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.

Oops, where did the poem go?

It went to enter a contest. Assuming it doesn't win (a reasonable assumption), it will be back.

Junk: It's All in the Perception

I've been posting photos of old silver on a message board where the members have been generously identifying them for me. The pieces were getting oohs and aahs until I posted the picture of this berry spoon.

I posted it rather proudly. The spoon is large and heavy, and has an almost soft feel to it. It has been special to me ever since I received it as a wedding gift over 40 years ago from a special woman.

"Junk!" the silver mavens declared when they saw it. Junk? How could a heavy piece of sterling silver be junk? Easy, apparently. They explained that the person who bought it probably thought it was a good piece, and it was indeed sterling. But it was mass produced, the pattern of the bowl stolen from another, and the handle lacking detail. When I received that spoon I wondered why it had so little detail. I thought maybe I'd been given an antique. Shows you how much I know.

Good thing it has lots of sentimental value. The special woman's name was Margaret Cobb, and she was a geologist long before women were geologists. My dad worked for an oil company, and after my mother died when I was nine he took me to work with him on occasion. I realize now that those were probably the days he didn't have someone to watch me at home, but at the time I thought he just liked to take me along. He was that kind of father.

I usually spent a good part of each day with Miss Cobb. She was in charge of the corporate library. She was a soft-spoken southern woman, to all appearances rather fragile, but she knew a ton about a lot of things, and the rocks and minerals in her office could keep me fascinated for hours. She took me for a walk in downtown New York and told me how garnets could still be found in the streets.

My memories of Miss Cobb are among the most vivid and the most comforting from a terribly difficult time. I found her much later—when I was 30—but I don't remember how. She was quite elderly by that time, and living in Norfolk, Virginia. We exchanged some letters, and she still had the marvelous spidery handwriting I remembered from my childhood. Her brother notified me when she died.

I'll be selling some silver this winter, pieces that have sat in drawers or cupboards or boxes for too long. But I'm not selling everything. One piece, at least, will get polished and used. Quite proudly.

My Christmas Eve Surprise!

Joey and Leanne surprised me with this beautiful stained-glass fireplace screen last night. Isn't it lovely? It makes the room glow without a fire. I smile whenever I see it.

I Used to Like Winter

I used to like a lot of things about winter. I loved putting my babies in blanket sleepers and tucking them into bed. Winter brought Christmas--a big, fragrant tree with piles of presents around it, and three eager, curious children who picked up the gifts one by to read the tag and cautiously give the box a shake or two.

I loved winter days when Joe and the kids would go off skiing, leaving me to make a big pot of soup and homemade bread, and to set up my rug frame. Or when we'd all don cross-country skis and ski the hayfield. Or when we went ice skating at the Dorflinger Wildlife Sanctuary. I didn't have Raynaud's Syndrome in those days, so I could do those things.

Winter storms didn't bother me because I didn't have to go anywhere and I knew that Joe would always keep us safe and warm. And he always did. If I needed help with one of the animals--feeding, walking, whatever--there was always someone to ask. I got a lot of satisfaction out of keeping the birds fed in difficult weather, and since we had no outside cats in those days I could feed the birds right on the porch.

After a storm, or even during one, Joe would be out with the snow thrower, making neat paths from the house to road, from the road to the barn, from the garage to the house. I rarely fell in those days, and if I did I got right up with damaging anything.Back then, power outages were an adventure. We had a computer and a TV, but weren't addicted to either yet. Without electricity, we could always play the piano. Our outages never lasted very long anyway, because Joe would fire up the generator.

I have a generator now, but have no clue how to use it. It isn't even winter yet as I write this, but already I'm tired of it. Tired of making paths with my feet, tired of being cold, tired of eight dog walks a day (two dogs x 4), tired of falling.

Joe and I always said we loved the change of seasons. These days I love the change only when it involves coming into spring, summer, or autumn. And even autumn is questionable.

Remarkable Accomplishment

Hard to believe that one person put up this 120-foot ham radio tower all by himself. No crane, no crew. Hard to believe I didn't have a nervous breakdown watching my son do it. And that I'm still sane (relatively speaking) after seeing him climb it so many times.

Woman's Best Friend (well, one of them, anyway)

I took this picture over a year ago, symbolizing the bond Wolfy has with his family. This week he suffered an injury to that paw, and he's hobbling around and taking antibiotics. The vet had me replace his original bandage with one of my socks. So Wolfy's going through two or three socks per day . . . and a lot of surgical tape. Get well soon, Wolfy!!

Grape Leaves on Angel

Excerpt from a larger piece......

Gillian was the one most responsible for the expansion of our pet population. When a father up the road rejected the puppy given to him one Christmas, Jill brought it home. We named him Kismet. When an acquaintance allowed cats to breed and overrun her yard, Jill stole one. She slipped a gorgeous kitten into her jacket, and we named him El Niño. She spotted an unusual looking kitten at a horse barn: black, white, and fawn, with bandit markings around bright blue eyes. Remarkable purr. We named him Morgan and decided he needed a young companion. At the shelter, Jill chose an orange kitten with a lion face and a sweet personality, and named him Grimmy. A few years later, she went to the shelter to find the Golden Retriever of her dreams, and came home with a black husky-shepherd mix. She called him Wolfgang, after Mozart. But he was always called Wolfy.

Riding in a car driven by her best friend’s dad one day, she saw a puppy that had been hit on the road, stunned but unhurt. I said she was the collie-shepherd of my dreams, sent by God to see me through menopause. I named her Angel. She grew into a big dog with long grey hair. A Briard. Some years later Jill found a small black dog on our road. She named him Turpie, after a character in a favorite childhood book. When she spotted a very long-haired black kitten in a horse barn, she thought he might fill a hole left by the loss of my long-haired black-and-white, Mystic, who had drowned in our pool. Suzanne brought home the kitten, and I named him Princeton, for the place I was when he arrived: my late parents’ house in Florida.

The Mixed Blessing That is eBay

In 2003, when I first got uber-serious about decluttering, my son was selling ham radio stuff on eBay. I asked him to sell his father's chemistry and horse books. He said, "No, you do it. Once you get into it, you'll love it." I had zero enthusiasm for learning something new, but I couldn't persuade my son to take this on. So I bought a book on how to sell on eBay, and jumped in.

My son was right: Once I got into it, I loved it. I especially loved selling books. One reason is that I love books, and another is that they're easy to ship. So after I sold off all my husband's books, I culled my collection and sold a lot of them.

Of course, I didn't stop there. I love books, and I also love the hunt. What fun to prowl thrift shops and yard sales for potentially valuable books! I estimate that I was right about the potential value 50% of the time. My stepdaughter sells china on eBay, and for a while I found myself in thrift shops turning over cups and saucers to read the marks on the bottom. But I soon realized that I absolutely didn't want to ship fragile items. And I never tried to calculate how much I made per hour on eBay because I was sure the figure was likely to be shockingly low. But I had fun.

Eventually, though, I got tired of selling and tired of seeing books, packing materials, and other items all over the place. I stopped selling for many months. I haven't been tempted to start up again, but last week my son suggested that we list some of his dad's scientific equipment. I told him I'd round up some leftover books and list those first, to get my feet wet again. I did that, and now I'm feeling some of that old excitement.

Trouble is, now I'm tempted to start hunting again. I'm resisting this because the last thing I need is more stuff in the house, even if it's stuff I hope to move out of here. As it is, my living area has already been taken over with UV lights, spectophotometers, chain balances, and other large items from my husband's lab. Oy! EBay can be a good idea—a great idea—but I'm wondering what I got myself into...again.

Any other ambivalent eBay sellers out there? Oh, and in case you're curious, my eBay name is Editoria.

Fall -- Here at Last

Not that I was in a hurry for it to arrive.

Grey Cat on Grey Rocks

She's feral, and I can't get near her. But she's lived in our barn and on our property for years. And she always lets me know when her food is late.