Monday, December 24, 2012
Sunday, December 23, 2012
The first crack of winter
The first crack of winter is on my thumb, as usual. The temperature dipped below freezing briefly, and here come the cracks.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Hunahpu and Xbalanque
Tomorrow is the last day of the long cycle of the calendar of the Maya. I read the Popol Vuh with my freshmen for many years, right after we read the Hebrew Bible. The creation story translated by Father Ximenez and Dennis Tedlock is one of the most beautiful pieces of writing I have ever contemplated. It is right up there with Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, Ellison's Invisible Man, and Joyce's "The Dead." Enough said.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
International
Friends and neighbors, family and colleagues, we send you our love..
Japan
Thailand
France
Russia
England
Scotland
Ireland
Cherokee Nation
Germany
Holland
Japan
Thailand
France
Russia
England
Scotland
Ireland
Cherokee Nation
Germany
Holland
Monday, December 17, 2012
EGN and ABC
We have cats in our house, so we are occasionally a magnet for cats outside the house. They smell the food, they smell the cats, and they used to smell the catnip growing by the front door until I stopped growing it.
For the past couple of years, our visitors have been EGN and ABC.
ABC was an Abyssinian male about a year old who showed up one day outside the bay window of the dining room, leaping at butterflies that were fluttering around a pentas. When I found his family, who also have four children, they said they paid about $600 dollars for him, and the breeder from whom they bought him had already declawed him. He was making them crazy demanding to go outdoors, so they let him out during the day. I haven't seen him for at least six months. Either they have made him stay in, or he has run off or perished. With no claws and a silly disposition, he had not much in the way of street smarts or defenses. He was beautiful tawny irridescent brown. I could understand why they loved him.
EGN is a black shorthair male, about three years old now, who showed up two years ago during Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas. He also showed up at spring break. I never was able to find his family, although the family next door to ABC's family had lost a kitten almost a year before he appeared. ABC's family also has an outdoor cat they feed out the back door; the mother came over to look at EGN, and he let her pick him up, but she said he is not their outdoor cat. He may be eating some of their cat's food and getting by. Bob named him El Gato Negro. In the past, he demanded to be let into the house, threw himself against the windows, and tore the screens. Until Saturday, I had not seen him since last Christmas. My theory is that, if he does have a family other than ABC's, they go out of town for the holidays and leave him outdoors with a big bowl of dry food, filled up by a friend or neighbor. Raccoons and possums eat his dry food and he is going hungry. This morning when I went down to the street to get the paper before dawn, a small dark shape dashed from our front yard across the street. It was probably EGN. He still looks healthy and fit, so I am pretty sure he has a family most of the year.
Whenever a cat shows up and acts lost I feel responsible, not just out of sympathy for the cat but also because birds and lizards are at risk from a stray cat, as are our own cats. Then I start to see a pattern that makes me believe there are other people feeding these cats.
For the past couple of years, our visitors have been EGN and ABC.
ABC was an Abyssinian male about a year old who showed up one day outside the bay window of the dining room, leaping at butterflies that were fluttering around a pentas. When I found his family, who also have four children, they said they paid about $600 dollars for him, and the breeder from whom they bought him had already declawed him. He was making them crazy demanding to go outdoors, so they let him out during the day. I haven't seen him for at least six months. Either they have made him stay in, or he has run off or perished. With no claws and a silly disposition, he had not much in the way of street smarts or defenses. He was beautiful tawny irridescent brown. I could understand why they loved him.
EGN is a black shorthair male, about three years old now, who showed up two years ago during Thanksgiving and then again at Christmas. He also showed up at spring break. I never was able to find his family, although the family next door to ABC's family had lost a kitten almost a year before he appeared. ABC's family also has an outdoor cat they feed out the back door; the mother came over to look at EGN, and he let her pick him up, but she said he is not their outdoor cat. He may be eating some of their cat's food and getting by. Bob named him El Gato Negro. In the past, he demanded to be let into the house, threw himself against the windows, and tore the screens. Until Saturday, I had not seen him since last Christmas. My theory is that, if he does have a family other than ABC's, they go out of town for the holidays and leave him outdoors with a big bowl of dry food, filled up by a friend or neighbor. Raccoons and possums eat his dry food and he is going hungry. This morning when I went down to the street to get the paper before dawn, a small dark shape dashed from our front yard across the street. It was probably EGN. He still looks healthy and fit, so I am pretty sure he has a family most of the year.
Whenever a cat shows up and acts lost I feel responsible, not just out of sympathy for the cat but also because birds and lizards are at risk from a stray cat, as are our own cats. Then I start to see a pattern that makes me believe there are other people feeding these cats.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
The azalea formosa fiasco
I was teaching my last class of the day on Friday when I looked out my window and saw two custodians attacking the azalea formosa with hedge clippers. The bush was covered with flower buds ready to bloom in the spring and three flowers had already opened prematurely in response to a cold snap we had two weeks ago. I interrupted my teaching, opened the window, and demanded that they stop. They insisted the principal had ordered them to trim that bush and he would just send them back to finish it unless I spoke to him directly. I said I would speak to the principal and they stopped. They circled back fifteen minutes later, saw me watching the window, and moved on.
After school I sought out the principal and found him at his usual post for bus duty, outside the guidance office. I told him what had happened and he gave me the most probing look I have ever received from him. I could not interpret the content of that look until the following morning. At the time, however, he said it was challenging to find good employees, and that he had pointed at the silvertips and told them to prune them. It's completely the wrong time of year to prune the azaleas, he said. As I reflect on the incident now, it occurs to me that he is the most landscaping-savvy principal with whom I have ever worked. He holds regular Saturday school beautification days and new plantings appear throughout the year. As I thanked him Friday I said I was pretty sure he is the kind of man who knows when to prune an azalea.
Even though I had checked email at lunch and paid a rare social visit to one of the history teachers upstairs, I did not go to the New York Times website to look at the most recent headlines, as I often do, either at lunch or after school. As a result I was completely unaware of the school shooting in Connecticut earlier that morning. I turned on the radio in the car on the way home, which I seldom do, and that is when I learned what had happened.
It was not until I was reading the Times on Saturday morning after breakfast that I had even an inkling of what might have been going through my principal's mind when I approached him about the azalea bush. Twenty children and six adults were dead in Connecticut. All of the children were first graders, at the start of their careers as students. Among the adults were two teachers, one young and one my age, the school psychologist, and the principal.
Of all the things any of us expected to be dealing with that day, a gunman at school was probably not in the thoughts of any of us except the sheriff's deputies, the deans, and the principal. Because they are preoccupied with all that can go wrong at a school, the rest of us can carry on teaching and learning. I can imagine that my principal was in awe of the absurdity of our conversation at the end of a day when students and teachers had died in a bloodbath. He might also have thought that if the untimely pruning of the azalea buds was the worst crisis he had to deal with at the end of the day, that was fairly mild. He had these thoughts and several others, I now deduce from the expression on his face as I unfolded my story to him, the students all around us getting on their buses to go home.
After school I sought out the principal and found him at his usual post for bus duty, outside the guidance office. I told him what had happened and he gave me the most probing look I have ever received from him. I could not interpret the content of that look until the following morning. At the time, however, he said it was challenging to find good employees, and that he had pointed at the silvertips and told them to prune them. It's completely the wrong time of year to prune the azaleas, he said. As I reflect on the incident now, it occurs to me that he is the most landscaping-savvy principal with whom I have ever worked. He holds regular Saturday school beautification days and new plantings appear throughout the year. As I thanked him Friday I said I was pretty sure he is the kind of man who knows when to prune an azalea.
Even though I had checked email at lunch and paid a rare social visit to one of the history teachers upstairs, I did not go to the New York Times website to look at the most recent headlines, as I often do, either at lunch or after school. As a result I was completely unaware of the school shooting in Connecticut earlier that morning. I turned on the radio in the car on the way home, which I seldom do, and that is when I learned what had happened.
It was not until I was reading the Times on Saturday morning after breakfast that I had even an inkling of what might have been going through my principal's mind when I approached him about the azalea bush. Twenty children and six adults were dead in Connecticut. All of the children were first graders, at the start of their careers as students. Among the adults were two teachers, one young and one my age, the school psychologist, and the principal.
Of all the things any of us expected to be dealing with that day, a gunman at school was probably not in the thoughts of any of us except the sheriff's deputies, the deans, and the principal. Because they are preoccupied with all that can go wrong at a school, the rest of us can carry on teaching and learning. I can imagine that my principal was in awe of the absurdity of our conversation at the end of a day when students and teachers had died in a bloodbath. He might also have thought that if the untimely pruning of the azalea buds was the worst crisis he had to deal with at the end of the day, that was fairly mild. He had these thoughts and several others, I now deduce from the expression on his face as I unfolded my story to him, the students all around us getting on their buses to go home.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Blank Mousie and Stripe Mousie
Blank Mousie is a piece of purple rabbit fur that used to be wrapped around a black plastic mouse form. He has been appearing around the house impersonating a piece of poop, a hairball, or a ghoulish representation of anything nasty. When we realize it is Blank Mousie that we are seeing, we feel enormous relief.
Stripe Mousie is a stuffed polyester black and white striped mouse toy with a black braided tail. He came to our house in a wooden puzzle box, a gift from Molly and Friends, where we have purchased more than five towers made of cardboard and carpet. Frida loves Stripe Mousie. At first he looked like a French cat burglar, with a mask of yellow and black felt and whiskers. He was quickly reduced to his basic form: missile-shaped body and tail.
When Frida carries Stripe Mousie around the house, singing, we know she is having a good day. We stop to appreciate Stripey and thank her for bringing him to us. Our lives are enriched.
Stripe Mousie is a stuffed polyester black and white striped mouse toy with a black braided tail. He came to our house in a wooden puzzle box, a gift from Molly and Friends, where we have purchased more than five towers made of cardboard and carpet. Frida loves Stripe Mousie. At first he looked like a French cat burglar, with a mask of yellow and black felt and whiskers. He was quickly reduced to his basic form: missile-shaped body and tail.
When Frida carries Stripe Mousie around the house, singing, we know she is having a good day. We stop to appreciate Stripey and thank her for bringing him to us. Our lives are enriched.
Cabbage and kale
I just realized that I haven't planted any cabbage or kale and it's getting a bit late for that. It has been so warm that I had not even thought about fall vegetable plantings. The past five years I have had good crops of kale.
Last year it was too warm a winter and both kale and cabbage were covered with caterpillars before I could harvest them. It was discouraging, when I had fought off the possums from digging them up. This winter is shaping up the same way so far -- warm. I'm pretty sure that's why the yard has been invaded by a new vine which is native to Singapore. I wish we had Singapore's hummingbird moths too, because their caterpillars would eat the vine, but alas we don't have that balance.
On Friday afternoon while I was looking for our little cat Daisy, who had disappeared that morning, I found my back fence neighbor near our compost heaps. She said she was determined to eliminate the invasives. I was so focused on finding the cat that I didn't take the opportunity to discuss the invasives with her. I hope to do so in the future. She is retired and I am not, but I am hopeful because most of the invasives in my yard actually came from her yard, before it was hers. Bamboo, the little bush with the red berries and dark green leaves (she know the name of it), the Boston fern-- together we can wipe these out. Where the Singapore stink vine came from I don't know. It just popped up. But if we have another hard freeze winter like we had three years ago, I hope it will get a whollaping.
Cash register silliness
Yesterday I patronized the local store of an office supply chain instead of ordering printer paper through the mail, which is convenient and fast and inexpensive. I was rewarded with such silliness at the cash register that it has pretty much sealed my resolution to avoid the local store in the future.
The house brand of paper comes in several qualities, with the 100% recycled paper costing about three dollars more than the non-recycled paper that is nearest in price. I took a package of recycled paper up to the register and proceeded to pay for my purchase.
The first silliness was where to pay. I did see the sign that said "please go to the shipping department to pay", but there was no one at the shipping department. Seeing a woman paying at the checkout counter, I went to the checkout, only to have the saleswoman march me over to the shipping department.
The second silliness was the rewards program. It has been years since I received a discount on anything I have bought at this store. I used to buy a variety of supplies for my classroom because the teacher discount was helpful, but they gradually removed everything practical from the list of items eligible for a discount. I gave the saleswoman my rewards number and of course it made no difference.
The third silliness was the payment process. I know that using a debit card involves several questions at different stores and I try to remember to watch the keypad display for all of the questions. The displays say do I agree to the amount? do I want it all on this card? do I want to save homeless pets? enter my zip code, and so on.
Yesterday there was a new question: do I want my receipt on paper or through email? The fourth silliness came when I told the saleswoman I would like a paper receipt.
"Some people like it through email! Save the trees!" she chirped.
"I just bought recycled paper that costs more than your regular paper. I think I'm doing okay," I replied.
As I had parked my car before entering the store, I saw her walking into the store from the far side of the lot, and one whiff of her as she redirected me to the shipping counter confirmed that she was returning from her smoke break. I wasn't about to be lectured on saving the planet by a young woman who just had ground a cigarette butt under her heel in the parking lot.
In my mind, as I drove home, I imagined the board meeting where an executive proposes that the company add a step to the checkout process at their stores across the country. Convincingly, he argues that it will save the company thousands of dollars on cash register paper. (I would have to print out a paper copy for my taxes at home any way.) Customers like to unclutter their lives by keeping records and paying bills electronically, he continues. (I like paper. It is not as easily deleted by accident.) The clincher is when he points out that thousands of email addresses will be gathered in this way, even from customers who are not enrolled in the rewards program. (I am continually unsubscribing. Why do the emails keep coming? How did they find me in the first place?) These customers can now be wooed through email with special offers, bringing them back into the store for more sales. (They just lost what little was left of my business, but I'm not the typical consumer. I am willing to pay more for recycled paper.)
The upshot of all this silliness was that the incident yielded more entertainment than annoyance.
The house brand of paper comes in several qualities, with the 100% recycled paper costing about three dollars more than the non-recycled paper that is nearest in price. I took a package of recycled paper up to the register and proceeded to pay for my purchase.
The first silliness was where to pay. I did see the sign that said "please go to the shipping department to pay", but there was no one at the shipping department. Seeing a woman paying at the checkout counter, I went to the checkout, only to have the saleswoman march me over to the shipping department.
The second silliness was the rewards program. It has been years since I received a discount on anything I have bought at this store. I used to buy a variety of supplies for my classroom because the teacher discount was helpful, but they gradually removed everything practical from the list of items eligible for a discount. I gave the saleswoman my rewards number and of course it made no difference.
The third silliness was the payment process. I know that using a debit card involves several questions at different stores and I try to remember to watch the keypad display for all of the questions. The displays say do I agree to the amount? do I want it all on this card? do I want to save homeless pets? enter my zip code, and so on.
Yesterday there was a new question: do I want my receipt on paper or through email? The fourth silliness came when I told the saleswoman I would like a paper receipt.
"Some people like it through email! Save the trees!" she chirped.
"I just bought recycled paper that costs more than your regular paper. I think I'm doing okay," I replied.
As I had parked my car before entering the store, I saw her walking into the store from the far side of the lot, and one whiff of her as she redirected me to the shipping counter confirmed that she was returning from her smoke break. I wasn't about to be lectured on saving the planet by a young woman who just had ground a cigarette butt under her heel in the parking lot.
In my mind, as I drove home, I imagined the board meeting where an executive proposes that the company add a step to the checkout process at their stores across the country. Convincingly, he argues that it will save the company thousands of dollars on cash register paper. (I would have to print out a paper copy for my taxes at home any way.) Customers like to unclutter their lives by keeping records and paying bills electronically, he continues. (I like paper. It is not as easily deleted by accident.) The clincher is when he points out that thousands of email addresses will be gathered in this way, even from customers who are not enrolled in the rewards program. (I am continually unsubscribing. Why do the emails keep coming? How did they find me in the first place?) These customers can now be wooed through email with special offers, bringing them back into the store for more sales. (They just lost what little was left of my business, but I'm not the typical consumer. I am willing to pay more for recycled paper.)
The upshot of all this silliness was that the incident yielded more entertainment than annoyance.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Bebe
I have decided to sell my 2003 Buell Blast. I still love her and she's in great running condition, set up for commuting with lots of extras and comfort features. It just feels like the right time to simplify down to one motorcycle.
A couple of weeks ago Bebe was not her usual reliable self, balky starting and wanting to die at intersections. I was all suited up one Monday morning and she died in the driveway. I managed to get her back into the garage, with my husband's help of course. Instead of changing and taking the car, I took my other bike, the Lightning. I rode the Lightning for the rest of the week. I think that was the turning point.
For years, leaving the house before 7am in the dark, I preferred the easy handling of the Blast. The Lightning is powerful immediately. First gear is a rush already. But when I weighed maintenance, time riding them regularly, insurance, and so on, I began to be ready to let Bebe go. My husband observed, "You've outgrown her." Perhaps, but I still feel a strong attachment to her. If it were not for the Blast, I don't know if I would have continued to ride. After a bad crash on my first bike, it was the Blast that helped me regain my confidence.
She is now repaired and running well again. I will take a picture and make a flier, and I will ask a price that is reasonable for the market and reflects her quality.
A couple of weeks ago Bebe was not her usual reliable self, balky starting and wanting to die at intersections. I was all suited up one Monday morning and she died in the driveway. I managed to get her back into the garage, with my husband's help of course. Instead of changing and taking the car, I took my other bike, the Lightning. I rode the Lightning for the rest of the week. I think that was the turning point.
For years, leaving the house before 7am in the dark, I preferred the easy handling of the Blast. The Lightning is powerful immediately. First gear is a rush already. But when I weighed maintenance, time riding them regularly, insurance, and so on, I began to be ready to let Bebe go. My husband observed, "You've outgrown her." Perhaps, but I still feel a strong attachment to her. If it were not for the Blast, I don't know if I would have continued to ride. After a bad crash on my first bike, it was the Blast that helped me regain my confidence.
She is now repaired and running well again. I will take a picture and make a flier, and I will ask a price that is reasonable for the market and reflects her quality.
Sea and seeds
The grass is not growing; there is no reason to mow. Little islands of weeds are scattered around the lawn. They have sticky seeds that hang onto our socks and shoes and the cats' legs. Instead of pulling or mowing them, I went kayaking again in the Gulf yesterday, and today is for house chores and teacher chores.
We launched from the beach just before the airport on Cedar Keys. The tide was the lowest we've seen in a long time. The water was not as clear as it usually is this time of year, but we still had a good view of the shallower areas around Snake Key. Not much wind, so the surface was glassy with just a little gentle swell.
The juniors will be giving their Hamlet talks next week. Whenever a big project is approaching, I tell my students that I will check my school email until 8pm on Sunday night. I started doing this last year and it has worked wonders. Either having access or being told they might need me for some reason has reduced the number of emergency communications I get during my off hours dramatically.
My husband has been working Sundays for several months now. It was an adjustment at first, having only one weekend day together, but in my usual way I have taken advantage of the day to get ahead on laundry, bird feeders, watering the garden, grading, and planning. I also get some cooking done for the week ahead. It feels good to take care of details.
We launched from the beach just before the airport on Cedar Keys. The tide was the lowest we've seen in a long time. The water was not as clear as it usually is this time of year, but we still had a good view of the shallower areas around Snake Key. Not much wind, so the surface was glassy with just a little gentle swell.
The juniors will be giving their Hamlet talks next week. Whenever a big project is approaching, I tell my students that I will check my school email until 8pm on Sunday night. I started doing this last year and it has worked wonders. Either having access or being told they might need me for some reason has reduced the number of emergency communications I get during my off hours dramatically.
My husband has been working Sundays for several months now. It was an adjustment at first, having only one weekend day together, but in my usual way I have taken advantage of the day to get ahead on laundry, bird feeders, watering the garden, grading, and planning. I also get some cooking done for the week ahead. It feels good to take care of details.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
House and home
We have been living in this house since 2002. Ten and a half years. We bought the house during the infamous housing bubble, when banks were slap happy with loans.
Starting a couple of years ago, about once a quarter, large important looking envelopes began arriving by UPS. When I realize what it is, I fuss and fume and throw it away. It is from our mortgage company, encouraging us to refinance what remains of our mortgage with an interest rate that is more than two points below what we have been paying. I have always dismissed it as a bad idea without really knowing why. I just knew I didn't want to tamper with the stability of our original loan. Another envelope arrived a couple of weeks ago.
Last weekend I finally picked up the phone and called the bank to ask them to stop sending the offers. The man who answered the phone agreed to take us off the mailing list, and then slipped in a comment very quickly about why the offer would be advantageous to us. I asked, why would you encourage us to do something that means less money to the bank? Customer retention, he said. That's nonsensical, I thought to myself. Banks succeed by keeping money, not customers.
The seed of doubt was planted. I spoke to my husband, we called for more details, and then sat at the kitchen table putting together the pieces of information we had. We made a few calculations of our own, and then I realized why the bank has been pressuring us now, near the end of the loan, confirming my suspicion that refinancing would be a costly mistake, even though the percentage rate appears to be lower, and even if we paid it off quickly. Loans are structured to pay off interest first and principal last. Of course the loan officers on the phone will not mention that detail.
The comment that gave rise to my doubt was that, with a new loan, continuing to make our same payment, we would save X dollars. After our calculations, my husband and I realized that continuing with our existing loan, we will save twice that amount.
The upshot of a half hour's discussion is that we realized we are closer than we thought to being finished, and I now know why I was right to follow my hunch and throw those offers away. When I reflect on what I have to be thankful for this November, at the top of the list is my husband who, like my father, does not let go of an issue until he is sure he has all the facts needed to make a good decision.
Starting a couple of years ago, about once a quarter, large important looking envelopes began arriving by UPS. When I realize what it is, I fuss and fume and throw it away. It is from our mortgage company, encouraging us to refinance what remains of our mortgage with an interest rate that is more than two points below what we have been paying. I have always dismissed it as a bad idea without really knowing why. I just knew I didn't want to tamper with the stability of our original loan. Another envelope arrived a couple of weeks ago.
Last weekend I finally picked up the phone and called the bank to ask them to stop sending the offers. The man who answered the phone agreed to take us off the mailing list, and then slipped in a comment very quickly about why the offer would be advantageous to us. I asked, why would you encourage us to do something that means less money to the bank? Customer retention, he said. That's nonsensical, I thought to myself. Banks succeed by keeping money, not customers.
The seed of doubt was planted. I spoke to my husband, we called for more details, and then sat at the kitchen table putting together the pieces of information we had. We made a few calculations of our own, and then I realized why the bank has been pressuring us now, near the end of the loan, confirming my suspicion that refinancing would be a costly mistake, even though the percentage rate appears to be lower, and even if we paid it off quickly. Loans are structured to pay off interest first and principal last. Of course the loan officers on the phone will not mention that detail.
The comment that gave rise to my doubt was that, with a new loan, continuing to make our same payment, we would save X dollars. After our calculations, my husband and I realized that continuing with our existing loan, we will save twice that amount.
The upshot of a half hour's discussion is that we realized we are closer than we thought to being finished, and I now know why I was right to follow my hunch and throw those offers away. When I reflect on what I have to be thankful for this November, at the top of the list is my husband who, like my father, does not let go of an issue until he is sure he has all the facts needed to make a good decision.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Hamlet in Skyfall
I was very taken with the performance of Ben Whishaw as the new Q in Skyfall. Turns out he played Hamlet onstage to good acclaim, at age 23 playing the 30-year-old prince. One reviewer said he played Hamlet as a privileged brat. I have always seen that side of Hamlet in the middle of the play as essential and effectively off-putting, so we see his flaws before we see his strength, in much the same way we lose confidence in Oedipus when he rails at Creon and Jocasta. The hero dips in our esteem; this modulation makes his rally all the more impressive. Daniel Craig does a brave job of trying to take a heroic dip, but he doesn't waver, and I never lose confidence in his Bond.
Everything's vine 2
Since the weather turned cooler a month ago, I have been spending one morning every weekend clearing vines and digging up tree seedlings that have sprouted in the flower beds. Today I also pruned the Mermaid rose on the trellis in the paisley bed out back and dug up the Cherokee rose out front. There is another Cherokee out back which I will deal with another time. It needs a big space, like the Mermaid, and an arch. The one I planted out front was in too cramped a space, without enough room for an adequate trellis. The Cherokee and the Mermaid were both gifts from a neighbor, and I think the leaves of the Cherokee are the prettiest rose foliage I have ever seen.
No rose without a thorn, the saying goes, but I have several roses without thorns. A sport of Cecile Bruner, Duchess de Brabante, St. David Bermuda mystery rose, Louie Phillippe, Mutabilis. These are the ones the deer eats when she comes around. If she would just munch on the Cherokee and the Mermaid, that would be helpful, but she doesn't.
No rose without a thorn, the saying goes, but I have several roses without thorns. A sport of Cecile Bruner, Duchess de Brabante, St. David Bermuda mystery rose, Louie Phillippe, Mutabilis. These are the ones the deer eats when she comes around. If she would just munch on the Cherokee and the Mermaid, that would be helpful, but she doesn't.
Friday, November 23, 2012
The islands 2
 |
| Seahorse Key |
 |
| North Key |
Starting Thursday morning aroung 9 am, we paddled ten miles around the islands, launching from Cedar Key's downtown beach. The wind was onshore from the north, so we headed for Seahorse Key first. We ate our turkey sandwiches on the beach there. Among the stands of sea rocket we saw Gulf Fritillary, Monarch, Painted Lady, Great Southern White, and Cloudless Sulphur. Then we paddled behind Seahorse and Deadman's Key to North Key, where we landed on the birds' favorite strip of sand. White pelicans, brown pelicans, Caspian terns, common terns, double-crested cormorants, and the usual little sandpipers were there. Lots of basket sponges blown up on the beach during the last storm. The wind shifted slightly as we were heading back between 3 and 4 pm from North Key to downtown Cedar Key, so we didn't have the wind on the beam as we expected.
After trailering the kayaks and sprucing up a bit at the outdoor shower near the dock, we walked a few blocks to the Island Hotel for dinner. It was our first time to try the Island Hotel and we walked in to find a pleasant atmosphere and a rich and elegant Thanksgiving menu. We both chose Grouper Elizabeth accompanied by, my husband insists, two dozen side dishes. Really I think it was only one dozen. He asked the waitress, so do we choose 2 or 3 of these? She said no, you get all of them. It's Thanksgiving! The servings were modest, but it was still a generous meal and tasty. We'll definitely be going back to the Island Hotel.
The cats forgave us for being late as soon as we fed them; however, only three showed up for dinner. I followed a hunch and sure enough, Daisy had been locked in the closet all day. Her favorite game is to dash in the closet when we go in to change. It's not the first time her hide-and-seek has resulted in a long session. She was more cautious about running in at bedtime, but today she's back to her game.
We could not have asked for a more beautiful day on the water. What a great way to be reminded that we are grateful for our lives on this earth.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
The islands
The islands are on my mind right now as the light of a winter afternoon declines. It has been our second sunny day in two weeks. Specifically Ireland and Scotland, and generally the islands that are outliers to both this world and "the undiscovered country" to which Hamlet refers: sleep, dreams, and what lies beyond this life.
over the wall
One of my most pleasant and rewarding reading experiences recently caught me off guard. At breakfast at the end of an overnight trip with students, I was flipping through last week's New Yorker and read "Over the Wall." I finished reading it on the school bus back to town. The link is above, but alas only to an abstract as of yet. A summary of the organization of ideas in the piece doesn't begin to account for its appeal. I especially like the quietness with which the author, Angell, catalogues things his wife doesn't know, because she has passed away, and relates his father-in-law's dream. He dreamed he saw his daughter, Angell's wife, walking a dog in Central Park, then sprouting feathers, then flying away over the low wall. It is a dream of leaving and losing and letting go.
That is two times in the past twenty-four hours that I have been reminded of my dream about the lighthouse. Angell's father-in-law's dream made sense as a narrative, which dreams rarely do. The other thing that reminded me of that lighthouse was the shaky tower used for launching on a zipline at the YMCA camp we visited.
Then in a totally different mood, the satire of Nate Silver's election statistics on the next page of the magazine was refreshing.
Although I slept last night, a nap was still in order. I fell asleep after reading about thirty poems by Irishwoman Eavan Boland and awoke to hear my husband working out "The New Highland Laddie" on his baroque lute. It's old to me, he said, but it's new to this lute. It's an old tune, from a twenty-first century standpoint, with a musical sensibility beyond its time.
over the wall
One of my most pleasant and rewarding reading experiences recently caught me off guard. At breakfast at the end of an overnight trip with students, I was flipping through last week's New Yorker and read "Over the Wall." I finished reading it on the school bus back to town. The link is above, but alas only to an abstract as of yet. A summary of the organization of ideas in the piece doesn't begin to account for its appeal. I especially like the quietness with which the author, Angell, catalogues things his wife doesn't know, because she has passed away, and relates his father-in-law's dream. He dreamed he saw his daughter, Angell's wife, walking a dog in Central Park, then sprouting feathers, then flying away over the low wall. It is a dream of leaving and losing and letting go.
That is two times in the past twenty-four hours that I have been reminded of my dream about the lighthouse. Angell's father-in-law's dream made sense as a narrative, which dreams rarely do. The other thing that reminded me of that lighthouse was the shaky tower used for launching on a zipline at the YMCA camp we visited.
Then in a totally different mood, the satire of Nate Silver's election statistics on the next page of the magazine was refreshing.
Although I slept last night, a nap was still in order. I fell asleep after reading about thirty poems by Irishwoman Eavan Boland and awoke to hear my husband working out "The New Highland Laddie" on his baroque lute. It's old to me, he said, but it's new to this lute. It's an old tune, from a twenty-first century standpoint, with a musical sensibility beyond its time.
Friday, November 16, 2012
Vancouver in Florida
Florida winter traditionally modulates between warm and wet or dry and cold. The beauty of this pattern shelters subtropical plants by wetting the ground before a cold front moves in. The warmth of the earth is more easily conducted by wet soil, and sensitive plants are less likely to freeze.
Occasionally we get an aberrant weather system moving through. Farther north, they expect it may come some years and call it blackberry winter, or Indian summer. This week, we have had a cool grey system sitting on top of us for days. People began to comment after a couple of days.
"I hate this rain!"
"Well, don't move to England."
"It's like Ohio!"
"And Nashville."
The early X Files were filmed in Vancouver for the light. We have had the same light in north central Florida this week, and everyone noticed. Seasonal affective disorder strikes all over the country, but it seems people in Florida are more likely to comment on two days without sunshine in a row.
Occasionally we get an aberrant weather system moving through. Farther north, they expect it may come some years and call it blackberry winter, or Indian summer. This week, we have had a cool grey system sitting on top of us for days. People began to comment after a couple of days.
"I hate this rain!"
"Well, don't move to England."
"It's like Ohio!"
"And Nashville."
The early X Files were filmed in Vancouver for the light. We have had the same light in north central Florida this week, and everyone noticed. Seasonal affective disorder strikes all over the country, but it seems people in Florida are more likely to comment on two days without sunshine in a row.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Pale Sapphire
The Little Sapphire, Alachua County, appeared in a setting of pale blue on election night.
I woke up in a reddish purple state on November 6, 2012 and did not go to bed until my state started turning blue just after midnight.
Votes were still being counted throughout the state the next day.
I woke up in a reddish purple state on November 6, 2012 and did not go to bed until my state started turning blue just after midnight.
Votes were still being counted throughout the state the next day.
Monday, November 5, 2012
No princess in Hamlet
No, I told the junior who asked last Friday, there is no princess in Hamlet. There is a young noblewoman, and there is a queen, but no princess. She frowned with disappointment.
Our president is not a Hamlet. He is a thinker, but he also acts. I do not agree with those who say he thinks too much.
Our president is not a Hamlet. He is a thinker, but he also acts. I do not agree with those who say he thinks too much.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
The Little Sapphire
The Little Sapphire of Florida, Alachua County, has 80,000 Democratics voters, 46,000 Republicans, and 38,000 others. My husband calls it a blue oasis in a red desert.
We have made a home here for twenty-six years. Since we have been old enough to vote, we have voted in every primary and general election. Today is the last day of early voting. We have have already cast our ballots, a week ago on the first day of early voting.
In this graphic map, you can see how each county voted in the 2008 election:
http://elections.nytimes.com/2008/results/states/president/florida.html
In this graphic map, you can see how each state in the union has voted during past presidential elections:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2012/10/15/us/politics/swing-history.html?ref=politics
Florida moves back and forth-- not as a pendulum, more as a fist with one finger pointing toward Cuba. It is "the state with the prettiest name" in Elizabeth Bishop's poem, built on shifting sands, moody and unpredictable as a mesocyclone, turned this way and that by wind and tide.
I do not like to think back past 2008. It chills me to think of 2000, when votes were thrown out and we realized how fragile is the integrity of an election even in a nation that believes in universal suffrage. I am looking forward to election night on Tuesday, with excitement and apprehension. Every scenario has been anticipated but not played out. My father said about basketball, "A lot can happen in two minutes." Our president plays basketball, and this election feels like it has two minutes of playing time yet to go.
We have made a home here for twenty-six years. Since we have been old enough to vote, we have voted in every primary and general election. Today is the last day of early voting. We have have already cast our ballots, a week ago on the first day of early voting.
In this graphic map, you can see how each county voted in the 2008 election:
http://elections.nytimes.com/2008/results/states/president/florida.html
In this graphic map, you can see how each state in the union has voted during past presidential elections:
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2012/10/15/us/politics/swing-history.html?ref=politics
Florida moves back and forth-- not as a pendulum, more as a fist with one finger pointing toward Cuba. It is "the state with the prettiest name" in Elizabeth Bishop's poem, built on shifting sands, moody and unpredictable as a mesocyclone, turned this way and that by wind and tide.
I do not like to think back past 2008. It chills me to think of 2000, when votes were thrown out and we realized how fragile is the integrity of an election even in a nation that believes in universal suffrage. I am looking forward to election night on Tuesday, with excitement and apprehension. Every scenario has been anticipated but not played out. My father said about basketball, "A lot can happen in two minutes." Our president plays basketball, and this election feels like it has two minutes of playing time yet to go.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Black helicopters part 3
We've replaced the exhaust fan in the downstairs bathroom and no sign of black helicopters. We have the corroboration of two electricians. It's not just us saying there are no black helicopters. We could add the testimony of four cats who are not the least bit disturbed about going into the downstairs bathroom. That makes eight eyewitnesses to the absence of black helicopters.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Clay
What a coincidence. Reading Joyce's "Clay" with my students tomorrow, and next Wednesday is All Hallow's Eve. Couldn't have planned it better if I had planned it.
Why hasn't anyone made a film of Ulysses or Invisible Man? There are two films of Little Dorrit. Nobody's fault.
Why hasn't anyone made a film of Ulysses or Invisible Man? There are two films of Little Dorrit. Nobody's fault.
Monday, October 22, 2012
word cloud
My ears caught the phrase "word cloud" in the CNN post debate discussion.
I read a review of the new film based on the novel Cloud Atlas in Sunday's New York Times.
The forecast for tonight is "Partly Cloudy."
I will ask my students to create a WORDLE based on the text of a poem they are studying.
A WORDLE is a word cloud that shows the dominance of word patterns in a body of text, much as a weather report predicts a dominant pattern of humidity, precipitation, and wind.
I read a review of the new film based on the novel Cloud Atlas in Sunday's New York Times.
The forecast for tonight is "Partly Cloudy."
I will ask my students to create a WORDLE based on the text of a poem they are studying.
A WORDLE is a word cloud that shows the dominance of word patterns in a body of text, much as a weather report predicts a dominant pattern of humidity, precipitation, and wind.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Penn and Ellison
Listening all day for hours. Not just listening, but also evaluating and reflecting.
My juniors began their formal oral performances today. They were well prepared and quite good. Most had taken the time to consider a personal, original, creative approach to interpretation on at least one outstanding bit of writing they found in Ellison's Invisible Man. I listened to five presentations each fifty-minute period for chapters eight through thirteen.
After a grocery stop, I had about an hour at home for reflection and chores before my husband arrived. He has been reflecting about his experience with his various reels, having spent last week carrying the bits of a Penn reel to work, cleaning away encrustations and assessing the viability of vulnerable parts like the crab-claw-shaped spring that has something to do with the bale closing. I asked him-- You used to work on your own bicycle, right? Yes, stripped it down to the frame-- he said, with a grin. That is a valuable and satisfying skill. Of course he is considering what his next reel will be. I observed-- I wouldn't want to have a reel I couldn't work on like that. He agreed.
Until this moment I had not made the connection between the two incidents of listening I engaged in today. To strip a chapter, a paragraph, a sentence, a word down to the frame and then put the whole back together again-- that is a valuable and satisfying skill. Beyond a skill, really, an artful and personal expression of one's world view. That takes time to find.
My juniors began their formal oral performances today. They were well prepared and quite good. Most had taken the time to consider a personal, original, creative approach to interpretation on at least one outstanding bit of writing they found in Ellison's Invisible Man. I listened to five presentations each fifty-minute period for chapters eight through thirteen.
After a grocery stop, I had about an hour at home for reflection and chores before my husband arrived. He has been reflecting about his experience with his various reels, having spent last week carrying the bits of a Penn reel to work, cleaning away encrustations and assessing the viability of vulnerable parts like the crab-claw-shaped spring that has something to do with the bale closing. I asked him-- You used to work on your own bicycle, right? Yes, stripped it down to the frame-- he said, with a grin. That is a valuable and satisfying skill. Of course he is considering what his next reel will be. I observed-- I wouldn't want to have a reel I couldn't work on like that. He agreed.
Until this moment I had not made the connection between the two incidents of listening I engaged in today. To strip a chapter, a paragraph, a sentence, a word down to the frame and then put the whole back together again-- that is a valuable and satisfying skill. Beyond a skill, really, an artful and personal expression of one's world view. That takes time to find.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
Movement
The movement of a butterfly as it flies around a flowering bush reminds me that nothing stands still and nothing is so fragile as time.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Black helicopters part 2
I may have spoken too soon about the black helicopter infestation in the downstairs bathroom. The exhaust fan in the ceiling started making a horrible grating, failing noise last night.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
The end of September
September has always been for me a month when life is particularly intense, and so I am a little wistful when it is over. The school year is under way in earnest, the weather changes, fish, turtles, and birds begin to migrate, and so many other cycles begin and end with September.
For the past hour the crows have been raising a ruckus in the woods behind the house, out of sight but well within earshot. Five minutes ago they suddenly stopped and left. Had they continued any longer, I would have walked around the corner to see what had them so riled up. The crows began to migrate about three weeks ago. I noticed the four crows, two parents and their two juveniles, who had figured out how to get a mouthful of suet from the basket, had left the area.
This morning the noise was so loud at first that I rounded up the littlest cat and called the other three indoors. I doubt they were in any real danger, but though Daisy is an acrobat and fearless, she is also small and easily confused. How she survived on the dirt road where she was found, along with her sister and six nieces and nephews, is a story for which I don't have the details, but now she is here, and I wouldn't want her to go up against the owls or hawks or crows if I can help it.
Now it is eerily quiet. The crows are gone and the cats are asleep.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Further topics that will still not be covered in this blog
Public schools in the United States. Florida governors. The 2012 election. True the Vote. This and that percentage of the population.
Today's quotation comes from Chapter One of When Art Worked: The New Deal, Art, and Democracy by Roger G. Kennedy:
This is a book about artists as citizens. Its point of departure is Franklin Roosevelt's speech accepting the Democratic Party's nomination for president in 1932, in which he summoned his fellow citizens, including artists, to participate in a covenant of common purpose:
'I pledge you, I pledge myself, to a new deal for the American people.' Roosevelt's use of the lower case "new deal" is important; he was putting his stress not on that now famous phrase but on what came before and after it in the sentence, upon the pledging president and the people he summoned to a new covenant. He was not announcing a program of princely patronage or largesse. He was, instead, inviting each of his countrymen, artists among them, to come forward in a covenant of service. Artists were among the many who needed work in 1932, and the nation needed the work artists could do.
I find it comforting that, at one time in our country when the economy seemed beyond repair, programs were created that included artists and writers and craftsmen of all kinds.
Today's quotation comes from Chapter One of When Art Worked: The New Deal, Art, and Democracy by Roger G. Kennedy:
This is a book about artists as citizens. Its point of departure is Franklin Roosevelt's speech accepting the Democratic Party's nomination for president in 1932, in which he summoned his fellow citizens, including artists, to participate in a covenant of common purpose:
'I pledge you, I pledge myself, to a new deal for the American people.' Roosevelt's use of the lower case "new deal" is important; he was putting his stress not on that now famous phrase but on what came before and after it in the sentence, upon the pledging president and the people he summoned to a new covenant. He was not announcing a program of princely patronage or largesse. He was, instead, inviting each of his countrymen, artists among them, to come forward in a covenant of service. Artists were among the many who needed work in 1932, and the nation needed the work artists could do.
I find it comforting that, at one time in our country when the economy seemed beyond repair, programs were created that included artists and writers and craftsmen of all kinds.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Greed and damage
Three years ago I planted one Chinese honey tangerine tree because it is my favorite citrus. The tree grew and bore well. The following year, I planted another one, along with a red navel, a white navel, a red grapefruit, and a white grapefruit. These trees did well also. Two of them took a year off from blooming to settle in, but most of them went ahead and bloomed and set fruit lightly.
When I bought the grapefruit trees, the nurseryman advised me to cut the fruit off the first year so the branches would not get broken. I pruned off the fruit where they were too clustered together on one branch. The tree also dropped some fruit that first year, and no branches were lost.
I fed and watered the trees regularly, through a dry winter and a dry dry spring. Since early summer we have had rain almost every day. The first tangerine tree bloomed and set fruit well despite the dry spring. The thickest branch became so loaded with fruit that it began to bend two weeks ago under the added weight of the rains. I kept an eye on it but did not trim any fruit or support it. I was greedy. Two days ago the branch broke and I pruned it off, along with its more than twenty tangerines.
So far the tree is fine, and there are a few fruit on the other branches, but I am filled with regret and disappointment in myself. I should have helped the tree.
When I bought the grapefruit trees, the nurseryman advised me to cut the fruit off the first year so the branches would not get broken. I pruned off the fruit where they were too clustered together on one branch. The tree also dropped some fruit that first year, and no branches were lost.
I fed and watered the trees regularly, through a dry winter and a dry dry spring. Since early summer we have had rain almost every day. The first tangerine tree bloomed and set fruit well despite the dry spring. The thickest branch became so loaded with fruit that it began to bend two weeks ago under the added weight of the rains. I kept an eye on it but did not trim any fruit or support it. I was greedy. Two days ago the branch broke and I pruned it off, along with its more than twenty tangerines.
So far the tree is fine, and there are a few fruit on the other branches, but I am filled with regret and disappointment in myself. I should have helped the tree.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Black Discs
With no other answer available after weeks of investigation, my husband concluded that the black discs in the downstairs bathroom are black helicopter poop. Or nanite poop. Small robotic creatures developed by the Pentagon or the Centers for Disease Control had infiltrated our house and were staging operations from our downstairs bathroom. I found that explanation so compelling that I was moved to get the ladder out and resolve the issue once and for all.
The downstairs bathroom has been the location of several incidents during our ten years in this house. The first incident occurred in May 2003, when we had been living in the house for nine months. I found little transparent insect wings, just under half an inch long, all around the floor. No bodies, just wings. I thought some ants might have swarmed outside and wandered into the house somehow. I swept up the wings and they kept appearing for several days. Then finally some little bodies, which we had identified. They were dry wood termites from the cabinet that held the sink. They had probably been in the wood when the cabinet was made, the termite man said. The cabinet maker said that's impossible, and so it went. We treated them for years and finally, this year, no dry wood termites hatched. They are very slow chewers and fortunately the cabinet still has enough integrity to stand after 24 years of chewing from the inside out.
The next incident was the water in the walls. Source: upstairs shower pan. Then there was the water in the ceiling. Source: Repaired upstairs shower pan. When the black pellets appeared I was ready to believe the downstairs bathroom needed a separate cure. Several years ago, during round after round of repairs, we learned some details about the original construction of our house, and as a result we had a ceremony to bless the house after the repairs had been completed. Friends of ours, a married couple of Sufi ministers who conduct multi-denominational worship services, came to the house and performed a series of prayers and cleansed the house. After that, the repairs were reasonable for the age of the house-- replacement of water-damaged wood siding on the outside, a new roof, new gutters, new air units. I thought we were in the clear.
The black pellets appeared on the floor, always near the cats' litter boxes. They are about three eighths of an inch across, opaque black, apparently plastic, domed on one side and dimpled on the other. They are fairly uniform in thickness, a sixteenth of an inch, but some are a little thinner. We swept them up, and they reappeared, but not in numbers or at intervals that fell into any sort of pattern.
Could they be filler which had fallen out of something we carried into the bathroom, kayak gear or garage towels used for car and boat clean up? No. Were they insect poop? No. We were out of rational theories. My husband thought they might be coming out of the exhaust fan in the ceiling. Whereas the dry wood termites found the cabinet homey, the black helicopters would be comfortable in the exhaust fan. I got the ladder out, climbed up with a strong flashlight, eased the cover off the fan, and looked. No black pellets hanging on the ledges waiting to fall out. No black pellets coming through the cracks in the plaster around the fan housing.
I put the ladder away and went back into the bathroom, turned on the light, and took out the whisk broom and dust pan to clean up the accumulation of black helicopter poop from the day before. As I swept the pellets onto the dust pan, more pellets appeared. They were falling out of the handle of the whisk broom. It was full of them. A breach had opened through the straw and out they came. Why a broom maker would fill the handle of a broom with little black plastic disks, or from what other industry they are a byproduct, I can't answer without further investigation. It is a phone call I may never get around to making. I am simply relieved that neither the dry wood termites nor the black helicopters will be hatching again any time soon.
The downstairs bathroom has been the location of several incidents during our ten years in this house. The first incident occurred in May 2003, when we had been living in the house for nine months. I found little transparent insect wings, just under half an inch long, all around the floor. No bodies, just wings. I thought some ants might have swarmed outside and wandered into the house somehow. I swept up the wings and they kept appearing for several days. Then finally some little bodies, which we had identified. They were dry wood termites from the cabinet that held the sink. They had probably been in the wood when the cabinet was made, the termite man said. The cabinet maker said that's impossible, and so it went. We treated them for years and finally, this year, no dry wood termites hatched. They are very slow chewers and fortunately the cabinet still has enough integrity to stand after 24 years of chewing from the inside out.
The next incident was the water in the walls. Source: upstairs shower pan. Then there was the water in the ceiling. Source: Repaired upstairs shower pan. When the black pellets appeared I was ready to believe the downstairs bathroom needed a separate cure. Several years ago, during round after round of repairs, we learned some details about the original construction of our house, and as a result we had a ceremony to bless the house after the repairs had been completed. Friends of ours, a married couple of Sufi ministers who conduct multi-denominational worship services, came to the house and performed a series of prayers and cleansed the house. After that, the repairs were reasonable for the age of the house-- replacement of water-damaged wood siding on the outside, a new roof, new gutters, new air units. I thought we were in the clear.
The black pellets appeared on the floor, always near the cats' litter boxes. They are about three eighths of an inch across, opaque black, apparently plastic, domed on one side and dimpled on the other. They are fairly uniform in thickness, a sixteenth of an inch, but some are a little thinner. We swept them up, and they reappeared, but not in numbers or at intervals that fell into any sort of pattern.
Could they be filler which had fallen out of something we carried into the bathroom, kayak gear or garage towels used for car and boat clean up? No. Were they insect poop? No. We were out of rational theories. My husband thought they might be coming out of the exhaust fan in the ceiling. Whereas the dry wood termites found the cabinet homey, the black helicopters would be comfortable in the exhaust fan. I got the ladder out, climbed up with a strong flashlight, eased the cover off the fan, and looked. No black pellets hanging on the ledges waiting to fall out. No black pellets coming through the cracks in the plaster around the fan housing.
I put the ladder away and went back into the bathroom, turned on the light, and took out the whisk broom and dust pan to clean up the accumulation of black helicopter poop from the day before. As I swept the pellets onto the dust pan, more pellets appeared. They were falling out of the handle of the whisk broom. It was full of them. A breach had opened through the straw and out they came. Why a broom maker would fill the handle of a broom with little black plastic disks, or from what other industry they are a byproduct, I can't answer without further investigation. It is a phone call I may never get around to making. I am simply relieved that neither the dry wood termites nor the black helicopters will be hatching again any time soon.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
A 9 - 11 Birthday
Today is the eleventh anniversary of 9 - 11 - 2001 and my fifty-third birthday.
Last year, as I read the New York Times articles addressing the tenth anniversary, I gathered that the country was ready to move on-- not in the sense of forgetting, but more in the sense of a settling of clouds of dust and debris that have been swirling around in our minds for ten years. Today on the editorial page of the Times, there is one simple but elegant editorial arranged in the shape of two dark towers.
Last year I began a tradition to mark the anniversary. For ten years I have been reserved about my date of birth, out of respect for the survivors and the lost. Then I read about a girl who was born on that day and started a blog to communicate with others who share the birthday. I found her blog and read it and sent her a greeting. And I made a donation to Beyond the Eleventh, founded by two 9 - 11 survivors, that provides support to widows in Afghanistan. I was inspired by their willingness to reach out to other women whose lives have been changed by war. I will continue the tradition of making a donation to an organization with a healing agenda. It is a small gesture, but it is important to me and perhaps it will send a vibration along a wire somewhere that will ultimately make a sound.
2001 fell during a decade of loss in our family. We felt the accrual of one loss after another; the nation mourned thousands at once. It was hard to believe the pendulum would swing back, but it did, and we have celebrated two weddings and two births in the past four years. Today has been a good day. The kind wishes have meant more to me than anyone could know.
Last year, as I read the New York Times articles addressing the tenth anniversary, I gathered that the country was ready to move on-- not in the sense of forgetting, but more in the sense of a settling of clouds of dust and debris that have been swirling around in our minds for ten years. Today on the editorial page of the Times, there is one simple but elegant editorial arranged in the shape of two dark towers.
Last year I began a tradition to mark the anniversary. For ten years I have been reserved about my date of birth, out of respect for the survivors and the lost. Then I read about a girl who was born on that day and started a blog to communicate with others who share the birthday. I found her blog and read it and sent her a greeting. And I made a donation to Beyond the Eleventh, founded by two 9 - 11 survivors, that provides support to widows in Afghanistan. I was inspired by their willingness to reach out to other women whose lives have been changed by war. I will continue the tradition of making a donation to an organization with a healing agenda. It is a small gesture, but it is important to me and perhaps it will send a vibration along a wire somewhere that will ultimately make a sound.
2001 fell during a decade of loss in our family. We felt the accrual of one loss after another; the nation mourned thousands at once. It was hard to believe the pendulum would swing back, but it did, and we have celebrated two weddings and two births in the past four years. Today has been a good day. The kind wishes have meant more to me than anyone could know.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Corralling cats
Mealtime for the cats is a little ridiculous at our house, but we have found a system that seems to be working. A, the oldest of our cats has been dropping weight: B, the second oldest has been packing on the pounds; then there's a big gap of years to the age of the next youngest, C, who put on a little when he came to live with us and is now at a good weight, and the very youngest, D, is a tiny thing who is skittish at mealtime and needs to keep her size.
So two on weight loss, two on weight gain. Cat A also has been placed on a special kidney diet and needs lysine for her herpes virus, which attacks her immune system, and CAT B has developed a hyperthyroid condition, but we don't treat that with her food. She gets a special medicated gel in her ears because the hyperthyroid drugs tear up her stomach.
In fact, years ago we only fed dry food, free choice whenever they liked. We bought the best of the best for them. It turned out to be too rich for the older cats' kidneys. When we were told to give Cat A lysine, we started giving a wet snack for breakfast and dinner, just so we could slip in powdered lysine. As Cat B reached beyond 14 pounds, we got rid of the free choice dry food bowls and implemented two puzzle eggs with small measures of dry weight loss food two hours before bedtime. Nevertheless, Cat B was still gaining, scarfing everything, finishing her wet snack fast so she could raid the other cats' dishes.
As I said, ridiculous. Our solution is to fix everyone's plates, put them down and get them started, and then move B onto a cooled sun porch where she can eat without distraction and without harassing the other cats. I stand and watch them to make sure the other three don't rotate around to each others' plates, which they really want to do. No matter how much they are enjoying their own flavor, they are convinced someone else has something tastier.
The upshot of following this routine for several months is that B has lost two pounds. I believe she will lose more until she is a healthy weight.
What happens is this-- as B is sequestered on the porch and a messy eater, she mainly achieves pushing her food around on the plate, while about half of it is ingested. With no avenue of escape, she eats a little more, but not much. By the time we let her off the porch, A, C, and D are finished and there is little for her to lick off their plates. The others trot onto the porch and finish what B had pushed around on her plate. And voila, the pounds are slowly coming off.
These mealtime shenanigans were on my mind because last night we were watching a show about a consultant who helps people understand the needs of their misbehaving cats. The fix almost always involves food, territory, and play. Our cats play together well most of the time, and C and D are learning to leave A alone. She is old and just wants to sleep.
If the worst we have to deal with is a carnival at mealtimes, then I think, for the moment, our kingdom is peaceable enough.
So two on weight loss, two on weight gain. Cat A also has been placed on a special kidney diet and needs lysine for her herpes virus, which attacks her immune system, and CAT B has developed a hyperthyroid condition, but we don't treat that with her food. She gets a special medicated gel in her ears because the hyperthyroid drugs tear up her stomach.
In fact, years ago we only fed dry food, free choice whenever they liked. We bought the best of the best for them. It turned out to be too rich for the older cats' kidneys. When we were told to give Cat A lysine, we started giving a wet snack for breakfast and dinner, just so we could slip in powdered lysine. As Cat B reached beyond 14 pounds, we got rid of the free choice dry food bowls and implemented two puzzle eggs with small measures of dry weight loss food two hours before bedtime. Nevertheless, Cat B was still gaining, scarfing everything, finishing her wet snack fast so she could raid the other cats' dishes.
As I said, ridiculous. Our solution is to fix everyone's plates, put them down and get them started, and then move B onto a cooled sun porch where she can eat without distraction and without harassing the other cats. I stand and watch them to make sure the other three don't rotate around to each others' plates, which they really want to do. No matter how much they are enjoying their own flavor, they are convinced someone else has something tastier.
The upshot of following this routine for several months is that B has lost two pounds. I believe she will lose more until she is a healthy weight.
What happens is this-- as B is sequestered on the porch and a messy eater, she mainly achieves pushing her food around on the plate, while about half of it is ingested. With no avenue of escape, she eats a little more, but not much. By the time we let her off the porch, A, C, and D are finished and there is little for her to lick off their plates. The others trot onto the porch and finish what B had pushed around on her plate. And voila, the pounds are slowly coming off.
These mealtime shenanigans were on my mind because last night we were watching a show about a consultant who helps people understand the needs of their misbehaving cats. The fix almost always involves food, territory, and play. Our cats play together well most of the time, and C and D are learning to leave A alone. She is old and just wants to sleep.
If the worst we have to deal with is a carnival at mealtimes, then I think, for the moment, our kingdom is peaceable enough.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Harbinger
Since the Middle Ages, kings and queens have saved a lot of money by bunking with the constituency-- aristocratic allies around the country. The king sent a harbinger ahead-- a rider to announce that the King is coming, so stock up your larders (and lock up your daughters). It was a huge expenditure to feed and entertain the court, and the political rewards were almost worth it.
Remember a couple of weeks ago when I spotted a rusty blackbird on the feeders for one day? Well, he must have been a scout, because all his rowdy friends came over tonight.
An hour before sundown, I was making salad with panko chicken and hoisin dressing for our dinner. I heard the crows raising a ruckus but thought little of it. They talk a lot when they are making passes at the suet trays. However, I didn't actually see the crows. Just heard them.
An hour later, just before sundown, when we sat down to dinner on the back porch, Bob said, WHOA, look at the feeders. They were covered with rusty blackbirds. At least thirty of them, talking in their low squeaky voices, sounding like swings on playground a block away, behaving more politely than the crows who had been complaining about them. The only other birds inconvenienced by them were the mourning doves (the cows, who sit and graze on the trays). The rusty blackbirds moved through quickly and the cardinals returned for their bedtime snack.
Remember a couple of weeks ago when I spotted a rusty blackbird on the feeders for one day? Well, he must have been a scout, because all his rowdy friends came over tonight.
An hour before sundown, I was making salad with panko chicken and hoisin dressing for our dinner. I heard the crows raising a ruckus but thought little of it. They talk a lot when they are making passes at the suet trays. However, I didn't actually see the crows. Just heard them.
An hour later, just before sundown, when we sat down to dinner on the back porch, Bob said, WHOA, look at the feeders. They were covered with rusty blackbirds. At least thirty of them, talking in their low squeaky voices, sounding like swings on playground a block away, behaving more politely than the crows who had been complaining about them. The only other birds inconvenienced by them were the mourning doves (the cows, who sit and graze on the trays). The rusty blackbirds moved through quickly and the cardinals returned for their bedtime snack.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Dream two
Last night's dream featured an element in common with the night before. I was going through a box of things that belonged to my grandmother, and my mother was there with me, trying to remember what person or event each item came from. There were keys and newspaper clippings and photos and things that neither of us could identify, just as Ma Joad's box of treasures could be understood only by her.
There was more to the dream, a stay in a holiday cottage rental with some long involved rigamarole about a cat, then packing up and leaving.
Today is a big day around our house because the basketball hoop by the driveway has finally come down. All it took was knocking out two bolts and giving it a little push. It was rusted at the base so over it went. We had spent the morning cleaning leaves and pine needles off the roof of the house, and then my husband was filled with renewed loathing of the basketball hoop and before I knew what he was up to, he had the ladder pulled up to it and wrenches applied.
Since we moved into this house in 2002, the hoop has been useful for catching Spanish moss from the oak tree. That was all it was good for, except for getting in the way of ladders and trailers.
There was more to the dream, a stay in a holiday cottage rental with some long involved rigamarole about a cat, then packing up and leaving.
Today is a big day around our house because the basketball hoop by the driveway has finally come down. All it took was knocking out two bolts and giving it a little push. It was rusted at the base so over it went. We had spent the morning cleaning leaves and pine needles off the roof of the house, and then my husband was filled with renewed loathing of the basketball hoop and before I knew what he was up to, he had the ladder pulled up to it and wrenches applied.
Since we moved into this house in 2002, the hoop has been useful for catching Spanish moss from the oak tree. That was all it was good for, except for getting in the way of ladders and trailers.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Dream lighthouse
How does a fiercely private person go about writing a blog? Good question!
In the early hours of this morning I dreamed I was climbing the stairs inside a lighthouse. At the top there was a window and I looked out. Although the tower had felt stable while I climbed, when I looked out the window I was surprised to see the view of the ground and trees gyrating as if the tower were flexing with the wind. I caught the banister to steady myself and tried to look again, but I could not find the window or the glass was painted over. When my dizziness passed, I walked down the stairs and found myself in an unfamiliar English village. I walked into a small shop. The people in the shop were kind and fed me tea--a woman and a man who might have been her brother, a double amputee. I listened to them as they showed me photos of family and newspaper clippings and keepsakes on the shelves. The woman left to tend to chores and errands. After I had continued talking to the man for a while, he suddenly cried out in pain that his had left his prosthetic legs on too long and had to remove them.
Then I had a few minutes to myself in a back room, took some things out of my bags and examined them, gathered my belongings together, and went back through the shop to go out into the town and find a place to stay for the night. The people I had met were gone, so I could not thank them for their kindness, and a different man stood in the shop instead, looking like he belonged there, saying nothing. I left to find a hotel.
It was an uncharacteristically coherent dream. The only thing I don't remember is... what I was looking at in the back room. I think it was a letter written long ago from someone I knew to someone I did not know.
In the early hours of this morning I dreamed I was climbing the stairs inside a lighthouse. At the top there was a window and I looked out. Although the tower had felt stable while I climbed, when I looked out the window I was surprised to see the view of the ground and trees gyrating as if the tower were flexing with the wind. I caught the banister to steady myself and tried to look again, but I could not find the window or the glass was painted over. When my dizziness passed, I walked down the stairs and found myself in an unfamiliar English village. I walked into a small shop. The people in the shop were kind and fed me tea--a woman and a man who might have been her brother, a double amputee. I listened to them as they showed me photos of family and newspaper clippings and keepsakes on the shelves. The woman left to tend to chores and errands. After I had continued talking to the man for a while, he suddenly cried out in pain that his had left his prosthetic legs on too long and had to remove them.
Then I had a few minutes to myself in a back room, took some things out of my bags and examined them, gathered my belongings together, and went back through the shop to go out into the town and find a place to stay for the night. The people I had met were gone, so I could not thank them for their kindness, and a different man stood in the shop instead, looking like he belonged there, saying nothing. I left to find a hotel.
It was an uncharacteristically coherent dream. The only thing I don't remember is... what I was looking at in the back room. I think it was a letter written long ago from someone I knew to someone I did not know.
Mowing patterns
Readers looking for helpful gardening tips will be disappointed. Yes, it's good to vary your mowing patterns so you don't wear out the grass, and a mulching mower will give better results if you mow in a counter-clockwise direction. What I really want to mention, however, is that there is this certain place in the yard where, every week this summer while I am mowing, a bug crawls into my shirt collar and down my back, but today it happened in a different part of the yard. This is of great import, so I am making a record of it here.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Morning and evening
The transitional times are my favorite parts of the day. Often I walk out of the house just to feel the heat of the sun in the middle of the afternoon, but morning and evening I watch the sky and the movement of birds and insects around the garden. Today the butterflies were out. The only food left for their caterpillars is passionflower vine (for the fritillaries and zebra longwings) and a little bit of butterflyweed (for the monarchs, which are few). The swallowtails have eaten all the fennel and parsley and there is no way I could plant more at this time of year to keep up with their demands. The gardener who told me (an English teacher several years ago) that the swallowtail butterflies couldn't exhaust the fennel had not planted fennel yet. The swallowtail caterpillars chew it down to the stalk, and then they chew the skin off the stalk.
All of this is just to say that I look for excuses to go outside at any time of year, whatever time of day.
All of this is just to say that I look for excuses to go outside at any time of year, whatever time of day.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Booming
A thunderstorm is sounding off, moving toward us from the south. When I look at it on the weather radar, it is a quiet green and orange brushstroke. When I look out the window, the leaves are unmoving. When the storm arrives, color and sound and movement will join, and I can watch in a dry cool dehumidified room or I can walk outside to watch from a moister closer still somewhat safe distance.
I have been outside and not safe in thunderstorms. Once riding through the Goethe Forest on a 490cc single cylinder plastic motorcycle. Another time squatting on an oyster bar with the tide incoming and my kayak rocking beside me. I felt lucky, unscared, happy to be alive, witnessing a power that humans cannot control, surviving it. I would like to remember to recall that feeling when lesser forces throw me off balance, scare me, make me feel unsafe and fortune-tossed. Every storm that comes is a force I cannot control.
I have been outside and not safe in thunderstorms. Once riding through the Goethe Forest on a 490cc single cylinder plastic motorcycle. Another time squatting on an oyster bar with the tide incoming and my kayak rocking beside me. I felt lucky, unscared, happy to be alive, witnessing a power that humans cannot control, surviving it. I would like to remember to recall that feeling when lesser forces throw me off balance, scare me, make me feel unsafe and fortune-tossed. Every storm that comes is a force I cannot control.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Bandit and bird intelligence
On an irregular schedule, sometimes weeks apart, I put leftovers in an aluminum plate in the back yard at sunset. Last night, a bonanza of expensive dry cat food and roasted chicken went out, and tonight stale bread chunks.
The bandit showed up before sunset. He took a big chunk of bread and made off into the woods because he saw us both watching from the window.
As usual, when I look in the morning, the plate will be licked clean, and I will not have witnessed either possum, dillo, or coon... except for tonight's sighting.
The bandit showed up before sunset. He took a big chunk of bread and made off into the woods because he saw us both watching from the window.
As usual, when I look in the morning, the plate will be licked clean, and I will not have witnessed either possum, dillo, or coon... except for tonight's sighting.
Friday, August 17, 2012
The Curious Case of the Hummingbird in the Window
Late this afternoon we were sitting on the porch talking about how the day had gone. My husband noticed a hummingbird behaving in a peculiar way we had not seen before. She was hovering near the lower panes of the window, down where there were no flowers to be had at this time of year from the bushes.
He said, "She's looking at your dress." I was wearing a red dress with blue hibiscus flowers printed on it. Hanging on the curtain rod behind us were several shirts that had red floral patterns in them. The hummingbird was looking at us to see if there was some nectar to be had from us inside the glass confines of the porch. Smart bird. But we were nectarless.
He said, "She's looking at your dress." I was wearing a red dress with blue hibiscus flowers printed on it. Hanging on the curtain rod behind us were several shirts that had red floral patterns in them. The hummingbird was looking at us to see if there was some nectar to be had from us inside the glass confines of the porch. Smart bird. But we were nectarless.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Off the map
Last week I made some adjustments to the birdfeeders. We have two poles, each with two silos of seed and one rack of suet. The vigorous efforts of the crows, hanging onto the bottom of the suet trays like woodpeckers and craning their beaks up to peck at the suet in the rack, had put one pole on tilt and swung two of its silos around until they were knocking against each other. These poles are sectional combinations, and some of the sections are newer, with little slots and knobs that keep them from swinging around, and some of the sections are older and rotate freely. Not wanting to drill a hole through the metal just yet, I used some electrical tape to hold the poles in position once I had them straight. Things are calmer now, with the poles and feeders more orderly and symmetrical, and we are spending more time looking out the window instead of being jangled by the crooked pole.
All of that detail is background to the real story, which is yesterday's surprising visitor. We noticed him coming back to the feeders all day long. He ate seeds and suet. He was small, about the size of a robin, and black all over. He had a small tail. Clearly an icterid, but not a grackle. Having decided that, I got out Peterson to follow up on my hunch. Nothing is more puzzling than a bird that is all one color with few distinguishing features.
After some research, I came to the conclusion that my visitor is a rusty blackbird who has flown off the map. According to the migration map, he should only be here in the winter. Peterson adds that the rusty blackbird looks like a grackle with a small tail. I hope he will come back again today, but he may just be passing through.
I am not surprised to see birds out of season. The butterflies have shifted their egg-laying several times since I started watching them more carefully in 2004. For several years, the monarch caterpillars have munched right through the winter. I cover the milkweed with frost cloth through the freezes so there will be something for them just in case they appear.
Despite these and similar small caretakings on my part, however, things still go awry. Traveling to Tennessee and Kentucky all these years that I have lived away, keeping in touch with family and friends, even so some details have escaped my attention. A dark visitor we thought we might see many years down the road has now appeared out of season in our lives, not waiting for winter.
With the weather all over the seasons, of course the birds are all over the map. The little rusty blackbird reminds me how much the most careful tending cannot accomplish, and how unpredictable even a world with seasons can be.
All of that detail is background to the real story, which is yesterday's surprising visitor. We noticed him coming back to the feeders all day long. He ate seeds and suet. He was small, about the size of a robin, and black all over. He had a small tail. Clearly an icterid, but not a grackle. Having decided that, I got out Peterson to follow up on my hunch. Nothing is more puzzling than a bird that is all one color with few distinguishing features.
After some research, I came to the conclusion that my visitor is a rusty blackbird who has flown off the map. According to the migration map, he should only be here in the winter. Peterson adds that the rusty blackbird looks like a grackle with a small tail. I hope he will come back again today, but he may just be passing through.
I am not surprised to see birds out of season. The butterflies have shifted their egg-laying several times since I started watching them more carefully in 2004. For several years, the monarch caterpillars have munched right through the winter. I cover the milkweed with frost cloth through the freezes so there will be something for them just in case they appear.
Despite these and similar small caretakings on my part, however, things still go awry. Traveling to Tennessee and Kentucky all these years that I have lived away, keeping in touch with family and friends, even so some details have escaped my attention. A dark visitor we thought we might see many years down the road has now appeared out of season in our lives, not waiting for winter.
With the weather all over the seasons, of course the birds are all over the map. The little rusty blackbird reminds me how much the most careful tending cannot accomplish, and how unpredictable even a world with seasons can be.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Absence makes the art grow longer
I have been away, not vigilant, and will be away again, but perhaps the armadillos will be merciful.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Adaptation
A couple of things occurred to me to wonder... First, is the invasion of vines this year because of the mild winter we had last year? Now I have found poison oak by the driveway, another new presence in the yard.
Second, is it possible that some plants held themselves in check during the long drought of spring? I have had several flowering trees that bloomed again after the rainy season finally began, long after their usual blooming season.
Third, how resilient will I be in the face of similar adverse conditions?
Second, is it possible that some plants held themselves in check during the long drought of spring? I have had several flowering trees that bloomed again after the rainy season finally began, long after their usual blooming season.
Third, how resilient will I be in the face of similar adverse conditions?
Monday, July 23, 2012
Eerie calm
Two nights without an incident in the garden. Three nights ago the creature dug up several daylilies and the strawberries next to the passionflower, but the passionflower made it through another night, as did the bay tree. I will continue to use a variety of strategies so the animal doesn't become complacent.
We have reached an equilibrium with the crows. With the suet arranged just so, they can get a little but not the whole thing. The songbirds can get the suet easily.
The caterpillars are going full force. The days are beginning to grow shorter, almost imperceptibly. Change is in the air, but only if one is looking for it, and I am.
We have reached an equilibrium with the crows. With the suet arranged just so, they can get a little but not the whole thing. The songbirds can get the suet easily.
The caterpillars are going full force. The days are beginning to grow shorter, almost imperceptibly. Change is in the air, but only if one is looking for it, and I am.
Friday, July 20, 2012
The first thyme ever I saw your face...
Something loves the oregano a little too much. I planted oregano for the first time a couple of weeks ago. It is getting smaller instead of larger. The same thing happened to several impatiens I planted under the redbud. Leaves nibbled back to the stalk at night. I suspect snails or slugs. In extreme situations, I take a small empty can, place it in the ground near the plant, and fill it with beer. It worked with the little hibiscus that was being nibbled, but not with the impatiens. I am reluctant to use diatomatious earth around the oregano because it is very near the fennel and parsley, which are currently being eaten by the second installment of swallowtail caterpillars. I don't want to risk hurting them. However, if I want oregano, I have to outwit the night nibbler as well as-- this is entertaining on a whole new level-- the night tosser, which got interested in what was under the can (earthworms) and dug it up a couple of nights in a row. Didn't hurt the oregano, just tossed the can.
It's mayhem out there!
Years ago after our tomcat, Jeoffrey, died, we consulted a cat behavior specialist because our little cat Lily had gone into a deep decline and couldn't pull herself out of it. Jeoffrey was like a big brother to her, and to all of us, as it turned out. Jeff would often stay out at night on purpose, not coming when I called, so that he could patrol the yard at night as well as during the day. He got into fights and had to be stitched up and take antibiotics regularly. Sometimes it was other cats, but until Jeff was gone I didn't realize how much he was doing to keep wild animals away from his territory as well. They moved in when Jeff was no longer patrolling. So when the cat behaviorist asked us about animals in the yard, I described for her the predators and opportunists we have seen-- raccoon, deer, armadillo, possum, fox, bobcat, coyote, owl, hawk, rabbit, and so on, as well as neighborhood cats and the terrifying Jack Russell terrier next door. Taking the cat's point of view, she said, "So it's mayhem out there!" I always think of her comment when I see new evidence of what goes on at night in the garden.
It's mayhem out there!
Years ago after our tomcat, Jeoffrey, died, we consulted a cat behavior specialist because our little cat Lily had gone into a deep decline and couldn't pull herself out of it. Jeoffrey was like a big brother to her, and to all of us, as it turned out. Jeff would often stay out at night on purpose, not coming when I called, so that he could patrol the yard at night as well as during the day. He got into fights and had to be stitched up and take antibiotics regularly. Sometimes it was other cats, but until Jeff was gone I didn't realize how much he was doing to keep wild animals away from his territory as well. They moved in when Jeff was no longer patrolling. So when the cat behaviorist asked us about animals in the yard, I described for her the predators and opportunists we have seen-- raccoon, deer, armadillo, possum, fox, bobcat, coyote, owl, hawk, rabbit, and so on, as well as neighborhood cats and the terrifying Jack Russell terrier next door. Taking the cat's point of view, she said, "So it's mayhem out there!" I always think of her comment when I see new evidence of what goes on at night in the garden.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Turning enemies into friends
Expensive biological deterrents were applied to the creature's favorite digging spots (in other words, the earthwormy places where I regularly dig in organic fertilizer), but not around the faux planting hole I created especially for the creature. The aluminum pie pan I use to put out stale bread and other tidbits was filled at sunset with two cups of dried cat food of a type that we no longer use. The results this morning were encouraging. The bay tree is still in place, unmolested, as are the eggplants and passionflower vines. The faux hole was lightly tossed, the cat food was gone, of course, and that was the extent of the damage.
I'm glad these products are available. Many people say the only solution is to trap and relocate. That's a lot of trouble, and critter controllers are happy to take your money to do it for you. It only creates an opening for a new animal to move into the vacated territory. I prefer to find a way to communicate to the animals that there are certain parts of the garden they can dig and toss and certain parts that are off limits.
For that reason, I continue to try various deterrents in the garden. The organic deterrents I have put out for years are fairly mild, they diminish in strength when it rains, and the night visitors eventually become more bold. But this new approach I started last night should be more effective. While we do have foxes, bobcats, and coyotes move through the woods and the garden, they are not so obliging as to pee where I want them to-- on the rose bushes, new plantings, and other earthwormy places.
The location where I dug the faux hole yesterday is right next to one of the places in the paisley bed I have been using to distract the night visitors from my new plantings. I have been putting something out in the pie pan an average of once a week, on an irregular schedule. My goal is not to create a feeding station. That would be a disaster. It is part of my effort to work things out amicably with the animals that come to the garden. I can't fill up the birdfeeders and the birdbaths and expect only birds to be interested.
Some of the pests I was railing about weeks ago have become a source of entertainment. My husband has just finished reading "Gifts of the Crows." About an hour before sunset yesterday, earlier than the usual time, I put out chunks of stale bread just for the pleasure of seeing how the crows would deal with it. I have seen them putting bread in the birdbath before, to soften it up, and that's what one of them did yesterday. One of the others, a fledgeling, sat on top of the birdfeeder poll and tried to figure out how to eat her chunk whole. Within a few minutes, they had carried off all the bread.
So many other worries occupy my mind right now, especially about family. Dealing with the animals who are tossing the garden is one area where I can act decisively.
I'm glad these products are available. Many people say the only solution is to trap and relocate. That's a lot of trouble, and critter controllers are happy to take your money to do it for you. It only creates an opening for a new animal to move into the vacated territory. I prefer to find a way to communicate to the animals that there are certain parts of the garden they can dig and toss and certain parts that are off limits.
For that reason, I continue to try various deterrents in the garden. The organic deterrents I have put out for years are fairly mild, they diminish in strength when it rains, and the night visitors eventually become more bold. But this new approach I started last night should be more effective. While we do have foxes, bobcats, and coyotes move through the woods and the garden, they are not so obliging as to pee where I want them to-- on the rose bushes, new plantings, and other earthwormy places.
The location where I dug the faux hole yesterday is right next to one of the places in the paisley bed I have been using to distract the night visitors from my new plantings. I have been putting something out in the pie pan an average of once a week, on an irregular schedule. My goal is not to create a feeding station. That would be a disaster. It is part of my effort to work things out amicably with the animals that come to the garden. I can't fill up the birdfeeders and the birdbaths and expect only birds to be interested.
Some of the pests I was railing about weeks ago have become a source of entertainment. My husband has just finished reading "Gifts of the Crows." About an hour before sunset yesterday, earlier than the usual time, I put out chunks of stale bread just for the pleasure of seeing how the crows would deal with it. I have seen them putting bread in the birdbath before, to soften it up, and that's what one of them did yesterday. One of the others, a fledgeling, sat on top of the birdfeeder poll and tried to figure out how to eat her chunk whole. Within a few minutes, they had carried off all the bread.
So many other worries occupy my mind right now, especially about family. Dealing with the animals who are tossing the garden is one area where I can act decisively.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The tosser
Yesterday evening, while we were at the weekly Monday night dance, it rained well on the garden. When we arrived home, it was dark, but this morning there was much to see.
The creature liked his faux planting hole. He liked it so much he worked it over thoroughly, dug up the bay tree again, and visited every place he had been over the past three weeks, made a little hole, and tossed the mulch and dirt around. I have repaired all of his handiwork and added clumps of Spanish moss around his faux hole, something I know he finds irresistible.
This afternoon I will pursue further types of organic and physical barriers. Meanwhile I am finally willing to entertain the possibility that this is, indeed, a sasquatch who has been visiting my garden at night. Both times the bay tree was laid neatly on the side of the site of destruction, as if to say, "See, I really appreciate the care with which you planted this, and I've kept it intact so you can do it again." Could a four-legged creature be so altruistic, or so devious?
The creature liked his faux planting hole. He liked it so much he worked it over thoroughly, dug up the bay tree again, and visited every place he had been over the past three weeks, made a little hole, and tossed the mulch and dirt around. I have repaired all of his handiwork and added clumps of Spanish moss around his faux hole, something I know he finds irresistible.
This afternoon I will pursue further types of organic and physical barriers. Meanwhile I am finally willing to entertain the possibility that this is, indeed, a sasquatch who has been visiting my garden at night. Both times the bay tree was laid neatly on the side of the site of destruction, as if to say, "See, I really appreciate the care with which you planted this, and I've kept it intact so you can do it again." Could a four-legged creature be so altruistic, or so devious?
Monday, July 16, 2012
No, really, everything's vine.
The vine that has been flourishing in my front flowerbed is blooming. It is skunkvine, also called stinkvine. The flowers are pretty and trumpet shaped, but I can't find any evidence that the hummingbirds like it. It is food for hummingbird moth caterpillars, somewhere, maybe Singapore. I don't see anything eating it in my garden. I am pulling it off the plants and pulling up the roots wherever I can find them. It will take months, but if I keep a steady pace of working once a week through the winter I think I can ultimately get ahead of it.
I'm afraid the street view of our yard, as realtors call it, is not inspiring. But come up the driveway and the prospect changes.
The years when I couldn't get around to the whole garden are really showing. Wild grape vine, smilax, Virginia creeper, trumpet vine, Carolina jessamine, and now skunkvine are rampant in the front beds. What little time I have had for landscaping and garden maintenance has been selfishly spent on the areas around the house-- the garden rooms I see when I look out the windows, or walk out the front door, especially the newest bed (about three years old) at the side where I grow vegetables and flowers. From the back porch, I see the second newest bed, the paisley bed, named because it is shaped like the Iranian/Indian/Pakistani mango design that was adopted and renamed by Scots.
The paisley bed gets almost as much attention as the new vegetable bed. As a result, the earthworms are plentiful there and the ground is easy to work. Nighttime raids by the animals that like worms and grubs are a constant problem. I suspect the possum, because I have seen him, and he's ugly, and this is ugly behavior; it could just as easily be the armadillo. In the spring there was a little troup of armadillo babies accompanying their mother to the rotting stump near the front door every night. We surprised each other in the driveway several times.
The creature moves around and I move around trying to foil it. The eggplants were a favorite for a few nights. This past week, I have been focusing defensive actions on the two new passionflower vines I planted in the vegetable bed. One passionflower was rooted around by the creature so vigorously that its main root was destroyed and it withered and died. I replaced it a week ago and so far its organic and physical barrier has held the creature off. It went after the other passionflower root, but that one was tougher and withstood several assaults. It is now covered with fritillary caterpillars.
Thwarted in the vegetable bed, the creature moved on to the paisley bed. I replanted a bay tree this morning that I had planted a week ago. It was completely uprooted last night. I added more mulch and an organic barrier instead of a physical barrier, which actually presented no barrier at all as it turned out. And so it goes, making the rounds every night looking for worms and grubs in the parts of the garden with the softest soil, with me trying to anticipate what attracts and discourages it.
Maybe I should dig a hole, fill it with fertilizer and compost, cover it with mulch, and plant nothing. A hole just for the creature. I'm going to go do that right now and I know just where to put it. There's a big blank spot in the paisley bed next to a clay dish I fill with water for the birds. Will it keep the creature out of my plantings? Even one less hole a night will be a welcome respite.
I'm afraid the street view of our yard, as realtors call it, is not inspiring. But come up the driveway and the prospect changes.
The years when I couldn't get around to the whole garden are really showing. Wild grape vine, smilax, Virginia creeper, trumpet vine, Carolina jessamine, and now skunkvine are rampant in the front beds. What little time I have had for landscaping and garden maintenance has been selfishly spent on the areas around the house-- the garden rooms I see when I look out the windows, or walk out the front door, especially the newest bed (about three years old) at the side where I grow vegetables and flowers. From the back porch, I see the second newest bed, the paisley bed, named because it is shaped like the Iranian/Indian/Pakistani mango design that was adopted and renamed by Scots.
The paisley bed gets almost as much attention as the new vegetable bed. As a result, the earthworms are plentiful there and the ground is easy to work. Nighttime raids by the animals that like worms and grubs are a constant problem. I suspect the possum, because I have seen him, and he's ugly, and this is ugly behavior; it could just as easily be the armadillo. In the spring there was a little troup of armadillo babies accompanying their mother to the rotting stump near the front door every night. We surprised each other in the driveway several times.
The creature moves around and I move around trying to foil it. The eggplants were a favorite for a few nights. This past week, I have been focusing defensive actions on the two new passionflower vines I planted in the vegetable bed. One passionflower was rooted around by the creature so vigorously that its main root was destroyed and it withered and died. I replaced it a week ago and so far its organic and physical barrier has held the creature off. It went after the other passionflower root, but that one was tougher and withstood several assaults. It is now covered with fritillary caterpillars.
Thwarted in the vegetable bed, the creature moved on to the paisley bed. I replanted a bay tree this morning that I had planted a week ago. It was completely uprooted last night. I added more mulch and an organic barrier instead of a physical barrier, which actually presented no barrier at all as it turned out. And so it goes, making the rounds every night looking for worms and grubs in the parts of the garden with the softest soil, with me trying to anticipate what attracts and discourages it.
Maybe I should dig a hole, fill it with fertilizer and compost, cover it with mulch, and plant nothing. A hole just for the creature. I'm going to go do that right now and I know just where to put it. There's a big blank spot in the paisley bed next to a clay dish I fill with water for the birds. Will it keep the creature out of my plantings? Even one less hole a night will be a welcome respite.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Mowing epiphanies
As I reflect that it has been about a year since I started this blog, I admit to feeling that it is a pretty small deal. I read blogs that are stupendous and riveting, some with photos of hawks, some with lucid observations on quotations from the full range of contemporary to classical writers, some incisive commentaries on current events, some with photos of children at magical moments, and some with penetrating spiritual and philosophical meditations. I think to myself as I read these blogs, "This is important stuff. This is stimulating."
Then I look at mine. Mostly I write about the garden. It's not recognizably intimate to most readers, I expect, but this is what I have to offer. What could be more intimate than the understanding I carry away from my time in the garden? Do my readers really need to know the specific ups and downs of my days? Time out there is precious to me-- dirty, sweaty, smelly, and sometimes noisy though it is. Sometimes, having finished in the garden for the day or pausing while work on something indoors, I walk out there again to look at something, like a caterpillar, or a new leaf, that I have already looked at less than an hour before. Even with all the mosquitoes right now, I want to see how much the caterpillar has grown since this morning.
Mowing, for example, I have come to realize, is something I find really satisfying. When I am mowing, I get some of my best negative thinking done. I'm walking behind an obnoxiously loud machine and it takes hours. Worry, gnawing resentment, aggravation, and grief are among the feelings with which I have astonished myself while mowing. There used to be one specific place in the garden where, for several years, when I reached it, my thoughts would turn to any of a number of colleagues who really irked me at work. That place is now a flower bed, situations have changed, and I haven't had such specific repeating effects for long time. Now the thoughts come more randomly, and it is rare that an entire mowing session is dominated by negative thinking. Today's thoughts were evenly split between worrying and feeling grateful for several friendships.
This afternoon my mowing was interrupted by an afternoon thundershower. I couldn't be happier about the rain. So many afternoons the clouds go over us and around us without leaving rain. The same geographical factors that have sometimes protected us from the worst of the big storms also keep us drier than other parts of the county. When it is dry, I do emergency watering with a galvanized watering can, taking a drink right to the roots of the most vulnerable plants until the next rain. All that said, my yard is half mowed now. I set out to mow this afternoon feeling unsettled in my mind about the direction the summer is going, and I suppose the half-mowed state of the yard is indicative of the lack of resolution in other areas of life.
Now the rain has stopped and there will be no more mowing today. I will move on to other chores, projects, and diversions. Tomorrow I may have another opportunity to finish what I have started.
Then I look at mine. Mostly I write about the garden. It's not recognizably intimate to most readers, I expect, but this is what I have to offer. What could be more intimate than the understanding I carry away from my time in the garden? Do my readers really need to know the specific ups and downs of my days? Time out there is precious to me-- dirty, sweaty, smelly, and sometimes noisy though it is. Sometimes, having finished in the garden for the day or pausing while work on something indoors, I walk out there again to look at something, like a caterpillar, or a new leaf, that I have already looked at less than an hour before. Even with all the mosquitoes right now, I want to see how much the caterpillar has grown since this morning.
Mowing, for example, I have come to realize, is something I find really satisfying. When I am mowing, I get some of my best negative thinking done. I'm walking behind an obnoxiously loud machine and it takes hours. Worry, gnawing resentment, aggravation, and grief are among the feelings with which I have astonished myself while mowing. There used to be one specific place in the garden where, for several years, when I reached it, my thoughts would turn to any of a number of colleagues who really irked me at work. That place is now a flower bed, situations have changed, and I haven't had such specific repeating effects for long time. Now the thoughts come more randomly, and it is rare that an entire mowing session is dominated by negative thinking. Today's thoughts were evenly split between worrying and feeling grateful for several friendships.
This afternoon my mowing was interrupted by an afternoon thundershower. I couldn't be happier about the rain. So many afternoons the clouds go over us and around us without leaving rain. The same geographical factors that have sometimes protected us from the worst of the big storms also keep us drier than other parts of the county. When it is dry, I do emergency watering with a galvanized watering can, taking a drink right to the roots of the most vulnerable plants until the next rain. All that said, my yard is half mowed now. I set out to mow this afternoon feeling unsettled in my mind about the direction the summer is going, and I suppose the half-mowed state of the yard is indicative of the lack of resolution in other areas of life.
Now the rain has stopped and there will be no more mowing today. I will move on to other chores, projects, and diversions. Tomorrow I may have another opportunity to finish what I have started.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Gardening in the clouds
Some days I am in the mood and some days I am not. Having a choice is the beauty of unscheduled days.
This morning was one of the "in the mood" days as I put on heavy clothes and mosquito repellent and went out into the garden for a few early cooler hours. I was pruning a little but mostly clearing vines and weeds. Every time I moved to a different part of the garden, a whole new cloud of mosquitoes came to investigate and figure out that a bad taste was in between them and a snack. The clouds in the shaded corners were most persistent, like one around the compost heap in the back, in the woods, sheltered from the breeze.
I learned that although the vines cover plants, block sunlight and air, and compete for water, they also shade the roots of delicate plants and help the mulch conserve moisture. In the long run, however, I would prefer they stay in the woods and out of the flower beds, so I will continue my clearing efforts on the days that I can muster the energy to armor myself against the bugs.
This morning was one of the "in the mood" days as I put on heavy clothes and mosquito repellent and went out into the garden for a few early cooler hours. I was pruning a little but mostly clearing vines and weeds. Every time I moved to a different part of the garden, a whole new cloud of mosquitoes came to investigate and figure out that a bad taste was in between them and a snack. The clouds in the shaded corners were most persistent, like one around the compost heap in the back, in the woods, sheltered from the breeze.
I learned that although the vines cover plants, block sunlight and air, and compete for water, they also shade the roots of delicate plants and help the mulch conserve moisture. In the long run, however, I would prefer they stay in the woods and out of the flower beds, so I will continue my clearing efforts on the days that I can muster the energy to armor myself against the bugs.
Friday, July 6, 2012
Mosquitoes
The mosquitoes that are hatching from the flood waters left by Hurricane Debby along the Sante Fe and Suwannee and in every retention pond. We arrived back at the house in the late afternoon of July 4, and before we had turned off the engine the mosquitoes were knocking on the windows waiting for us to get out. This generation is faster and harder to outrun. They sit on the azalea bushes waiting for us to open the front door, and then they rise and move forward in a purposeful cloud. They don't exactly eat DEET for breakfast, but they are determined to do their job.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Symptom and root cause
Having mowed the grass and fertilized the flowers, vegetables, and roses earlier in the week, I began the task of reclaiming the front beds from the vines that have flourished and trimming the hedges under the windows. Only a few weeks after I have pruned, I pause by the living room window and suddenly it's as if I'm looking out of the window of Sleeping Beauty's castle, except the prince has already rescued me and now it's my job to keep the brambles cut back.
For three days, I pulled vines, knowing it would be a job to be done over because I could not get all the roots on the first pass. However, by the front corner of the house, I did succeed in digging up an enormous smilax root that just went on and on, bulb after bulb. If I have left even a piece of it, there will likely be a smilax vine there again. As I worked on this project I reflected how many processes follow this pattern: if I don't get the root, the vine will grow back and it will be to clear all over again. The vines can have the back yard; in the front I must have some semblance of order.
To follow up on the last post, the sasquatch has become a better judge of ripeness and has eaten two more cantelopes successfully, leaving only the rind and seeds.
For three days, I pulled vines, knowing it would be a job to be done over because I could not get all the roots on the first pass. However, by the front corner of the house, I did succeed in digging up an enormous smilax root that just went on and on, bulb after bulb. If I have left even a piece of it, there will likely be a smilax vine there again. As I worked on this project I reflected how many processes follow this pattern: if I don't get the root, the vine will grow back and it will be to clear all over again. The vines can have the back yard; in the front I must have some semblance of order.
To follow up on the last post, the sasquatch has become a better judge of ripeness and has eaten two more cantelopes successfully, leaving only the rind and seeds.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Cantelope 2
Bob is excited to hear about the scratches on cantelope. This new evidence adds to his conviction that a sasquatch has been visiting our back yard for over a year. First the nightly raids on birdseed and suet, and now the parallel scratches inside the cantelope.
I wonder if sasquatch also eat roses.
I wonder if sasquatch also eat roses.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Cantelope 1
The garden has been quietly growing. Night time raids by the deer have subsided with the help of Milorganite and frequent rains. A week ago something mowed three parsleys down. All quiet since then. The parsleys are coming back up. Even the roses in the back yard are allowed to grow for now. But last night, in a stunning reversal, a cantelope got the better of someone. All evidence points toward the raccoon.
The cantelope had been neatly opened on one end and the seeds scooped out. Parallel claw scrapes along the inside surface of the fruit looked about the right distance apart for a raccoon paw. There the project ended. The fruit remained uneated. Did the raccoon decide it doesn't like cantelope after all? Too bad. That one was just right for picking. Perhaps the raccoon is merely a good judge of ripeness and not a fan of fruit.
I am tempted to make something out of this opened cantelope, a little globe grown on a vine, an opportunity left unwrapped.
The cantelope had been neatly opened on one end and the seeds scooped out. Parallel claw scrapes along the inside surface of the fruit looked about the right distance apart for a raccoon paw. There the project ended. The fruit remained uneated. Did the raccoon decide it doesn't like cantelope after all? Too bad. That one was just right for picking. Perhaps the raccoon is merely a good judge of ripeness and not a fan of fruit.
I am tempted to make something out of this opened cantelope, a little globe grown on a vine, an opportunity left unwrapped.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Apologize, John James Audubon
Two blue jays have just earned my lasting respect for their kind. John James Audubon owes them an apology for the damage he did to their reputation with his illustration of bluejays impaling another bird's eggs on their beaks.
The back yard has been the scene of bird drama for the past three weeks, ever since the raccoon successfully breached the ten inch baffles I set on the feeders last summer. I started making offerings of stale bread and leftover pizza, even a two day old sandwich. These have been gratefully accepted by a big swaggering raccoon who comes after ten pm every night. But she is not the main villain of this story.
Meanwhile, I have been adjusting the feeders and refilling assiduously, trying to let the songbirds have the lion's share of what I put out.
Someone has been taking suet during the daytime. Big chunks of suet, too big for anything but a raccoon to carry. Turns out it is crows.
Just now I saw a crow carry away a quarter cake of suet, and a big fight ensued. Two bluejays drove the crows away from taking the last remaining quarter cake. Successfully.
I am now a huge fan of bluejays. I will no longer feel annoyed by their raucous calls. I still admire crows. They are beautiful, smart, and have a sense of humor. But anything that takes more than its share will have me and the bluejays to reckon with.
The back yard has been the scene of bird drama for the past three weeks, ever since the raccoon successfully breached the ten inch baffles I set on the feeders last summer. I started making offerings of stale bread and leftover pizza, even a two day old sandwich. These have been gratefully accepted by a big swaggering raccoon who comes after ten pm every night. But she is not the main villain of this story.
Meanwhile, I have been adjusting the feeders and refilling assiduously, trying to let the songbirds have the lion's share of what I put out.
Someone has been taking suet during the daytime. Big chunks of suet, too big for anything but a raccoon to carry. Turns out it is crows.
Just now I saw a crow carry away a quarter cake of suet, and a big fight ensued. Two bluejays drove the crows away from taking the last remaining quarter cake. Successfully.
I am now a huge fan of bluejays. I will no longer feel annoyed by their raucous calls. I still admire crows. They are beautiful, smart, and have a sense of humor. But anything that takes more than its share will have me and the bluejays to reckon with.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Winter Garden
The transitional times of year in the garden are my favorites--not only the eruption of new leaves and buds in the spring but also the gathering in, shrinking, and subsiding into winter of the fall. Having said that, I realize every day is different, a transition into a different phase of its season, with records being broken, just as we broke one a couple of days ago with an 84 degree high, February sliding into March.
As it turned out, this year in the winter garden the racoon was not so active. The temperatures were so mild that the caterpillars came early instead. In fact they were there all along on the charmant cabbage, and now they are on the kale a month early. Since I take pleasure in seeing caterpillars and butterflies on other plants, I shouldn't begrudge them a snack on my vegetables.
As it turned out, this year in the winter garden the racoon was not so active. The temperatures were so mild that the caterpillars came early instead. In fact they were there all along on the charmant cabbage, and now they are on the kale a month early. Since I take pleasure in seeing caterpillars and butterflies on other plants, I shouldn't begrudge them a snack on my vegetables.
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