolutely necessary.

So......when the weather turns I'll let Wolfy out by himself on a 30-ft lead, and hope the yard doesn't ice over like the road. With his bad arthritis, it wouldn't be good to slip. No walks......what will this do to Wolfy's quality of life? I don't know. I had said I wouldn't put him through another winter, but that was before he started doing so well. I took this picture of him this afternoon. Doesn't he look beautiful?

In Scranton Today

Why I Changed My Mind About a DSLR

Almost two months ago I posted here about deciding not to buy a DSLR. My mind was firmly made up to buy the new Panasonic FZ35. I'd still like to get that camera, but this morning I bought another one.

After I made that first decision back in August, I continued to hang out at the DPReview forums. I mostly frequented the Panasonic forum, but checked out others as well. After a while I noticed something: Most of the photos that really caught my attention were taken with DSLRs. Of course, it makes sense that the better photographers had invested in the better cameras. And in the end it's the photographer's skill that matters more than the equipment. Or, as someone put it, "It's not how big your sensor is, but what you do with it that counts." :-)

Still, I was intrigued. Most of my favorite shots on those forums were taken with a higher-end ($2,000+) Canon or the Olympus E-520, which sells for considerably less. The Olympus images were mostly shot with an expensive ($1,000) 50-200mm lens or the more reasonably priced ($400) 70-300. But I learned the kit lenses that can be bought with either Olympus are a cut above most kit lenses, and eminently usable.

I could buy the E-520 with the two kit lenses for under $600. I could buy the E-520 with a camera bag and a couple of UV filters, plus the Panasonic FZ35, and still be under $1,000. Hmmm.......my dad had many good cameras. My son has several sophisticated ham radios. My daughter and her SO have a speedboat, a luxury pontoon, a kayak, and a jet ski.

I just bought myself a DSLR.

PS: While hanging around DPReview I entered a photo in a Leica challenge. (My camera has a Leica lens.) It won first place. So I think that alone justifies a new camera, yes?

9/11: Where Were You?

I was working as a newspaper reporter, and had just arrived at my office when my daughter called to tell me about the first tower. Everyone assumed it was an accident at that point. And then it wasn't, and everyone was stunned.

My boss sent me down the block to the courthouse, to interview the Director of Emergency Management. It was there, on his office TV, that we watched the second tower fall.

Where were you?

And One For Sunflower Lovers

That's all of us, right? The stalk on this one is over 12 feet tall.

For Arachnid Lovers Only!

Making Students Feel Welcome in the Library

The new semester started Monday, and quite a few students came into the library to make photocopies of parts of books. Some didn't have enough money, and some didn't have any at all. I lent one desperate student 40¢, but the rest said they would be back after class. I kept their books for them on my desk.

Last evening a student came in and said she was back for her book. It was the last one left on my desk, and I completely forgot that she had been in the night before to take the book out. I couldn't check it out to her at that time because she didn't have her ID card. So she was back with her card to check out her book, and I, ever the on-the-ball "librarian," was thinking she wanted to make copies.

I handed her the book, and she stood there. I smiled. She smiled.

"Um . . .I'm new at this," she said. "What's the procedure?"

"It takes money," I said, referring to the copy machine.

"Money?"

"Yup, money. It can take dollars . . . "

"Dollars?"

"Right. Or dimes. Whatever you have."

"Dollars or dimes?"

I wondered why this normal-looking girl kept repeating everything back to me. She still stood there, so I gestured to the copy machine across the room. She turned and looked in its direction, and then turned back to me. Did she not know what a copy machine looked like?

"Where do I go?" she asked.

"Over there," I said. "Against the wall. The copy machine. Here, I'll show..."

"But I just want to take the book out," she said.

"Oh."

As I've said more than once, there's a reason why we have blonde jokes. (She had brown hair, by the way.)

Rudbeckia "Prairie Sun"

Zinnia Purple Prince

A Curtain of Beans

Last year I posted about my Rube Goldberg bean support. I'm guessing most of you are too young to know who Rube Goldberg was. If so, I'm sure the Internet can show you lots of examples of his work. I got a crop of beans from my efforts, but that sure was one unstable mess by the end of the season.

This year I've moved from Rube Goldberg to Frank Lloyd Wright. I'm sure the father of organic architecture would approve of Kentucky Wonder Pole Beans curtaining my ice house window. After procrastinating about creating a large and permanent support system for pole beans, to the point where I either had to plant them now or not do it at all, my desperate move was to nail strings to the top of the old window (unfettered by sash or glass) and hope for the best.

The best happened! I don't want to jinx things by sounding overly optimistic, but don't these plants look healthy? The only problem is that once they hit the top of the window they keep going inside the building, where they run out of sunlight in short order. I keep a little step stool in their so I can gently encourage the vines to climb back down the strings. The plants are covered in teensy beans, so while I don't exactly have the water boiling in anticipation, I'm looking forward to my first picking.

Magazines and Me

I woke up this morning thinking I should stop getting magazines. I’ve always been a bit of a magazine freak, but these days I can’t keep up with them at all. I subscribed to Family Circle, Women’s Day, and Good Housekeeping because I’d like to write something for them. The issues come in every month, and I never read them. I used to like GH, but I never seem to have time now.

I get O (Oprah’s magazine) because I love the quality of the writing (she doesn’t use freelancers, so that lets me out) and the subjects, but I hardly ever open the magazine. They're so big and glossy and packed with advertising. Not quite like Vogue (or how I imagine Vogue), but rather intimidating when it comes to a quick perusal.

I've always subscribed to Country Home and Country Living. Country Home is gone now, a victim of the economy. The current issue of Country Living is out on my porch, open to an article about raised vegetable beds, dahlias, and an impossibly rich couple who love to entertain on their rickety old wooden table surrounded by rickety wooden chairs, all outdoors with grape vines dripping around their heads. It sounds like I'm keeping up (with the magazine, anyway), but the fact is about a dozen back issues of Country Living sit in a copper coal scuttle on my hearth, still in their plastic wrappers.

At work at the library, I read a magazine while eating supper at my desk (actually my co-worker's desk because it's not so visible). I go through The New Yorker, Time, and Newsweek every week, and The Atlantic Monthly, Psychology Today, Agricultural Research (really!), and sometimes Ebony and Advocate every month. You know, looking at this list, I'm thinking maybe that's why I don't read any magazines at home.

My magazines at home end up in stacks where they don't belong and are in the way. It's not a good situation, and that's why I was thinking this morning that I might do well to get rid of the whole bunch of them. Then I got an email from Amazon.....

Amazon said my recent electronic purchase (a case for the computer my son is building for me) entitled me to half off their already discounted price on a selection of (you guessed it) magazines. I was about to delete (honestly!) when I saw the word "photography." My lifelong interest in photography received the equivalent of a shot of steroids this year with the shows I did. And I've been asked to do two more next year. So it would be nice—very nice—to read about photographic techniques and equipment on a regular basis. Like every month.

Okay, I'll cut to the chase. I ordered two photography magazines. One qualified for the half-off offer, and one........well, it didn't. And I threw in a subscription to Popular Science for my son. I have no idea if he'll like it, but he's a born scientist and hey, it was only six bucks.

Yesterday's Sky

I took this on my way to work yesterday. (No, I didn't do it while driving.) The road elevation is pretty high at that spot.

Cameras: Why I'm Not Getting a DSLR

Not that I think everyone's all that interested in why I decided not to get a Digital Single-Lens Reflex....... But I thought maybe someone else might be in a similar position. Or maybe you just like reading about cameras. I do. :-)

I have a Panasonic FZ5 that I love. It's four years old and is what's called a "bridge camera." I guess these are considered to be a bridge between point-and-shoots and DSLRs. I've been wishing for manual focus and other manual settings, plus more pixels to give me the option to print bigger than 11x14. So I started saving up for a DSLR. I figured it would cost about $1,000 plus the price of a couple of decent lenses.

I have several 35mm SLRs in my closet, and know the drill. I considered (and still do, in a way) SLRs/DSLRs to be the ultimate camera. I began to think like my dad when he talked about buying his "last car." He lived to be 90, and I believe he ended up buying four or five "last" cars. The DSLR, I figured, would be my last camera. I had a Nikon D90 in mind, but wanted to look at what was out there. I was excited about this, and happily embarked on some research.

As I got deeper into looking at these cameras and lenses, I realized that in order to duplicate what the current generation of bridge cameras offer, I'd need a wide angle lens, a 50mm 1.8, a couple of good zooms, and a macro. This quickly added up to way more than I wanted to spend. Also, I started remembering how heavy lenses can be, and how tiresome it was to lug them around, even in my youth. Worse, I thought about all the shots I'd miss while I was busy changing lenses. (And, living on a dusty dirt road as I do, lens changing could be hazardous to the camera.) I've been using super-zoom digital cameras since 2000, and I'm spoiled.

In the end, I decided to scrap my DSLR plans and get the next generation of Panasonic bridge cameras when it comes out later this year. It has everything I want and will cost under $400. And I'm fairly certain it won't be my last one. I might even get a second camera this year, something different. Now that I've decided not to get the DSLR, I'm feeling positively affluent.

Angel is gone.

A few weeks ago I made an appointment to have Angel put to sleep. Making that call to the vet was devastating. I kept second-guessing myself, as I wasn't at all sure it was Angel's time. I asked Jill for a sign, and I got one: Leaving the house to keep the appointment, I walked down the porch steps--and Angel jumped off them in one leap. We turned around and went back in the house, and I canceled the appointment.

Then suddenly this past week--although in reality it's been a long process, and not sudden at all--I knew it was time. I have wanted so badly to be 100% sure Angel's quality of life was diminishing, and when she fell a couple of times this weekend, and turned for home in the middle of our walks, I was convinced. When I called the vet to make the appointment this morning, there was no second-guessing.

I told the vet Angel was a tough dog--unusual for a dog her size, especially a Briard, to live to be 16--and she proved me right. It took three shots instead of the usual one to put her down. It wasn't terrible, though, because she was heavily sedated and not conscious at that point.

I may have told the story before of how I got Angel, but I'll tell it again because I love it. My daughter Jill was a teenager, going somewhere with her best friend and her friend's father. They passed a puppy who had that frantic look of a dog that had been abandoned on the road. Coming by again later, Jill spotted the puppy sprawled on the ground. She had been hit, but not injured.

Since this was in the days before cell phones, Jill knocked on a door and asked the homeowner if she could use her phone to call her mother. The woman said she could use the phone, but added, "You mother isn't going to want to come pick up a dog." Jill said, "You don't know my mother." Like I said, I love this story.

My husband drove us to get the puppy, and on the way home she rested her beautiful head on my arm. From that moment, I knew she was my dog. But right now Jill is taking care of her again until I get there.

A Soup Kitchen Vibe at the Art Gallery

I'm pictured above with Holly Chmil, who designed the beautiful postcard announcing my photo exhibit. It was taken at the opening reception.

The first to arrive Friday night was a pair of men well known in the city for showing up at every event that promises free refreshments. I encountered them last year when I emceed a poetry evening in the park. It was a covered-dish event, with everyone bringing food or drink to share. Everyone except these two locusts, who filled their plates immediately upon arrival and then sat down at a table, bending over the plates and shoveling in the food. I lost count of how many times they refilled those plates.

I was more amused than annoyed that night because a) we had plenty of food and b) the outdoor venue reduced our exposure to the men's smell. However, we had a limited amount of food at the reception on Friday, and the enclosed space, which had seemed large before the men's arrival, shrunk rapidly in direct proportion to how long they stayed.

This time they filled up their (small) plates and sat down to dig in. I stood a distance from them, mentally tapping my foot. They came back for seconds, sat down again, and resumed eating. I moved over to the food table and assumed a guarding stance. Several other people arrived, including a man named Prescott who told me the omnivorous pair drove an Audi.

"You're kidding." I said.

"Nope. It's parked right across the street. The dark green."

I turned and looked out the window, expecting to see an old clunker, if there is such a thing as an Audi clunker. But the dark green car across the street was a late-model vision. Son of a bitch!

One of the gourmands got up and shuffled over to the food table. I was ready for him. Snatching the paper plate out of his hand, I dropped it in the trash and said, "Thank you for coming."

"I'm getting some cookies," he said, and picked up a new plate.

Prescott found this hilarious. He called a friend on his cell and told her all about it. The gluttons didn't appear to notice. Prescott's friend must have given him an idea, because he hung up and approached the pair.

"Time for donations!" he announced. When they just stared at him, he explained, "This event is a fundraiser for homeless children . . . "

"And poor widows," I interrupted.

" . . . and poor widows," he added. "All attendees are expected to contribute something."

"No they're not," the cookie monster said, and popped something chocolatey into his mouth.

His partner came back for dessert, too.

Beginning to feel a little desperate, and more than a little irritated, I looked out the window again. "Oh, no!" I exclaimed. "Do we know who owns that Audi across the street? Smoke is coming out of it."

Prescott picked right up on this cue and flew into action, flinging open the door and running out to the sidewalk. "FIRE!!" he yelled.

One of the pair started to turn around, but the other stopped him. "He's kidding, he's kidding," he said.

It occurred to me that they must hear this sort of thing a lot. I'll have to think up something more convincing for the next time. We're planning another poetry reading in the park in August. Maybe we should advertise it as "Poetry, Music, and Really Bad-Tasting, Potentially Hazardous Food." Or, better yet, "An Evening of Culture for Fasters: Poetry, Music, and No Food or Drink Whatsoever."

The Egg and I

(Does anyone remember that wonderful old book?)

I found several tiny (1/8" inch), perfectly round eggs on top of several small pots in which I had started seeds outdoors. At first I thought they were part of the potting mix--vermiculite or something like that. Then, because I've been battling so many destructive insects this summer, I squished a few. Then I had an attack of conscience: What if it was a spider egg? Or a beneficial insect? Or something CUTE?

I asked around, and went looking on the Internet. So far I *think* it's a snail egg. This would make sense because those pots were kept wet at all times. Snails are neither beneficial nor cute. They are also not spiders. So I feel better, at least for now. I'll keep watch and see what develops with the egg.

Of course, by the time something hatches from it, my maternal instinct will have kicked in and I'll be suffused with prolactin. Should a snail emerge from the egg, I will have no choice but to issue a whispered warning about the slug bait I have scattered all over the place. And the oat bran. And the soles of my feet, which tend to seek out slugs on the stone path.

One good thing leads to another........

Terry's Garden

On Saturday I drove up to New York State to be with my cousin Terry's husband and one of their daughters on garden tour day. Terry's beautiful garden, called "Terry's Passion," was featured on the tour, and people came by all afternoon. I took lots of pictures. Terry's flower beds, and Dave's wonderful vegetable and herb gardens are just a delightful place to be.

I can't say it was a bittersweet experience. It was just sweet.

If you'd like to see more pictures of Terry's beautiful gardens, you can find them here. Just click on any to enlarge, and to make them bigger still, click on All Sizes at the top of the picture.

Waterskiing at Sunset

My granddaughter took this picture of Chuck last night—with her phone! (Can someone tell me why Blogspot is now cutting off a third of horizontal [landscape] photos, turning them into vertical [portrait mode]?)

Bright Fly (or whatever it's called)

I don't know their name, but they're no more than a quarter-inch long, and rather metallic looking. They land lightly on plants, and take off the same way. Awesome little body, yes? Love the colors!

Angel and Wolfy

(See below for pictures of Angel and Wolfy.)

After Jill died, I told her dog, Wolfy, the Husky-Shepherd she called her soulmate, that he wasn't permitted to go. I told him this many times. "Wanna snuggle?" I'd ask, using his favorite word. This suggestion would send him flying to the sofa to fling his 70 pounds on me. And in a little while, my fingers buried in his soft, thick fur, I'd remind him, "You're not allowed to die."

Wolfy evidently took my order to heart. He's 14 now, and his fur is still thick and soft. But arthritis, despite the two meds he takes (one ridiculously expensive), prevents him from flying to the sofa these days, or even gingerly clambering upon it. And since my arthritis prevents me from sitting on the floor, Wolfy isn't getting much snuggle time.

Wolfy is also on an anti-depressant. I'm one of those people who thinks the world (or at least the U.S.) is way over-medicated. But when your dog shows every sign of sadness and anxiety, and you can't lie down with him anymore, what do you do? Amitriptyline is what I did. But after more than a month, I can't see that it's done any good.

I get home from work at 10:00 p.m., give the dogs their pills, and feed them. Sometimes Wolfy won't eat, but usually he does. Then, as I start winding down, he gets anxious. He pants and follows me. When I head upstairs to bed after midnight, he pushes his nose into the door opening. Stairs are an impossibility for him now, and he knows that. But he doesn't want to let me go.

I look at the clock when I turn out my light, because I know it'll be less than ten minutes before I turn it back on again and head downstairs. Wolfy's night pattern these days is to go to the pantry, where he wedges himself into a tight space that he can't back out of, and cries. In the process, he breaks things. He has removed the shelf from my kitchen cart, and a door from an old wardrobe. He's split open a 5-lb. bag of flour and a 10-lb. bag of rice. He upended my two aloe plants. All of this makes a lot of noise, but I've learned to wait until he cries. That's my signal to go down and help him out of whatever corner he's gotten himself into.

Often, we repeat the above several times. Last week I was sweeping rice off the pantry floor at 2:30 a.m. One night I tried sleeping on the sofa, but that seemed to upset him more. I'm guessing my presence on the sofa made him want to jump up and join me.

Have I mentioned that Wolfy is semi-incontinent? So is Angel. She's 16.

Angel is also strongly connected to Jill, who found her 16 years ago, hit (but not hurt) on a road. I thought the puppy was the Collie-Shepherd of my dreams, and named her Angel because I decided she'd been sent to see me through menopause. But she quickly lost her Collie-Shepherd look, and grew into a Briard. I had never heard of this breed until I ran across it in a book, and said, "Look! There's Angel!" She has the Briard personality (suspicious of strangers and highly protective of me) and memory (really excellent), but she must be a mix, though. Hybrid vigor would explain why Angel has lived far beyond most Briards.

She has a touch of arthritis, but nothing like Wolfy's. She's profoundly deaf, and her water intake and output would indicate that her kidney's aren't functioning all that well. She has started barking at night. For a while it was every night, but now it's only some nights. She also barks to wake me up in the morning, no matter what time I got to sleep the night before. She displays occasional signs of what they call "doggie dementia," but not to any great degree. At 16, in many ways she's not all that far removed from the puppy who rested her head on my arm the day we brought her home, and declared herself my dog.

She has, however, lost most of her house training. Sometimes I wonder how she feels about this. Both dogs have been in this state for quite some time. Years. At first I found it exhausting and stressful. Then I got used to living with plastic and paper on the floor all over the place. I learned to take the dogs out twice as often. I got into a routine with toilet paper, paper towels, wood floor cleaner, and daily mopping. I stopped inviting people over.

Now I seem to be in a third phase: I find it exhausting and stressful. I'm sure my sleep deprivation plays a role in this, but I am so weary of the drudgery.....and of smelling Dog Infirmary every time I walk into the house. It's spring, and my iris are in bloom. I want to invite people over to sit on my porch and have a drink. I want to be able to sleep the night through and come downstairs in the morning without wondering how much of a mess is waiting for me. I want my house back. I want my life back. But I don't want to forsake my dogs. Or lose them.

When Joe and I moved to the old farm 30+ years ago, we made it our mission to adopt as many animals as we could reasonable care for. At our peak we had five dogs and 12 cats at one time. (The 11 horses weren't adopted, so I didn't count those.) In all those years, I've never been without more than one dog and cat. There have been many "final decisions," and each of those decisions was horribly painful. Oddly, they seemed to get harder, not easier, with each animal.

Certainly I'm facing the hardest ones now. Not one animal, but two. And while an inner voice is saying (and at times screaming) "It's time," the fact is, my dogs aren't sick. Wolfy has night anxiety, true, but Angel loves her dinner, loves her walks. There is no misery to put them out of. The only misery is mine.

"You're not allowed to die," I told Wolfy, and I meant it. It seems inconceivable to me that I could even contemplate something so in violation of this heartfelt order. But sometimes I do. And then sometimes I don't.

Angel

Wolfy

What's in a Name (of an iris)?

Those of us who grow iris want varieties that appeal to us visually. One might say that's the whole point. But they all have names, and those names can have an appeal all their own. Or, conversely, they can be a big turn-off.

Most of the iris in my garden have names that mean something to me, however obliquely. A good example of this is the very small order I put in (to BlueJ Iris) yesterday. I hadn't planned to order this year, and was pretty determined to stick to that. But then I noticed some room in the front of one bed that the shorter Intermediate Beardeds would fill so nicely. And then I started thinking about other reasons to add to my iris collection.....

I ordered Terryton to honor my dear cousin Terry, whom we lost late last year. The name reminds me of her, of course, but so does the coloring. Terry was a strawberry blonde.

Crazy For You is for my 16-year-old dog, Angel. Again, not only the name, but the liberal use of grey in the coloration, as Angel is a grey Briard mix.

Sings So Softly for my daughter Gillian, who died on Memorial Day eight years ago. I have many irises named for Jill.

Stairway to Heaven for her Husky-Shepherd, Wolfy, who will join his beloved owner at some point in the not-too-distant future.

Bedtime Story for this story, which brought me a much-needed check this year and which people (amazingly) still continue to read.

Thunder Spirit for another dog. His name was Thunder, and he was my first German Shepherd. Gone more than 30 years ago now, but never forgotten.

Good and True is for all the positive things in my life.

Yes, you might say that I slipped off the wagon by placing this order. But I don't feel the regret I remember from my days of eating Sara Lee brownies (a very long time ago!). I woke up this morning happy that these will grow in my garden.

Airbrushing and the Women's Movement

I came upon a rather dramatic and glamorous photographic portrait of Michelle Obama on the Internet the other day, and after I admired it I took a second look. I'm not sure, but I think it was airbrushed. It's a little hard to tell with Michelle because she's not exactly a mass of wrinkles. But I wouldn't be surprised if even she had been Photoshopped. It seems to be the rule rather than the exception these days.

My awareness of the prevalence of airbrushing started with a media flap about a heavily retouched shot of Faith Hill. Faith Hill! Faith Hill isn't someone who needs a lot of physical improvements. But the before-and-after pictures said it all: Someone had deemed it necessary to airbrush her face, trim her waist, even slim her back. I thought it was sick, and in fact it turned out to be contagious. Pandemic, even.

I don't think witness to the early days of the women's movement could have foreseen that we (and I use this term loosely) would one day inject botulism into our foreheads to paralyze the muscles so we could no longer frown. (How is Botox different from Scarlett O'Hara's corset-induced 18" waist, by the way?) Wasn't there a lot of talk about aging gracefully, and with strength? Why, then, do most of the ads for anti-aging cosmetics feature 20-something (airbrushed) models? And while I'm at it, why do ads for mascara show photos of models wearing false eyelashes? What ever happened to truth in advertising?

Most of those airbrushed faces lose their appeal along with their laugh lines. Who wants to look as though their skin has turned to plastic? Speaking of plastic, and loss of appeal, what's with the plastic surgery going on? Do you know of anyone who has actually been improved by these procedures? I look at the aging Hollywood population, with their overblown, drooping lips and tight, pulled back eyes, and I wonder what they see when they look in the mirror. I myself see a 19-year-old half the time, so I guess I just answered my own question.

I think it's a silly trend, all of it, and a tad disappointing. We've gone from burning our bras to squeezing into Spanx. To each his/her own, I guess, but when it comes to digitally imposing youth upon a face, I hope they'll leave my Michelle alone.

Why I Drive a Gas Guzzler (or two)

I'm a single person with two 8-cylinder vehicles.

I dislike waste of any kind, I'm frugal, and I try to be a conscientious consumer in all areas. But I have an SUV (Toyota 4Runner) and a big sedan (1992 Chevy Caprice--my beloved "cop car"). I drive one in winter and the other in spring, summer, and fall. The Caprice does surprisingly well on gas for its size and power: 19 mpg city and 25 mpg highway. But it still probably qualifies as a gas guzzler.

I'm not defending my ownership of these cars, but I'd like to explain. I spent my first 26 years in NYC, and in all that time never knew anyone who was hurt or killed in a car accident. I drove a cute little Fiat Spyder convertible. When I moved here to the country, I was shocked at the number of automobile fatalities that occurred on a regular basis. I read about them in the paper and saw them on the TV news, and later, as a reporter, I wrote about them.

This area has a lot of young drivers. We also have a lot of drinking drivers. Combine that with winding, hilly (in some cases mountainous) rural roads, and treacherous winter conditions (plus clueless summer vacationers), and you can see why driving is a dangerous activity around here. A reporter I worked with was killed just a few years ago. On her way to work before 8:00 a.m. on a road I travel all the time, her gas-efficient car was hit by a truck driven by a young man who had already had an alcohol-related accident an hour before.

Even if I felt I could afford to go car shopping at this point (which I don't feel I can), I'd be very reluctant to give up all the metal that serves as a buffer between me and the drunks, the reckless, and the trees.

You won't find me burning gasoline frivolously. I commute 25 miles (each way) to work, and constantly juggle my schedule to combine errands. I like to drive well enough, but by the end of the week I've had enough of it and am more than happy to stay home.

And that's my report from the old farm, where one vehicle is parked alongside the ice house, and the other sits under a pear tree.

The "New" Frugality

A hot topic in the news lately is America's new frugality. All of a sudden, people are shopping in thrift stores, eating out less often, paying attention to their thermostats, and growing their own vegetables.

Do you know what this means? It means for the first time in my life I've become a trend-setter!

A Conversation

"It doesn't seem fair," I said this morning as I lopped the root off a perfectly formed beet. "You put on all this beautiful growth, and then I come along and eat you."

I cut the tops off and picked through them, setting aside the younger ones. Then I reached again for the knife. "But then, if I didn't eat you, what would you do anyway?"

"I would grow new roots," the beet said. "Long ones. Lateral ones. I would explore new avenues in the soil. You have no idea what's under there. I would become larger and even more beautiful. I would reach my full potential. And then I would produce seed. Seed! You should know what that's like. I would have the pleasure of watching my seeds sprout and grow. Eventually I would turn woody and stiff, but at the end I would be surrounded by the new generation I produced."

My hand, which had paused in mid-air from surprise, came down again from force of habit.

"Do you realize you just cut me in half?" the beet asked a little disjointedly.

Matters of Death and Life

A few months ago I almost choked to death. Really, it was serious. I was alone,and I had the full realization that I was about to die. I still marvel that I was able to save myself (quite by accident).

You'd think that one would have some sort of epiphany after an experience like that. It would suddenly become clear that death can come at any time, and therefore all of us have a finite and unknown number of years (or months, or minutes) to go. In other words, Holy Moly! Life can turn on a dime, so I'd better get moving.

However, nothing like that happened for me. I think it's because I've realized since I was nine years old that life can turn on a dime. When you've known that much unexpected loss—my mom when I was a child, my daughter almost eight years ago, my husband's ten-year decline before his death three years ago, my healthiest cousin last year—you live with this knowledge all the time. It hangs over you . . . somewhat like following a path at the base of a mountain, passing sign after sign that read FALLING ROCK ZONE.

Well, that certainly sounds negative! Really, it isn't quite like that because most of the knowledge is internal. It's not something I allow to come to the surface every day. But it's always there.

So choking didn't shake me awake, but something did. I don't know what it was exactly, but recently I became aware that I've been stalled for some time. I've been going through the motions, but not making any progress in life. I don't think I've reached the point where I'm too old to progress. My dad at my age bought himself a boat, took up the bicycle, and had himself a good time. His daughter seems to have turned into a screensucker. No TV for me, but I've been spending way too much time with my chin propped on my hand, staring at my computer monitor. (Two monitors, actually. At this computer, I have 44 inches of screen to suck.)

Again, for whatever reason, I was moved to take stock of this situation. It happened just before sleep one night, and I grabbed the first piece of paper I could find and wrote down four things worthy of my time and energy.

That's why on my night table right now sits a pink While You Were Out slip that reads,

Further at least one of these goals every day:

Home Improvement
Write a Book
Edit HCL's (my dad) Photos
Have Fun

I'm workin' on it.

A Community of House People

As it has been in so many other areas, I was a late bloomer when it came to decorating. After being absorbed in difficult family issues for ten years, during which time the condition of the house reflected my state of mind, seven years ago I was suddenly faced with remodeling and decorating projects requiring more energy and knowledge than I possessed.

I stumbled upon the GardenWeb Appliances Forum one evening while researching something (I forget what). From there I landed in other GardenWeb forums. When I found myself completely overwhelmed by the task of turning an unused junk room into a space that the contractor and his crew could turn into my new bedroom, the people at the home organization forum took me under their wing and taught me about baby steps. At the Kitchens, Flooring, Remodeling, and Bathrooms forums, I learned about my choices, how to choose from among them, and where to get the best prices.

To say I lacked decorating confidence would be a gross understatement. I'm still much more likely to ask for advice at the Home Decoration forum than offer it, but I've come a long way. Everyone there has been patient and oh, so helpful. Not only have I learned much from having my questions answered, but by reading other threads and looking at all the marvelous pictures brave souls have posted of their finished rooms or rooms in need, I've absorbed a great deal.

I'm still not a very good painter, but I can "talk a good ballgame" about eggshell vs. satin, cutting in, and Purdy (or maybe Corona!) brushes. My mantel and bookshelves are no longer crowded, and my pictures have been lowered to a better height. Most of all, I gained the confidence to try.

I'm so grateful for the Internet, and for the feeling of community it's given me—here as we blog, and on the good message boards where people share so freely. My house's journey has been quite a trip, and of course it's still a work in progress. But with the help of lot of invisible mentors, some day I just might do it proud.

Something Funny From Last Night

I spent the evening with my granddaughter last night, watching a movie (Role Models) and baking cream cheese cookies. Lizzie and I always make each other laugh when we’re together. Last night she was telling me how she Googled “Rainbow Colors” and great images showed up on the search. I was doing something in the kitchen and listening with half an ear. I heard her say, “This guy was gorgeous!” and I asked, “Is Rainbow Colors a singing group?”

Long-suffering sigh. “No, Grammy.”

“A TV show?”

“No o o o o ……. Grammy, I said, ‘This guy was gorgeous.'”

“Yeah, I know that’s what you said. So who’s the guy?”

“The SKY! The SKY! I Googled Rainbow Colors and got all these pictures of gorgeous sunrises and sunsets!”

“Oh.”

How I'm Helping the Economy

1. I shove my monthly financial statements in a file folder quickly, after only a cursory glance, thereby reducing my chances of having a costly (to my health insurance company) mental breakdown.

2. I got a job with a 45-minute commute each way, thereby incurring weekly gas fill-ups and increasing the wear and tear on my car, which will result in the need to replace it at some point. Detroit will be proud of me. Of course, I'll probably buy another Toyota, so there goes that benefit.

3. I did buy an American-made washing machine (Speed Queen) last week. But the bigger selling point was that it came with a 3-year warranty.

4. I bought a TV armoire that does not look good in its intended spot, so I'm giving it away. Therefore, we can count this expenditure as a generous donation to the furniture company. Let us ignore the fact that the armoire was made in Indonesia.

5. I also bought three made-in-India rugs. They look good in their intended spots.

6. I hired a contractor to create a laundry alcove for me. Since he is a future in-law and therefore a member of my extended family, he undercharged me and I underpaid him. But hey, every little bit helps, right?

7. I'm staying out of trouble, financial or otherwise.

What are you doing for the cause?

Nightshades, Solanine, and Pain

I spent last weekend painting a small room: sanding, taping all the edges, and priming. Having lived with fibromyalgia and whatever autoimmune issue causes my joint pain for years, I knew I’d pay for all this bending and stretching, and I did. When I got out of bed Sunday morning, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk.

By Monday I started to feel better. My legs still hurt, but at least they functioned. At work Tuesday evening, though, I felt worse. I was puzzled, but fibromyalgia is a quirky thing, as are autoimmune conditions, and I just accepted that my recovery was going to take a while.

Tuesday night I developed a headache in my sleep. I rarely get headaches. I woke up Wednesday morning feeling awful: pounding head, pain all over, shooting nerve pains in various places, total brain fog. I felt poisoned.

Being poisoned is not new to me. I have a wicked reaction to solanine, the substance that forms under the skin of potatoes, and if I get too close to potatoes in their raw state it gets life-threatening. Potatoes belong to the nightshade family. The other nightshades—tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant—also contain solanine and cause problems for me as well, mostly in the form of joint pain. It has been exceedingly hard for me to stop acting like a passionate tomato gardener, and I still haven’t succeeded 100%. But I may after what I discovered this week.

Getting back to Wednesday, I managed to drag myself to work, driving the 25 miles without running over anyone (as far as I know). Fortunately, my tasks for that day involved sitting down for the most part. At 7:00 p.m. I heated up a mug of soup. As I took it out of the microwave and stirred, I eyed the vegetables. Okra had floated to the top. I hardly ever eat okra, but I had created a creole soup around it on Sunday and had been eating it every day since. I remembered what the plant looked like in my garden when I grew it years ago. Could okra conceivably be one of the nightshades, and somehow I’d missed this fact?

I Googled okra nightshade. No, okra wasn’t part of the nightshade family. But it contained solanine. That was startling enough, but my eye moved to the next line and stayed there. Another food that contains solanine is artichokes. The day before, Tuesday, I had cooked two artichokes. I ate one before I left to work, and I ate the other that night, when I got home. They were delicious. I love artichokes. I’ll never eat another.

I’ve been doing some reading on nightshades and solanine. Among the websites I checked out, this one explains that solanine is a powerful inhibitor of cholinesterase, an enzyme that originates in the brain and is responsible for flexibility of muscle movement.

It also talks a bit about Dr. Norman F. Childers, a former Professor of Horticulture at Rutgers, who observed livestock kneeling in pain from inflamed joints after consuming weeds containing solanine. This reinforced his own experience, as he knew first-hand the effects of nightshades on joints.

According to this website (which originates in the UK), Dr. Childers proved that the majority of people who ache, regardless of their diagnosis, have a sensitivity to nightshades.

So I'd been dosing myself with solanine for days. I expect it'll take a while for the effects to wear off. I wonder . . . how many flares have I had as a result of eating artichokes, the cause a mystery at the time? I’m passing along my experience this week on the chance that others may be unwittingly poisoning themselves, too.

Trees vs. Wind

Once upon a time, there was a lovely clump of maples at the side of the road. Out walking the dogs, I was sometimes a little edgy about the way it creaked in the wind, so I walked quickly under it. But I liked the way it looked.



A few months ago, a strong wind brought down the entwined trunks on the left. We shared them with a neighbor for firewood.

Last week, wind screamed and roared all day. When I went out to my mailbox, it sounded as though an 18-wheeler was racing to run me down. I watched a tree come down in the woods, and when I reluctantly set out for work, I got about a quarter-mile down the road before I had to turn back because of another huge tree jackknifed across the road, and the power line spread out on the ground like a 100-foot snake.

The remainder of the maple clump came down—not on the shed, as we had feared, but directly into the crotch of a tall ash tree. The force of the hit split the ash vertically in half. When my son happened upon it the next day, the ash was still standing, the maple caught in it. He cut a wedge into the base of the ash and brought it down. A simple description of a dangerous job.

Here's a picture of the split:



The next photo is supposed to give you an idea of the immense height of the ash. I'm not sure it succeeds.



Here's the remains of the maple:



Assuming I had the strength and knowledge to accomplish it, I would have considered felling the ash to be a full month's work. But Joe got busy immediately, slicing up the maple for firewood.



Again, I would have quit right there, drifting off to make a pot of soup, write a book, or take to my bed with a stack of DVDs. But my son was back a day later, using a monster maul to split all the wood by hand. And now I have a lovely pile of firewood!

Dancing By the Light of the Moon

Painting on tin by my cousin Barbara of the two of us at age two. Notice my foot about to crush hers.

That Long-Shadow Shot

Helen and her SO

Brenda Starr Would Be Proud

No, this has nothing to do with the news. But when I was a newspaper reporter I sometimes joked that Brenda Starr was my role model, and if I didn't always get the story I at least always got the photo.

I pass this stand of trees every day on my way to work. The snow is always pristine, and as I drive past in late afternoon, the shadows are long. They beg to be photographed.

I never seem to leave the house early enough to stop to take pictures, but on my day off last week I had the opportunity. The time was late morning, so the shadows weren't exactly where I wanted them, but I was in the right place even it was the wrong time, and I had a camera with me.

I pulled into a driveway and got out of the car, looking at the trees to figure out my best angle. While I stood there thinking artistic thoughts, some guy drove by at a high rate of speed, and his tires threw up a large quantity of dirty slush. It hit me in the side of the face, my hair, my jacket, and my jeans, and it splashed over the inside of my car door and leather upholstery.

My camera was spared, though, and I got off a bunch of shots. What we won't do for art. But we can't really say I braved dirty slush to get the picture I wanted. The truth is that if I'd known I was going to get slushed (as opposed to sloshed) at that spot, I would have seen to it that I was somewhere else that day.

I still want shots of those long, late-day shadows. And I'm gonna get 'em.