The Neighborhood of God

Remembrance Day for Shelagh, 2008

2008-05-08T23:56:00.002-04:00

Today is the fifth anniversary of my daughter’s death. Up until now, it has been a hard, gruelingly sorrowful day for me. But not this year.

The relationship between us has changed ever since I dreamed of her about 10 days ago. She looked amazingly well – serene, calm, and joyful. There was a kind of glow to her and to the younger woman who was with her.

In this dream, I was having some kind of get together and lots of people were moving about. It was reminiscent of family parties we had when Shelagh and her brothers were children: lots of kids running in and around the adults, chasing one another while the grown-ups tried to carry on adult conversations over the noise.

As I was making my way through the crowd, I came upon Shelagh. Suddenly she was just there, obviously with another woman who was shorter and younger than she was. They were both dressed in either white or pastel dresses, loose and comfortable. They both also seemed to have an inner light, a dimmed radiance surrounding the two of them as they faced me.

The sight of her was startling. “Shelagh, you can’t be here. You’re dead, remember?” She laughed, put her arm around me and assured me that all was well. “Oh, Mom, you’ll be okay. And I’m fine now.”

At that point the dream ended. The Baron had come in the front door, returning from church, and the rattle of the doorknob wakened me. The dream itself was so vivid that I was disoriented for a few minutes after I came back to the surface.

Since then, things have been the same, but different. I don’t grieve any more. Instead, I remember all the things I loved about my daughter and how fortunate I was to have been her mother – as rocky as that road was sometimes.

She has taught me to forego judgment; it’s very freeing. And knowing she’s all right brings its own unutterable peace.

Is the dream “real”? It depends on what one considers reality. I think of it as a gift, and I don’t inquire as to the source.

A fellow-blogger remembered what today was and sent me a long, comforting note. At the end of it, he said:

BTW my own view of the afterlife is that souls have work to do just as they did on Earth. They become a welcoming committee for new souls and also are guardian angels for those of
us who are left behind. I have a story from [his son]’s closest high school friend that definitely says they act as guardian angels.

Shelagh would have liked that idea. She’d have opted to be Ahnold’s guardian angel. Well, whoever gets her had better have a sense of humor. She enjoyed teasing people. After listening to the Baron and me sing while doing dishes, she remarked drily, “love isn’t blind, it’s deaf.”

She was right, but we’re still singing…no doubt, she’s singing too, wherever she is.

Salmon Cakes à la Cheap and Sneaky

2008-05-01T22:17:00.000-04:00

I like fresh salmon, but I question the wisdom of eating much of it since the fish - like chickens, beef, etc. - are fed soy. In addition, a lot of farmed salmon has color added to the feed so they’ll look pinker.

Having had cancer, soy is on the verboten list. And the darn stuff is in nearly everything: low carb “breads”, salad dressings, cereals, etc. Even the sardines I’m supposed to eat often are packed in soybean oil.

So I’ve gone back to making salmon cakes from wild-caught canned salmon. The kind from Alaska, not China.

I used to make these years ago with cod in New England, back before you could easily get fresh salmon there. Recently I had some leftovers (unusual) and a friend liked them enough to ask for the recipe. Recently I got another request from someone on a diet.

Here they are - this serves three people if one of them is a young man with a big appetite. Otherwise, a family of two adults and two kids would find this sufficient. For more people, just double the recipe.

Open the can (duh) and drain the broth into a separate bowl.

From here you have two ways to mash the salmon: put it through the blender or mix it with your hands. There are soft bones in the fish which have been pressure-cooked so that they will crumble between your fingers and finicky people will not know about this extra addition of calcium. The blender is easier and more thorough, however. Less messy, too.

Dump into a mixing bowl and add a Tablespoon or so of dried onion. Mix well to distribute. Set aside.

Now how to make the filler? Regular carb meals would permit some mashed potatoes, or finely crushed saltines, like you were making crab cakes. Medium carbs would allow for some mashed white beans, but if you want to make it low carb, use a large zucchini, grated and wrung out in a towel. Then sauté the zuke until it really lets go of the liquid (a little salt helps) and throw that into a colander. Squeeze out the liquid again.

Add the zucchini or the potatoes or crackers to the mixing bowl with the salmon.

On top of that put in about 1 Tablespoon of mayonnaise and one or two eggs. Some people prefer to avoid yolks, but they give you the same omega oils you’re getting from the fish (well, similar, anyway), so go whole hog. Or use two egg whites and give the yolks to the dog or cat.

On top of that put a large pinch of crab boil mix. It gives a good “seafood” flavor. If you don’t want to use that, then use dill. Fresh is best, though dried is tolerable.

Mix the whole thing with your hands until it is an even mooshy mess. If it seems too liquidy add a bit of cracker crumbs or flour or even oat bran. Anything which absorbs the liquid.

If too dry, use a bit of the salmon broth.

Use a cutting board of a piece of waxed paper on which to arrange the shaped salmon cakes. I sprinkle them with high protein flour on the top side and then let them sit in the fridge for a while. They seem to hold together better that way. But you don’t have to: you can simply heat some olive oil - enough to cover the bottom of the pan - and place some of the cakes, flour-side down (they won’t all fit in) - carefully into the pan once the oil is heated. Use medium heat, not high.

Turn oven on lowest setting and get out an ovenproof platter. Mine is 170 degrees so it won’t burn the paper towels on the platter.

Cover frying partially and cook until the bottoms are crisp. Takes only a few minutes, and you can flatten the cakes a bit when you check them.

Before turning over, sprinkle a bit of flour/salt or bread crumbs on the uncooked side. Press it in a bit before turning. Again, cook them for a few minutes partially covered…if you put the cover all the way on, I think it makes them steam a bit.

When bottoms are browned on both sides, put on platter and place in oven to keep warm while you finish the others. Depending on the size of the pan and the size of the salmon cakes, this will be one or two more batches.

These things absorb oil, so don’t put too much into the pan. Just enough to make them crisp. Add extra oil for each batch and let it heat before putting in the salmon cakes. If you don’t heat it sufficiently, they really will absorb the oil.

Again, remove and place on platter in oven.

Low carbing, serve with coleslaw and another vegetable, perhaps asparagus or green beans. If you need to gain weight, have some corn on the cob instead.

My family likes seafood sauce, so I use low carb ketchup, a squirt of lemon, a pinch of celery seed and a bracing amount of horseradish. The commercial kinds are way too sweet for our tastes.

Gloomier, Leaky Monday

2008-04-28T15:30:00.002-04:00

The rain continues to pour as though we’d suddenly been moved, house and all, to Oregon. Today is colder which pleases me…slows down the spring flowering process, making the dogwoods bloom last longer. The woods are filled with flecks of white.

And because the precipitation is soft and incessant this rain doesn’t run off; it moves through the clay all the way down to the ground water, --i.e., all the way down to the well. In all our years here, the well has never gone dry – except for the time I left it on the roots of some new trees while I went into the house for “a moment”, which turned into forgetting to go back to the hose until…. Voila, the kitchen faucet was dry the next morning. I was darn lucky I didn’t burn out the pump in the well house. And you don’t want to be on the receiving end of a lecture by the Baron. Guys worry about the infrastructure more than women do. We just want it to “look nice.”

The only problem with the rain is our new tin roof. There is a persistent leak now, which runs from the corner of the ceiling in the kitchen over my desk and fills the cabinet above it before thoroughly soaking anything lying on the desk. It is a recalcitrant hole that refuses to be fixed.

The roofer, who has been putting on metal roofs since the 1950’s, has come out twice. Last time, he was “positive” it was taken care of. Grrr…I am giving him the bill for the carpenter who will have to fix all the damage once the roof is really repaired. Meanwhile, pieces of the ceiling kerplunk into the bowl below; I can’t see the damage because a corner cabinet is installed on that wall…I try not to think about what it’s doing to the insulation in the crawl space.

I really like this man – can’t believe a guy in his 70’s can scoot up a ladder like he does and then move so nimbly on that steeply angled, smooth metal. Besides, I want to maintain cordial relations if we can. He takes great pride in his work and our cottage now represents one of his significant failures. I am determined that we not end up solving our problem the American way: in court.

Because of his age, Mr. W. has a genuine “Southside Virginia” accent. I enjoyed listening to it, and he sure does enjoy talking – he has the old Southern habit of settin' and talkin' for a spell. But I think that part is ending; he hates coming back, trying vainly to find the @#$%^&# darn hole. What a bummer…sure is a pretty roof.

I wish we had our old one back, though. It wasn’t “pretty” but it was solid and must have been at least fifty years old, with patches here and there. It may have even been older. What it did NOT do, which this one does in the least little old wind, is rattle. You’d swear there were trashcans rolling off the roof on the south side of the house (where the fig trees are). You know the way live theater makes those sound effects for thunder by rattling thin tin sheets? Well, that’s the noise we will have to live with when the wind gets up. I keep reminding myself that it could be worse. We could live in Corpus Christi and be forced to listen to the darn thing 24 hours a day…the wind in CC in unrelenting.

It’s most fortunate that I’m a procrastinator because I hadn’t gotten around to having the gutters installed. The first time I called Mr. W about this mess, he immediately did a gotcha: “I bet y’all had them gutters put on, didncha?” For once, my tendency to put things off worked in our favor. Besides this darn leak is nowhere near the edge of this noisemaking nuisance.

Time to go empty the plinkety-plink bowls…

Rainy Sunday Ruminations

2008-04-27T10:08:00.004-04:00

I came over here to clean out the cobwebs and set up shop for a while. Things at Gates are bizzy, bizzy. I like the quiet here. A few birds chirping, even in the rain – cardinals nesting in the forsythia, too. Forgot to clean the blue birdhouses. However, I'll bet the wrens are in the storage shed already, nesting on the garden tools so you have to move one ever so carefully. They used to like the eaves above the figs until the cat took to sitting in the window staring at them. That would make me nervous if *I* had feathers. Lulu has never left me anything feathered, though any number of moles and voles has met their end at her paws. I actually don't mind the moles so much: they tunnel through, eating their fill of Japanese beetle grubs. The darn voles, on the other hand, eat bulbs: lilies, liatris, poppies, tulips, etc. I've learned to soak them in hot pepper sauce for a day before planting. Lasts long enough for them to make it through the winter and then I have to get more assertive. For some reason, they don't like daylilies or daffodils or jonquils.

Since I haven’t been back “home” in months, I took a look around the Neighborhood. Peeked over God’s wall and noticed He’s let the grass get a little long. Everything is lush and green, though, just as He claims to have intended. Maybe I’ll go over later and "borrow" a cup of coffee. I’ll have to wear my wellies to get thru His grass, but it’s a good excuse to let Him know I’m baaack!

Usually these announcements make Him roll His eyes, but the coffee He serves is exquisite (Italian, maybe?), so it's worth a little rolling-your-eyes-toward-heaven patience. Come to think of it, Who could He be rolling His eyes to in the first place??

This season has been a bit strange. Cold nights froze most people’s tomato plants, but the darn figs are setting fruit earlier than I’ve ever seen them. This is a problem for a tardy pruner. You’re supposed to keep the “bushes” at about ten feet, but if I do that now, I’ll lose some fruit. Maybe I can work around it.

To give you an idea, I don’t usually see fruit until late June, usually when I’ve just decided that they will not be bear that year. The extension agent swears they only bear every four years or so, but these guys put out every single summer. When he told me that was impossible in our 7b climate zone, I just shrugged and agreed. Who am I to argue with the Authority on such matters? But come September I’ll be making preserves. And not falling off the ladder.

The dogwoods are blooming, but the Forest Pansy redbud wasn’t very flowerful. Perhaps it was due to the bad drought late last summer. I can see the buds on the mountain laurel all through the woods. What a wonderful plant. The lilacs are blooming away since we cut back some mimosas. Now they get more sun.

Darn deer have eaten everything in sight. Even the boxwood, for heaven’s sake. The azaleas under the pine are nubs. I kissed the parsley goodbye, too. I’m glad they leave the chives alone, and the daffodils and rosemary. Be grateful for small blessings, shall we? I will resolutely ignore the microscopic green leftovers where 25 Oxford yellow tulips should have bloomed. Should have…except for the raging appetites of those supposedly “cute” little deer, which grow bolder by the day. They multiply like Catholics…I mean Muslims. Mexicans?

Whatever. It’s obvious Catholics are no longer breeding according to plan…hmm. So much for sticking to the rhythm method.

Q: Do you know what they call people who use the rhythm method for birth control?
A: Parents.

And deer are not cute, except when they’re roasting on a spit. We need to put those critters on something besides the rhythm method. It isn’t working for them, either. There are now six deer for every person in our state...I mean dominion. Commonwealth. Or, as they say around here, "by the grace of God, Virginia."

Heh-- Send the Kids Over

2007-12-04T20:29:00.000-05:00

I got this little doo-dad here.

Hmmm...does that mean I'll have to elevate the vocabulary a bit?

Or maybe they just count semi-colons.

Hat tip: Are We Lumberjacks?

I've Never Posted a Forward Before, But...

2007-11-27T20:56:00.001-05:00

This one so startled me by bringing back my childhood, that I leave it here for other Florida Crackers for their amusement:

You know you're a Floridian if....

..You never use an umbrella because you know the rain will be over in five minutes.
..Socks are only for bowling.
..A good parking place has nothing to do with distance from the store, but everything to do with shade.
..Your winter coat is made of denim.
..You can tell the difference between fire ant bites and mosquito bites.
..You're younger than thirty but some of your friends are over 65.
..Anything under 70 is chilly.
..You pass on the right and honk at the elderly, but pull over for a funeral.
..You could swim before you could read.
..You have to drive north to get to The South.
..Every other house in your neighborhood had blue roofs in 2004-2005.
..You know that anything under a Category 3 just isn't worth waking up for.
..You dread lovebug season.
..You are on a first name basis with the Hurricane list. They aren't Hurricane Charley, Hurricane Frances...but Charley , Frances , Ivan and Jeanne.
..You know why flamingos are pink.
..You think a six-foot alligator is actually pretty average.
..You were twelve before you ever saw snow, or you still haven't.
..'Down South' means Key West
..'Panhandling' means going to Pensacola
..You think no-one over 70 should be allowed to drive.
..Flip-flops are everyday wear.
..Shoes are for business meetings and church.
..No, wait, flip flops are good for church too, unless it's Easter or Christmas.
..Sweet tea can be served at any meal.
..An alligator once walked through your neighborhood.
..You smirk when a game show's 'Grand Prize' is a trip or cruise to Florida .
..You measure distance in minutes.
..You have a drawer full of bathing suits, and one sweatshirt.
..You get annoyed at the tourists who feed seagulls.
..All the local festivals are named after a fruit.
..A mountain is any hill 100 feet above sea level.
..You think everyone from a bigger city has a northern accent.
..You know the four seasons really are: almost summer, summer, not summer but really hot, and February.
..It's not soda, cola, or pop. it's coke, regardless of brand or flavor, 'What kinda coke you want?'
..Anything under 95 is just warm.
..You understand the futility of exterminating cockroaches.
..You can pronounce Okeechobee, Kissimmee , Ichnatucknee and Withlacoochee
..You understand why it's better to have a friend with a boat, than have a boat yourself.
..Bumper stickers on the pickup in front of you include: various fish, NRA, Nascar, Go Gators, and a confederate flag.
..You were 5 before you realized they made houses without pools.
..You were 25 when you first met someone who couldn't swim.
..You get angry when people say 'Florida isn't really part of the SOUTH.'
..You've worn shorts and used the A/C on Christmas.
..You know what the 'stingray shuffle' is, and why it's important!
..You recognize Miami-Dade as ' Northern Cuba '....
and

..You forward this

So, Don't Like, Hurt My Feelings or Anything....

2007-11-26T23:55:00.000-05:00

I just found a great signature line:

Like Elizabeth Edwards, I now have the absolute moral authority of being a cancer survivor--and a mother! So don’t, like, hurt my feelings or anything, or you’re like, you know, mean and stuff.

One of those things I wish I’d thought of…except I keep tripping on my Superwoman cape and banging my head. It makes me forgetful…

…unfortunately, though, even with these self-inflicted memory deficits some things are seared, just seared into my brain.

Like John Kerry speeches.

And his special little hat.

And the time he knocked down the Secret Service agent when he was skiing.

They say “blood will tell” and John’s certainly does. I think it’s yellow. But maybe that’s just my jaundiced view.

No matter who the Dems run this time around, it won’t be as interesting as JFK II.

Ummm…unless Hillary runs. Fits and foments and rages, oh my.

Counting

2007-09-13T10:28:00.001-04:00

It’s been over a month now. Six weeks, perhaps. My last entry was the day before my surgery for a torn rotator cuff. Actually, it was completely ripped. I now have six little nails holding at least part of it in place.

Now it has healed enough that the pain is only humming under its breath. Horrible tune, but it’s nice that it’s become background noise rather than tubas blaring in my face all the time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I hate the jihadists for ruining September for me. It’s probably my favorite month. A bit cooler, the figs are ripening…and left over from my childhood the echoes of new school shoes on a freshly waxed linoleum floor as I walk into class. September is for beginning again, not mass murder. Stupid jidiots.

The painters and carpenter come everyday to fix things and make them pretty. The front and back doors have finally been painted. They are removing some rotted siding and replacing it with new, machine-smooth planks. The original part of the house has the handmade planks – kind of rough and uneven. Mostly they never seem to wear out, even though they’re probably seventy years old by now and we live in a humid climate.

They painted the music room. Or what used to be the music room. After The Boy left for college we loaned the piano to his older brother so the kids could start piano lessons. And, of course, the guitars are gone, and the music books. A professional organizer told me that when you’re still calling a room by its former function, that’s a sign you need to start reshuffling you life.

Amongst the detritus I found a big poster board that used to sit atop the piano. Printed on it, in a huge font was the word “COUNT!” This was supposed the piano to remind Our Boy to mentally count to himself while practicing. Don’t know that it ever worked completely…

When they painted the room, the mural that was behind the piano was obliterated. I took a picture of it before they kilzed it with several coats followed by a pretty yellow paint called “Petal.” (Where do they come up with these paint names???) The Baron and The Boy drew that mural more than fifteen years ago, but it was time…sic transit gloria is a hard, hard experience for some in this house.

When it’s all done, the music room will be the DVD room since we’re going to buy a big monitor for watching movies. Then new visitors won’t look around curiously and ask “so where’s your TV?”

Oh heck. The time has come for self-inflicted pain with my home practice moves to keep my shoulder joint mobile. Come to think of it, I have to count my way through twenty repetitions of varying levels of pain. The worst is using my left hand to raise my right arm as far up as it will go.

Rave On!

2007-08-01T15:17:00.000-04:00

From Glumbert.

Muslim Rave Party Sensation

No, I don’t know what it means. It would be just as funny in other situations - say John Edwards. No make that Howard Dean. And Rumsfeld could do a fine job, too.

This is not a Cat Blog. However...

2007-07-26T21:19:00.000-04:00

The New England Journal of Medicine got the MSM’s attention recently.

Dr. David M. Dosa, a geriatrician in Rhode Island, reports on a resident at the Steere House Nursing and Rehabilitation Center in Providence. This is not a human resident, nor is he elderly.

Oscar is a cat whose sanctuary is the physician’s charting room. He sleeps there between making his rounds of the patients, assessing their current state of health. Evidently, it’s not that Oscar particularly likes dementia -

In the distance, a resident approaches. It is Mrs. P., who has been living on the dementia unit’s third floor for 3 years now. She has long forgotten her family, even though they visit her almost daily. Moderately disheveled after eating her lunch, half of which she now wears on her shirt, Mrs. P. is taking one of her many aimless strolls to nowhere. She glides toward Oscar, pushing her walker and muttering to herself with complete disregard for her surroundings. Perturbed, Oscar watches her carefully and, as she walks by, lets out a gentle hiss, a rattlesnake-like warning that says “leave me alone.” She passes him without a glance and continues down the hallway. Oscar is relieved…

Instead, he seems to have a particular affinity for the dying, and he stays with them in their final hours.

For the average American, fearful and avoidant of death, Oscar’s calling must seem ghoulish. To me, it seems a blessing to staff and families alike:

Making his way back up the hallway, Oscar arrives at Room 313. The door is open, and he proceeds inside. Mrs. K. is resting peacefully in her bed, her breathing steady but shallow. She is surrounded by photographs of her grandchildren and one from her wedding day. Despite these keepsakes, she is alone. Oscar jumps onto her bed and again sniffs the air. He pauses to consider the situation, and then turns around twice before curling up beside Mrs. K.

One hour passes. Oscar waits. A nurse walks into the room to check on her patient. She pauses to note Oscar’s presence. Concerned, she hurriedly leaves the room and returns to her desk. She grabs Mrs. K.’s chart off the medical-records rack and begins to make phone calls.

Within a half hour the family starts to arrive. Chairs are brought into the room, where the relatives begin their vigil. The priest is called to deliver last rites. And still, Oscar has not budged, instead purring and gently nuzzling Mrs. K. A young grandson asks his mother, “What is the cat doing here?” The mother, fighting back tears, tells him, “He is here to help Grandma get to heaven.” Thirty minutes later, Mrs. K. takes her last earthly breath. With this, Oscar sits up, looks around, then departs the room so quietly that the grieving family barely notices.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
We have a skinny little cat, Lulu. The first time I saw her, she’d wandered into our church hall while we were having lunch. It must’ve been summer then since the door was open. And in short order, the future Baron had picked her up…game over. I told him on the way home that we couldn’t afford another cat, having two in residence already -- yadda, yadda, mother lecture.

She was cute. So despite my announcement that we were taking her to the ASPCA that very week, somehow I never quite got around to making the trip to town. Instead, I took her to the local vet for shots and neutering.

The two other cats, George and Moe, had very different reactions to her. George, a rare male calico the fB had picked from a litter his friend’s cat had, displayed a heretofore unknown animosity to her. The vet called him “an abuser.” He was terrible to her so I kept them separated.

Moe the Mellow Fellow, however, got on with both cats and he and Lulu had a run through the house every night at 10 p.m. You could set your watch by their exercise time.

We live a good ways from the road, but evidently George had a large hunting territory. One day he was hit by a passing car as he dove out of a ditch after some furry, tasty thing. The Baron found him when he went to get the mail.

Some time later Moe disappeared. We called and looked everywhere, but no Moe. He was overweight, though I can’t say he ate much. We used to feed him a special diet and keep other food out of his way. The Baron concluded he must have been attacked by a fox or dog…Moe never did move very fast.

Several days after we’d resigned ourselves to his fate, the fB came home on a break from college. He wasn’t willing to accept Moe’s fate so he went into the woods, calling and calling Moe’s name. Eventually he heard an answering meow: thirty feet down an old hand-dug well that had been covered over years ago, was Moe. The cover had partially rotted and he’d fallen through.

We called a friend, a fireman, and he came over to assess the situation. He in turn called some Rescue Squad friends who came over with a harness, ropes, and a light. Unfortunately, before they could do much, they were called out on a car accident. When they returned, it had been decided that the Baron was slim enough to get down the well in the harness, put Moe in a basket, and have him winched up. I’m not sure I could’ve gone down thirty feet in a dark, narrow old well…for one of my kids I would, but that’s different.

They both eventually emerged from the hole and Moe seemed unaffected. However, I think those days without water were hard on his kidneys because he began to have more problems with crystals in his urine…he had surgery (which I will not describe) and it helped. But I knew he wouldn't live to a ripe old age in his condition.

As fortune would have it, some months later he went missing again. This time, the Baron found him, limp and lifeless. His neck had been broken - probably by a passing hound. I don't think that is a painful way to die, but it must have been scary for those last few moments.

Thus was Moe laid to rest with all the other cats who have passed their lives with us in the last twenty five years. Some of them gentle, some of them neurotic, some of them seeming permanently blissed out…like Moe, who enjoyed watching the water ripples in his bowl.

After we got Lulu, I became ill: first chronic fatigue and then cancer. It was then that Lulu began keeping me company. When I felt sick, there she was, waiting to curl up against me. At the time the Baron was gone a lot on work assignments so she was good company. Neurotic, but good company.

In order to calm her fearfulness -exacerbated by George’s bullying - I put her on klonopin, a benzodiazepine which serves to calm her hyper vigilance. It has helped a lot, improving her appetite, though she doesn't gain much weight, despite putting her on kitten food. And she does seem to suffer from an attachment disorder…I am the object of her attachment. The vet told me her underlying fearfulness is genetic; inherited from the father. Female cats cannot pass on that reclusive, retreating, almost feral gene. Only the dad…

Lulu has some of Oscar’s qualities. She’d be a good nursing home cat. However, I plan to have her hang around while I recover from the rotator cuff repair scheduled for my shoulder next week. Today, I read on my chart that it's a massive rotator cuff injury. I’d suspected as much, but it’s hard to see it in writing. All from tripping over a darn rock in the yard.

With Lulu and a good nerve block, I plan to have a not-too-painful recovery. However, I’ll bet the rehab exercises are going to be something from Dante. Ugh. They haul you out to begin them the day following surgery. Double ugh. My family doctor claims I'm a stoic but I don't feel stoic at all. Maybe I'll yell all the way through this coming hell and surprise everyone.

The surgeon says I’ll be good to go by November. How cheery -- three months. Just in time to cook Thanksgiving Dinner. So maybe we’ll go out to eat and I’ll have two things to be thankful for: my newly agile, pain-free right arm, and nothing to clean up after the feast.

"This Is What I Was Born to Do

2007-07-17T09:27:00.000-04:00

The future Baron has finally acquired his much hoped-for vineyard job. It’s over the mountain and through the woods to a spot near a ski resort.

He is the dog’s body - does a little of everything, including sweeping up frequently. He gives wine-tastings and yesterday did his first tour of the winery, for which he got a tip. Very pleased, he was.

He’s also done some bottling of wines and will be taught to open and close for the owners this week.

There are lots of tourists on the weekends, so that’s mainly when he works, plus the odd weekday when there are catch-up chores to do.

Is he happy? Here is what he says on his blog about the Fourth of July:

Since they needed all hands on deck, they asked me if I could come in and fill in wherever there were gaps in personnel.

So I did, and I was immediately thrown into the maelstrom. I ran tastings almost nonstop from ten o’clock until about five or six, when the crowd began to taper off. There were two live bands, a man named Paul who was marketing pasta sauces with his own self-styled “pasta tastings” next to the tasting room, and an unending flow of wine from our shelves to the picnic tables outside.

During that time, there were no pauses to stop and think or to consider what I was doing—namely, living the dream. The dream of finding a place in this world where a man can think, “This is what I was born to do.” The dream of finding a place to stand alone. The dream of imagining yourself being in the same place when you’ve grown old—and being completely happy with that idea.

With so many choices available, it can be difficult to know what it is you’re called to do. He is fortunate to have listened and to have followed. A year to work before he plunges back into the academic world again…but this time, a focused attention to the domain of enology (oenology if you’re British): the study of wine.

Meanwhile he draws diagrams of his own vineyard-to-be. Every day his dream expands and changes.

A Graceful Move

2007-07-13T21:41:00.000-04:00

This is cool.

Several generations ago they did this to our church, too. Of course, they had to leave the graveyard behind.

Hope they don't move ours again, after I'm gone, as I have every intention of being planted next to Momma, with room enough for the Baron.

I want people to wave in my general direction on the way into church, and kids to play hide-and-seek behind my gravestone. It should be wide enough to allow at least one child to crouch behind it, and high enough to hide a few Easter eggs in the Spring grass.

Hat tip:

David Thompson via Norm Geras

Feelings and Faces

2007-06-29T00:21:00.000-04:00

Donald Nathanson, M.D. has written much on the ideas of Sylvan Tomkins -- the latter’s work being a bit abstruse for most of us to digest easily.

Tomkins believed that there were nine - and only nine - universal emotional affects. These affects, i.e., feeling experiences, were innately tied to the nerves in the face. Thus a baby could not help but show it if he were in the midst of experiencing one of these affects.

Here are the nine:

Interest —> Excitement
Enjoyment—> Joy
Surprise —> Startle
Fear —> Terror
Distress—> Anguish
Anger —> Rage
Dissmell —> Disgust
Shame —> Humiliation

One important thing to notice is that each is on a spectrum. We spot something novel and become interested. As we move toward it and investigate further, we may become excited about our find. You see this phenomenon in small children all the time; the whole world is new and exciting.

In an optimal environment, the expression of interest, followed by excitement at learning something new actually increases the complexity of the neural network in children. In other words, it increases their intelligence. On the other hand, where curiosity is suppressed, boredom and depression often set in and the developing brain is also stifled. The eyes of such children often seem to be flat or empty.

Tomkins proposed that these nine affects were the sum total…we might experience variations on their themes as we matured, and we might learn (we’d better learn!) to mask our expressions in polite society, but we would continue to experience these affects throughout our lives.

Each affect has its own unique facial expression and body language. In shame, for instance, the neck droops and the eyes turn away from whatever caused the feeling state of shame. Intensifying, the state can move on to humiliation and cause the child to withdraw - physically if he can, or emotionally if he cannot. Everyone develops coping skills to deal with shame, though these skills are limited. Nathanson diagrammed them out in a compass of shame.
[Scroll halfway down the page to see the diagram]

Nathanson illustrates his book with pictures of babies in the midst of these feeling states. The “disgust” face is amusing to see — and moving, too. It makes you realize how absolutely similar we human beings are when we start out.

All of this is a preface to explain why this picture fascinates me. Here is a “baby face” that has disintegrated into pure rage. John McCain has an anger problem, hmm? Or at least it appears he has difficulty modulating this affect under duress.

I’d like to get eight more politician’s pictures illustrating the remaining affects. If I can, I’ll try to find images from both sides of the aisle. No need to pick on either group since - despite what some say - we’re all human. Somehow, though, I don’t think anything I find will be as absolutely perfect an example as this one is.

Maybe it's his chubby-cheeked baby face that makes this example so fascinating?

lolcats

2007-06-26T01:35:00.000-04:00

Have you seen them?

There are several running jokes in this huge collection of animal pictures (mostly of cats interacting in their environment while the omniscient human narrator provides the dialogue).

Wikipedia has an entry for lolcats — and another image — explaining both their provenance and the idiosyncratic pidgin language often employed in the captions.

A lolcat is an image macro featuring a photograph of a cat with a humorous and idiosyncratic caption. The name “lolcat” is a compound of lol and cat. lolcats are also referred to as cat macros.

lolcats are created for the purpose of sharing with others on imageboards and other internet forums, especially on Saturdays (“Caturdays”). lolcats are similar to other animal-based image macros such as the O RLY? owl, but the cuteness of cats “enhances” the appeal and increasing prominence of the Internet meme. lolcat is an example of anthropomorphisation.

lolcat images usually consist of a photo of a cat with a large caption characteristically formatted in a sans serif font such as Impact or Arial Black. The image is, on occasion, digitally edited for effect. The caption generally acts as a speech balloon encompassing a comment from the cat, or as a description of the depicted scene. The caption is intentionally written with deviations from standard English spelling and syntax, featuring “strangely-conjugated verbs, but [a tendency] to converge to a new set of rules in spelling and grammar.” These altered rules of English have been referred to as a type of pidgin or baby talk. The text parodies the grammar-poor patois stereotypically attributed to internet slang.

[The footnotes in the original have been omitted. Click on link to follow them]

It also has a link further down the page to information on snowclones, an evolution in speech formation that I will leave to you to peruse. Let us just say that the more things change, the more they change.

You can only surmise how things will evolve after you’re gone; what was our language will be very different in a hundred years, and it would ring strange and discordant to our ancient ears if we were able to return. Fortunately, we can’t.

Meanwhile, George Bernhard Shaw is rolling over in his grave…but then he needs the exercise anyway.

Next will be ROTHLHAO dog pictures. Except dogs are not as flexible as cats. All they can do is sad and glad. Hard to get a huffy looking dog, or an imperious one. They are buffoons. Amusing, but without the possibilities for depth that the lolcats possess. Perhaps it’s merely a matter of spinal differences.

Enjoy lolcats. See how many you can scroll through before you quit.

Once you see those “I can haz cheezburger” on “Caturdays” your time doesn’t belong to you anymore. Not to mention the diagrams for the monorail cat which keep popping up.

It’s definitely a different world.

Commentary on the Weather

2007-06-25T12:51:00.000-04:00

The following is an OT comment left on LGF last week. For some reason, his musings made me muse on the fact that we all sit with our sandwiches at lunchtime – outside, in the good weather – and think about the same things.

Somehow that is comforting,

Lunch Time Weather Musings

On this, the second sunniest day of the year, the Gulf of Mexico is nearly cloud free.

The Gulf is warming nicely.

And, a good part of the Gulf has warm water at least 25 meters deep, with some areas having warm water to 75 meters and more.

This is like the growing season for hurricanes, like the orange tree in my backyard. The oranges are still green, and no bigger than limes, but they are getting better and better.

The weak low off Florida won’t develop as long as strong Westerlies aloft blow the thunderstorms away from the LLCS.

No forecast to develop, but this interesting feature should move into the Gulf of Mexico and enhance the rainfall late Monday through Wednesday from coastal Texas to extreme Western Florida.

I think its cool how the weather in Texas this time of year can sometimes come from Africa and cross the entire Atlantic and Caribbean to get here.

No wonder people invoked the weather gods. They are mighty and inscrutable indeed.

Midsummer's Eve and St. John's Wort

2007-06-24T13:18:00.000-04:00

The Baron’s friend, Phanarath, sent us a recording and the lyrics for Vi Elsker Vort Land (We Love Our Country), a Midsummer’s Eve song the Danes sing every year at the celebration of the summer solstice.

For many years we used to have a two-day party here on the weekend nearest the solstice. Were we still celebrating, it would have been winding up today with trips to the river for a swim and then lunch, before everyone folded their tents and headed back to the city.

The best part of the celebration was Saturday evening. Everyone brought food, there was often live music, and then immediately after dark — around 9:00 or so — our friends would put on a spectacular fireworks display, lasting a half hour or so.

Yesterday was sadly quiet; we don’t have a Midsummer’s Eve party anymore. Over the years things change, and the gradual deterioration of my health made it harder to do every year. Besides that, after my daughter’s death, celebrations became harder. The picture of her that I sometimes display was taken at one of those long ago parties.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I notice that the Danish midsummer song mentions “sankte Hans” (St. John), whose feast day is June 24th. Here is the English translation of one verse:

We love our country
and with sword in hand
outside enemy’s will know us, as ready
but against unpeacefull spirits
over fields, under the beach
We will light the fire on the graves of our fathers
every town has its witch and every Parish has its trolls
we will keep them from our lives with fires of joy.
we want peace in this land
sankte Hans, sankte Hans!
it can be won, when the hearts never gets doubtfully cold.
we want peace in this land
sankte Hans, sankte Hans!
it can be won, when the hearts never gets doubtfully cold.

I didn’t know the Danes celebrated ‘sankte Hans’ particularly. They probably don’t anymore; no doubt it’s an anachronism, just as is naming hypericum perforatum St. John’s Wort.

Phanarath’s song reminded me that I’d let St. John’s wort die out in the garden. The plant is not long-lived, but it’s attractive and sturdy. I put it in among the flowers in my daughter-in-law’s perennial bed a few years ago. Her house is on a busy corner; lots of people walk by with their dogs and the former owners put up a small, attractive rail fence — probably to keep pedestrians from cutting that corner. The St. John’s wort looks pretty right there.

The Germans call it “Johanniskraut” — “kraut” means herb, says the Baron. In Germany, tinctures and powders of hypericum perforatum outsell the more modern treatments for depression. Evidently the Germans have established that it helps mild to moderate depression. A lot of people think herbal medicine is “safer” than the synthetics that Big Pharma concocts. However, taking this herb can cause photosensitivity just like the pharmaceutical anti-depressants do. If you use it, be sure to stay out of the sun during the most intense part of the day.

Once I have a car again (mine died the other day — but that’s another story), I’ll get more St. John’s wort and re-plant it in the herb garden where it used to flourish; it’s bright yellow prostrate flowers went well with the tall white Echinacea and the daylilies. Yes, I know the latter aren’t herbs, they were just there at the end of the bed when I started it. Besides, the flowers and the spring shoots are good in stir-fry dishes. I know because Wally Ballou showed us how to cook them. And daylilies abound here — they grow wild everywhere, just like the dogwoods and redbud. So even if they don’t cure anything, they’re pretty in addition to being edible and not prone to diseases or dramas. That’s as good an excuse as any not to have to dig them up and move them.

Thanks to Phanarath for the song — what a joyous way to celebrate the solstice. Whoever said that singing is “praying twice” was right.

Happy feast of Saint John to all.

When I Fall in Love

2007-06-23T08:31:00.000-04:00

You Tube has disabled the embed for Nat King Cole’s video, and the sound doesn’t meet today’s standards, but this is worth watching. It’s hard to imagine him this young, but not this talented.

Before I was married, this was my secret song to whomever it was that I would someday meet. Now on the far side of that bridge, I know that the lyrics were true.

Fausta caught this picture while on vacation in Kill Devil Hills. She said the groom had a chest full of medals, eight rows perhaps. So biology alone could explain the bride’s exultation; she's got a winner there.

May they grow old together, full of grace and years.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When I fall in love
It will be forever.
For I’ll never fall in love
In a restless world like this is
Love is ended before it’s begun
And too many moonlight kisses
Seem to cool in the warmth of the sun.

When I give my heart
It will be completely.
Or I’ll never give my heart.
And the moment I can feel that you feel that way too
Is when I'll fall in love with you.

[Of course, the first time I heard this song, I was in a convertible on a starry night in July, in Pensacola. The second lieutant who was driving had other plans than “falling in love forever” so I ended up walking home.

It didn’t ruin the song for me, though.]

Busted Flat in Baton Rouge

2007-05-31T17:53:00.000-04:00

I have a good post or two I'd like to put up at Gates, but unfortunately my mind has gone on strike. There's one on the fate of Christian converts in Germany, and another of the U.S. Fifth Fleet exercises in the Straits of Hormuz.

God, I love pictures of ships moving in convoy. Must be a left-over from my childhood days of watching them come in at Mayport...which is in Florida and I don't know if it's a carrier basin anymore. Back then it was palmetto scrub and ships. Destroyers, destroyer escorts, and those hunking big carriers. Delightful for a child who loved orderly mayhem.

I'd also like to do some gardening but it's too hot. Florida has come to Virginia, only without the thundery afternoons that made everything lush. How can this be June when it feels like August? I been cheated. I have some rose bushes the children left at Shelagh's grave for Mother's Day but I can't find the courage to plant them.

And the future Baron's belongings accompanied him home from college. They sprawl in heaps here and there, proving that bodies at rest tend to gather cobwebs. I doubt they will move unless my inertia is somehow overcome...fortunately I have barred the door so it won't be necessary to shove boxes off the couch were someone to show up.

Yesterday, in a small, controlled fit of desperation I went to see this MD who is also a homeopath. I hope his remedy cures me of Shelagh's death but somehow I doubt it. On my way home, I noticed a headline that said Casey's mother -- I have honestly forgotten the woman's name already* -- is retiring from her anti-war duties. Poor wretch. Now the whole façade will come tumbling down. I'll invite her to join me in my dark hole here. We can argue politics and throw clods of dirt at one another.

Beats crying all by yourself, I should think.

*Cindy Sheehan, that's her name...Welcome to the pit, my dear. Have a mud pie?

Happy Birthday to Me!

2007-05-26T13:06:00.000-04:00

It is my birthday. Coy youth is gone – gratefully, most days—and I’ve taken to flirting with eternity, which as you know is so much vaster...and yet takes up no room at all.

But who can get out of the grip that time has around our hearts? It’s there like a pickpocket, till the last breath is gone.

So I wrote my own birthday song…sing along everybody:

EVERY LITTLE MOMENT COUNTS

Every little moment counts,
They’re all adding and subtracting,
Piling on conventional wisdom
But taking away, taking away
With each breath you’re breathing
Stealing a leaf from your measured days

It’s all we have, this time right here
It’s all we have, there’s no way to save it
Time slips through your hands
There goes one less remaining

Don’t divide what’s left but
Begin with reclaiming:
Reclaim the sky,
Sunshine and twilight
Reclaim the past
Every lonely midnight.
Reclaim the joy, the smiles you’ve been given
Reclaim it all, know you’re forgiven…

‘Cause time’s all you have
So give it away, spend like a sailor
Spread it around, it’s not about failure
Let everyone play
Give it all away…

‘Cause every little moment counts
Every last single one
Spend them all on love
Till you’re finally done…

Every little moment
Every little moment
Every little moment…counts

Once Upon a Holy Week

2007-04-06T17:54:00.000-04:00

A poem from many years ago, when I was both crazier and more creative than I am now.

There is a theory, not without its merits, that anyone with a compulsion to write is a bit barmy. I'll buy that...well, I'll buy it if it doesn't cost too much. However, I suspect I may have already paid, maybe even more than once.

Holy Week

The best laid weeks sometimes get up
And walk away, unsatisfied.

Tuesday, I left therapy dizzy and disoriented
And fell into a hole of my own devising.
In theological circles, the abyss.
In Freudian dogma, Momma’s nether parts.
Either way, it’s dark in here.
The walls weep.

Wednesday, I passed a sigmoidoscopy
With flying colors—mostly brown.
Lying on the table, the procedure seemed familiar…
Ah, yes — therapy. Mostly accomplished behind my back,
By therapist and supervisor, in camera.
Each sigmundoscopy confirms their diagnosis
The asshole, she is interminable,
Prognosis guarded. Or, as my psychiatrist says,
“It’s not for shit.”
I concur.

On Thursday the stonecarvers arrived
At the churchyard with Momma’s headstone.
The Celtic knots her only son-in-law had designed
Were right there on its face,
Proclaiming her three names and those two vital dates
All in their proper places.
I promised her I’d witness the laying of the stone
But when I got there, at the appointment hour,
The stone was in place, the carvers gone.
It seemed as if it had always been there,
Fitting in with the other graves, and the nearby
Flowering bluets. I sat by the grave, tired from
My long journey here, idly tracing the engraving
With my tears. She left us at three AM to die alone
And now I’d missed the laying of her monument.
It is a role I am born to play.
In my defense, I reminded her
My doctor claimed to know the core of me
Was whole—“You must be responsible
For some of that,” I comforted.
In reply the wind blew hard and sudden,
Smacking down my belated vase of daffodils.
Clouds shrouded the sun.
Oh, Momma.

On Friday I crucified myself;
Doing the last hand alone was difficult
But with faith all things are possible.
The sky was cloudless. No crowds gathered.
I climbed off and dragged my crucifix
Home. I put it with the Christmas tree stand
In Momma’s closet, where the cat hides.
Maybe next year will be different.
A better crowd of standers-by, perhaps.
Or more dramatic weather.

Fortunately, even past bad poetry and self-pity, there is always Easter.

The Punctual Rape of Every Blesséd Day

2007-03-22T10:25:00.000-04:00

Writing about Cathy Seipp’s death yesterday on Gates of Vienna has led me to a long meditation on my childhood.

What sparked the ruminations was the clear memory of singing Gregorian chant during the many Requiem Masses we were called out of class to chant during the liturgy. I can’t remember how many of us there were…though since our choir director,Sister Marie Therese, is still alive and more active than I am, I will find out. Back then, it felt as though our numbers filled the choir loft.

Not being very good at it, I was ususally relegated to the alto section. Not much tune in the alto section, but we made up in strength for what we lacked in quality. And I liked the ver plain chant of the alto part. It was soothing.

Which led me to thinking about my less-than-optimum childhood and to wondering why I am not more dysfunctional than I am. What factors “saved” me?

This may sound strange, but I have often wondered if group singing had a great deal to do with soothing the savage breast of so many displaced children. We sang all the time: at church, during recreation time, on bus rides to while away the boredom. I know the old songs from the childhoods of the nuns, the songs of the Big Girls (anyone over ten was a “Big Girl” and was of much higher status than we were). These higher beings rolled their hair in curlers, wore bras, and they sang the latest songs - Nat King Cole comes to mind. They were also in charge of cooking and did a terrible job at it. Perhaps I grew up to become a good cook partly in retaliation for all the mornings of burned oatmeal.

Obviously singing is not enough to get you through [“Hah,” say my Observing Self. Just hum a few lines of “Whistle a Happy Tune”]. The linchpin holding everything together was our unvarying schedule. All these years later, I can still recall how the hours of our days were structured, winter and summer. We lived a cloistered life, punctuated not only by song, but more importantly by prayer. Prayers for getting up, prayers for lying down. Prayers before and after meals. The Angelus at noon. The rosary in the nuns’ chapel after dinner. Prayer was the skeleton on which the flesh of our days hung.

When I grew up and read The Eight Ages of Man, I remember the author saying that what saves childhood for many of us is an over-arching sense of meaning. A few months ago I read his daughter’s story of her father’s life. He invented himself, carved out his own meaning. He never even knew his real last name, so when he moved to this country, he named himself Erik Erikson. And - in an attempt to preserve an identity that was closed to him by his mother’s silence re his beginnings — Erikson resisted his Jewish step-father’s fervent desire for him to adopt Judaism. However, I think the rituals and observances of the religion he refused saved him, too. Erikson’s productivity was unflagging.

And his new identity? An attempt to get past the boundary his mother erected, to find his first Self.

My productivity is more porous than his. I never know, on waking up, if I will be scattered and lack all initiative, or if whatever remains of the inner Mafia of my childhood will permit me to move through the day in relative calm, experiencing the initiative that - in more integrated souls - allows one to stay vertical and busy. I read once that happiness means being busy about eighty or ninety percent of the time. That sounds about right to me. In fact, I lust after the energy required to maintain such a virtuous schedule…and on the days that I do, life is glorious.

Richard Wilbur captured it perfectly in this, my favorite of his poems:

Love Calls Us to the Things of the World

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.

Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;

Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down into so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blesséd day,
And cries,

“Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven.”

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,

“Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult balance.’

Aside from his ode to laundry - obviously he didn’t wash it or hang it out, nor does he suffer from the "rosy hands" that did so...still, since it billows there outside his window on wakening: he knows, oh he knows:

The soul shrinks
From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blesséd day…

The soul's "bitter love," indeed.

The painting, “Washday” is from a small collection of works by Val Doonican

Saint Patrick's Day Shadows

2007-03-17T17:22:00.000-04:00

This is an up-and-down day for me. Already had two teary spells and the day is still young. Well, youngish…the sun is still making its way across the sky.

St. Patrick’s Day…funny how, as you get older, holidays begin to assume more shaded, bittersweet overtones. Growing up with a Dublin mother and lots of Irish nuns fresh over from the Old Place, I loved St. Paddy’s Day. We always went to Mass. Mother sniffed derisively at the green beer and drunkness of American celebrations. In *her* youth, the pubs in Dublin were closed on March 17th. In Savannah, we went to the wonderful St. Patrick’s Day parade. In South Boston, I watched the festivities for several years with my former in-laws. It’s hazy now: I remember the formal parlors in the three decker homes, and the amazing amounts of beer and politicians. It was a noisy, happy place, though we always went back home to the suburbs before nightfall.

Here in the blue hills of Viriginia, March 17th is the day to plant potatoes and peas. I didn’t prepare the vegetable bed yesterday because of the lashing rain, and now it’s windy and cold. Methinks I’ll commit a venial sin and wait till the spring solstice. Besides, I have to move a raspberry cane I planted in that plot “temporarily” last September.

There isn’t any Irish sentiment where we live. Just as well. It’s become a sad holiday now. My Irish mother is gone, my lovely colleen, Shelagh, is gone, and — worst of all - a friend of the future Baron, a boy with the most wonderful Irish name - killed himself at school on this date several years ago. The fB and I dug up his grandmother’s crucifix and a tall candle to burn in their memory today.

Meanwhile, I offer you a Celtic blessing I found some years ago. I framed it then, and now I use it for this St. Patrick’s Day:

May God’s tenderness shine through you,
to warm all who are hurt and lonely.
May the blessing of gentleness be with you.

May the God of Peace be with you,
stilling the heart that hammers
with fear and doubt and confusion.
And may your peace cover
those who are troubled or anxious.

May the God of Mercy be with you, forgiving you.
May your readiness to forgive calm the fears
and deepen the trust of those who have hurt you.

May the God of strength be with you,
holding you in strong-fingered hands.
May you be a sacrament of strength
to those whose hands you hold.

May the God of Gentleness be with you,
caressing you with sunlight and rain and wind.

Amen.

March Chores

2007-03-12T00:12:00.000-04:00

We began Spring pruning today. I had the Baron cut several large trunks from the fig – opening it up to the light, and moving the mass away from the house. It gets so overgrown in the summer that no light gets into that south corner. As a result, some of the siding at the bottom is rotted. Tomorrow I will take the clippers and neaten up the job.

The butterfly bushes were also cut – not judiciously but right down to the ground. I learned the hard way not to let them get out of hand. Otherwise nothing can grow near them. Or would want to. I like to keep them deadheaded during bloom time. It really extends their season well into Fall. But that is workable in a flower bed only if you cut them back severely in March (around here).

Our flowering cherry put out lots of ugly spouts so those went. Along with branches that too deeply shade the flower bed below it. I never expected it to grown so tall or so deeply branched. Its mate – both of them being bought at the end of a season some years ago for five dollars each-- is planted in the herb bed; it is so much smaller than the one by the house that they no longer resemble each other.

I meant to gather the branches and leave them to bloom inside but forgot them before dark. I hope I can salvage them tomorrow.

I gingerly climbed the stepladder (ever since I fell off that ladder and shredded the meniscus on my left knee, the Baron gets nervous when I venture near it) and began pruning the old apple tree, removing suckers and branches that crossed through the middle. Its mate died off finally last year – so dead that even the remaining flat stump is a little spongy and rotten. Meanwhile the live one will take a bit of work since I didn’t prune it last year. The light was fading by the time I’d cleared the western side of the tree. I don’t know how much longer it has, either. I think I will replace them both with Arkansas Blacks. That is one fine apple. Or maybe Albemarle Pippins. Now wouldn’t that be a treat?

I was wicked with the viburnum. I know you’re not supposed to prune them until after they flower, but I don’t like the shape of this one and I keep trying to work it into something more attractive. Maybe I just don’t like viburnums.

We prepped my “hot box” for seedlings. This little green house is a rectangular wooden frame whose bottom is a piece of foam core insulation cut to fit and nailed on. A storm window fits perfectly onto this rig. The window can be moved a bit as the temperature requires. For very cold nights – of which there will be many between now and May 1st, I have encased an old blanket in plastic – the plastic being rainproof – and it will lie across the window, insulating the box. The whole thing is on the well house roof, which makes it easy to maintain.

Today I cleaned out the winter trash – oak leaves and acorns galore, plus over-wintered little azaleas I need to stick somewhere. Then I put in some prime potting soil. This bag of soil lay on the ground next to the well house all through the winter. When we opened it, I noticed lots of worms already active. They probably liked the ground lobster particles and seaweed.

Last year, I planted many of my annual seeds directly into the soil in the box. This year, I am going to fill the plastic six-celled planters with potting mixture instead and line the box with them. However, with love-in-a-mist, I’ll try a direct seeding into the ground. They don’t seem to move well and I’d like to get a patch established somewhere once and for all.

The nice thing about this homemade green house is that all summer I can bed plants I’m trying to root or move things to a holding place until I can decide where to put them. Wish I’d had one of these years ago.

The daffodils and spring crocus are blooming. Even a couple of hyacinths. The pansies are putting out flowers, but haven’t spread much yet. I see some holes where a few died off during the winter. Will have to fill those soon – I love the antique colors, though some years I’ve done blues and white. And last year I did that strange orange variety. It sure did light up the place. Most of the tulips survived the voles – that trick with Bon Ami in the hole must have worked. It will be weeks before they bloom, though, and then the hostas will come along to cover their straggly ending.

Some unnamed bulb, which must have traveled in with a nursery plant, is springing up everywhere, green and lush. In May, it has a pretty, though not particularly distinctive white flower. This mystery guest, who has been around for about three years now, is more invasive than wild onion. I wait for moist soil and yank up mounds of them and put them in the trash. You have to yank slowly and twist a bit or all you get is greenery. They would be nice naturalized somewhere in a large wildflower plot, but they’re tiresome guests in small beds and large lawns.

I love March – all new beginnings. It has difficult parts, too, because March is Shelagh’s birthday. I never think “March was Shelagh’s birthday. Even though this will be the fourth anniversary of her death, I am still inclined to think of her in the present tense. Shelagh and the Baron shared the same birth date…no matter what I do his birthday now has a permanent shadow.

Are You Spelling Impaired?

2007-03-07T12:44:00.000-05:00

Here’s Robert Heckendorn’s List of Hard to Spell Words.

It is good resource for those who find spelling confusing and a chore. For people like my daughter, who, when faced with uncertainty about spelling, had her own rule: “when in doubt, add an ‘e’ somewhere.”

On the other hand, it is a place of sheer wonderment for those to whom spelling comes naturally. For the latter, they can only ponder (or gape at) the inventive phonetic solutions that poor spellers have come up with to address their deficit.

The author’s list is long, but obviously incomplete. Here is his statement of methodology: [edited for clarity and spelling errors - D]

Here is my list of over 1000 hard to spell words.

Here are some important points about this list:

Sometimes a word is entered as a misspelling of a particular meaning such as “dam”.

These spellings are for American English and not British English or any other language. I may occasionally treat a British spelling as a misspelling of American English. This is not meant as an insult to the English any more that my saying that driving on the left side of the road is wrong in the US. You will get arrested for it here. I drive on the left when I am in England and on the right in the U.S. I adapt to local custom.

The same word may be misspelled more than one way. People have different ways to misspelling and I try to include a variety.

I accept new entries and corrections.

The words come in pairs: the first word is the misspelling, the second word is the correct spelling.

Here is a list of just the correct spellings (which is not always up to date).

Here is a list of just the incorrect spellings (which is also not always up to date).

Have fun!

And here is a brief look at his compilation, though I urge you to scroll through the list at your leisure:

Presbaterian Presbyterian
Tootonic Teutonic
Tusday Tuesday
Wendsday Wednesday
abanden abandon
abizmal abysmal
abriviate abbreviate
abscound abscond
absorbant absorbent
absorbtion absorption
abstanence abstinence
abundenceabundance
abundent abundant
acatemy academy
acceptence acceptance
acceptible acceptable
acceptibly acceptably

And here are two personal favorites, though you will notice they don’t carry the Shelagh rule of adding an ‘e’ somewhere when in doubt. On the other hand, maybe these would-be spellers were never in doubt at all:

angshus anxious
farmasudical pharmaceutical

The website has an Idaho.edu address in its URL, but it no longer leads back to the author. Too bad, I’d like to see what he teaches besides the obvious “Remedial English for the Poorly Educated Freshmen.”

It’s definitely a wasteland out there.

Gus van Horn’s Fact Checker

2007-03-04T13:45:00.000-05:00

I’m a little loose with facts myself. I figure if I get even an adjective wrong, someone will show up to set me straight. So I see fact-gathering as a game of pick-up sticks. I try to nudge them out of a story, but sometimes the whole thing collapses.

~~Mr.~~ (that's Doctor van Horn to you, bub), however, has an impeccable source for facts: his cat, Jerome. This is evidently a moniker the cat chose for himself, no doubt in honor of St. Jerome, who was Pope Damasus I’s secretary. (though I haven’t actually asked - that would be fact-checking and this blog is for wool-gathering and jumping to conclusions).

~~Mr.~~ Doctor van Horn explains:

I’ve intended to write about one of my best friends for quite awhile, but have mentioned him only a couple of times so far and only in passing at that. We have been close collaborators for over a decade. He has stuck with me through thick and thin. I am, of course, talking about my cat, Jerome.

Jerome is, of course, his nom de plume, and I just learned of it today. He is a cat of many eccentricities and surprises, not the least of which is his pen name. In fact, almost everything about this fine beast is eccentric in some way, and his uniqueness will pervade my whole account. He is at once the most unusual and, by far, the best pet I’ve ever had.

In the post, ~~Mr.~~ Doctor vH describes their acquisition of Jerome, and his probable ancestry:

… we checked out a few books on cat breeds and determined that he is probably at least part Turkish Van. Because he has been such a great pet and is getting on in years, my wife and I are talking to breeders to get a better idea of whether he really is a Turkish Van. Especially after seeing an entire row of Turkish Vans at a cat show awhile back and recently describing him to a professional breeder, I am fairly sure that he is a Turkish Van. We certainly don’t expect another one to have the same personality, but the next cat my wife and I get will be a Turkish Van. Jerome’s temperament was probably shaped by his being rescued, but he also seems typical of his breed.

My word! Jerome is still with them and they’re already planning on his replacement. I do hope he doesn’t discover this in his fact-checking. Vans are smart and if he reads that part, things may not go so well…the trauma might cause him to be unable to ever check another fact again.

And one important disagreement I have with ~~Mr.~~ Doctor van Horn’s ideas re his cat’s gentle, friendly nature: he describes Jerome’s precarious existence before being rescued and to this he ascribes his benignity. It is my experience that cats - or any mammals - who are neglected or mistreated while young do not go on to acquire gentle, grateful natures as a result. In fact, the opposite is true. There is a window for acquiring a social nature and it closes very early. Cats and kids can compensate, but they’ll never regain lost ground.

Nope, in this case it’s genetic - he’s got a Van.

As it is also genetic in the case of my neurotic cat, Lulu. What a mess. My vet says that in cats a fearful nature is passed on through the paternal genes. Her daddy must’ve been a feral beast, indeed, for she jumps at the slightest movement.

We got snookered when she wandered in through the open door of the church and I let the future Baron take her home while I made noises about having to give her to SPCA. After all, we already had two cats as it was. Of course, we never quite made that trip.

And as fortune would have it, eventually Lulu turned out to be my “chemo cat.” While otherwise quite leery of everyone (especially after the dominant cat started making her life hell, while I was in chemotherapy and would curl in a fetal position in bed, indescribably cold and tired, Lulu would jump up and curl in the curve where my knees bend. She was a nice warm lump, content to lie there for hours. Ever since, on occasions when I haven’t felt well, I feel her lying next to me.

Ever since I put her on clonazepam it has made all the difference. Ms. Congeniality? Not exactly. But she will come when called now instead of hiding under the bed, and sometimes, of her own volition, she will jump up where you’re sitting and peer into your eyes. Black cats seem to like eye contact.

She has developed a rotten habit: yowling in the middle of the night as though she has lost track of where we are. She does this routine right next to the bed, so if I call her to climb up, she does…and then settles down to sleep. However, just as often I exile her to the kitchen. Damn cat.

Of course if you’re sitting in front of the laptop, she thinks her perch ought to be the keyboard. So I have to remove her and then wipe the keys of any trace of her germy derriere.

Now this creature is our only cat. George, the male calico, was hit by a car while hunting. Moe, the fB’s beloved cat, who once fell down an old well and was stuck there for five days before the fB came home from college and found him, had his neck broken by a dog…we think. Moe couldn’t move very fast, so he was an easy target.

Only Lulu remains. And it is far, far too late to send her to the SPCA. Besides, her sleek black coat is beginning to be flecked with white…

I tol ya that the blogosphere is an automatic fact-checker. Turns out that Mr. van Horn ain't no mister at all. He's Doctor van Horn.

Proves my point about fact-checkers, hmmm?