Sow There

It could be really easy right now to get really down on myself.
In sunshine, dust and clutter are clearly visible.
Last week I was looking for something in the back of the refrigerator and made the grand realization that no one needs three half-full jars of pickles.
A similar scenario played out in the yard. I was admiring the blossoms on the aged almond tree and realized my yard looked like the resident gardener had died last year.
I’ll deflect some blame to Old Man Winter, because the previously-glorious plants have been brutalized by cold. But mostly I blame myself.
Saturday I became the powerful agent of change.
Fueled by sunshine, raw, pent-up energy emerged. Bedraggled lemon verbena was butchered to a stub. Crumbs of once-vibrant wallflower (Erysimum, Bowles mauve) were whisked away and the overgrown oregano was curtailed.
At one point, I noticed that a rivulet of blood was running down my arm.
There was still daylight, but I had to stop because the green waste can was full.
Now, the plants worth looking at are visible.

Gifts from space
Early-blooming bulbs tend to have a surreal appearance. When you look closely at daffodils, for example, you could easily mistake them for something manufactured from synthetic material in a factory in China.
Even the color seems more fitting for a package of Skittles candy than a bloom from the ground.
The shape is strange as well, with six petals forming a star, and a frilly bowl in the middle.
My friend Rochanah has hundreds of daffodils growing in her yard, and for the past several years graciously invited me over to pick bouquets.
Thanks to Rochanah, many reporters now have small vases of yellow flowers at their desks.
Other bulbs are similarly outstanding. Tulips look like they are made of wax and hyacinth could be crafted by Crayola. Come to think of it, if you smell cyclamen, a winter bloomer, it even smells like crayons.
Perhaps there are biological reasons why early spring bulbs seem like they come from outer space. Likely the journey from soil to sunlight, while still at risk of winter mayhem, has caused these plants to evolve in a less fragile way.
Also, some of the overwhelming smells are no doubt created to lure bees from their cold slumber.
Inspired by these re-discoveries, I asked my Facebook friends to look out for early signs of spring.
The aforementioned Rochanah said her flowering plum tree went “poof” over the weekend, and looks like a pink balloon.
Vickie also posted a photo of a tulip/magnolia tree (I can never tell the difference) now blooming on East First Avenue and Magnolia, by Bidwell Perk.
Recently I also spotted the earliest (and smallest) of yellow wildflowers and blue dicks at Horseshoe Lake.
After a day working in the yard, I felt empowered by sunshine. As the mosquitoes were emerging to feast, I toiled on.
Holes where I had buried kitchen scraps over the past few years were located and rich, wormy compost was found. This was piled into the raised bed, where I turned the soil until my deltoids ached.
It might be too early, but some spinach and carrot seeds were scratched into the soil. And for fun, I planted several rows of freesia bulbs.
Goodbye, garden neglect.

Whats an animal lover to do when a wild animal decides to latch on?
We thought we had an opossum or some other urban bandit under the house. At night there would be scratching and this strange sputtering sound under the bathtub, almost like a sneeze.
On the outside of the house is one of those entrances to the foundation that you could only enter if you were an anorexic Peking acrobat.
Tommy covered the entrance with part of a screen and some duct tape. We had those days of high winds and the covering was removed. We know now that the wind had nothing to do with it.
A few weeks later, I noticed that the outside pocket of my lunch cooler was torn. Its one of those little pliable coolers you can sling over your shoulder. I put dry snacks in the outside pocket, most notably sunflower seeds.
One day when I slung it over my shoulder, the sunflower seeds made a trail similar to one spread by Hansel and Gretel.
The determination was that it was a mouse.
We recently watched the movie The Green Mile,? with Tom Hanks, about death-row prisoners. The editorial comment in the film is about the sanctity of life and how even in the seemingly most heinous of creatures, there is some good.
One of the characters? is Mr. Jingles, a little mouse that becomes tame and does circus tricks.
One can also get sappy about not killing rodents after watching any of the movies involving the cartoon character Fievel.
When we saw the sunflower seeds all over the kitchen we paused, thinking, should we be so cruel as to kill it? But Tommy and I looked at each other and mutually acknowledged our mouse is not Mr. Jingles. ?
We borrowed a mouse trap from my best friend next door and baited it with peanut butter.
It was a humane trap that theoretically would catch the mouse alive. We were instructed that if we caught the trespasser, we had to take the varmint to the spooky woods,? an area near Lindo Channel.
Bonnie said to set the trap right by the edge of the wall where a mouse would skirmish.
One night we heard it snap shut and jumped out of bed gleefully, but were not rewarded with our captive.
Apparently this mouse was as crafty as a cat burglar.
Clues continued to grotesquely appear. We already knew the visitor loved sunflower seeds. Then Tommy found a huge pile of empty seed shells behind the stove. We decided it was a she, because clearly we could envision the rodent reproducing and having four, 18, 200, 1,000 mice babies scampering across the linoleum.
The mouse would make its brood peanut butter sandwiches on the cutting board, wearing a Mardi Gras hat and stringing up a sunflower-seed-filled piata for the little ones.
Why wouldnt it just go somewhere else to have that party?

We discovered the mouse also liked cashews, chocolate chips and granola.
She was really getting brazen now obviously eating for six.
The mouse trap stayed silent, but the animal did not.
I had a hard time sleeping a couple nights last week. Tommy was snoring, the sink was dripping, I could hear the train whistle two miles away. Something was tap dancing on my dishes in the cupboard. I woke up as grumpy as Archie Bunker and growled, If thats a mouse in the kitchen, its practicing for an audition to a Broadway musical.?
A strange hole appeared in the bathroom, and we placed pieces of steel wool in the opening.
After several days, Tommy said he saw it skittering into the storage room and it was a rat a big, fat, brown, grotesque, electrical-wire-eating, foundation-burrowing, disease-carrying, lice-infested, behind-the-stove-defecating, cupboard-invading, procreating, RAT.
This meant war, of course.

We spared no expense, especially since we are going to send the bill to the landlord.
We bought two large rat traps and the dreaded D-Con.
But then the ethical debate consumed me and I went ahead and called the Glenn County Cooperative Extension Office and even went to the PETA Web site. Ouch.
Most rat poison contains an anticoagulant that kills the animal through internal bleed. They die a slow death.
I know a lot of people have rats as pets. My sister had one named Merlin and he loved to nuzzle in the crook of your arm. But I cant have a rat dancing through my cupboard at 4 a.m.
According to a fax requested from the Glenn County Cooperative Extension Office, ultrasound devices dont work, unless youre broadcasting the type of undetectable decibels available at a rock concert.
We tried to make pizza in the oven and smelled rat urine warming up on the linoleum behind the stove.
I guess were not going to have a dinner party anytime soon.
So we set out the snap traps, thinking that was a medium-humane thing to do. At least it would be a quick death if the gal is lucky enough to have a clean snap of the trap.
In the meantime, Id welcome any readers advice with the similar problem.
My research on the Internet turned up a guys Web site with instructions for how to make a trap that catches rodents: www.smithsax.btinternet.co.uk/products.htm.

We had an overnight guest this week. Tommys an animal lover and we cant take a walk at night without having four or five cats run out to the sidewalk to be petted. He makes this little click-click? sound that makes the fur-balls come running. Its endearing, in a way, but breaks my stride.
Same goes for dogs. Well be walking down the alley and a dog will be defending its territory. Tommy will coo and the dogs will wallow with affection. Hes a regular urban Dr. Doolittle.

Continue reading “Sow There! 1-11, Canine friends come and go” »

A friend called up this week to let me know to look to the west the next couple of days because there is a comet coming.
My friend just happens to be a geophysicist so I tend to take his word on such things. Because of the position of the sun, the comet is supposed to be one of the brightest we’ll see in 30 years. He’s 50 so I won’t count on him calling me the next time one so bright comes along.

I’m told to go out just after sunset at look to the west. If you’re exactly sure which direction is west, just watch where the sun sets. Bring a sweetie, some lawn chairs, warm blankets and watch it from some place romantic with an unobstructed view.

http://www.space.com/spacewatch/070104_comet_mcnaught.html

http://www.jimnabors.com

My friend Hyacinth called to share her fantabulous news about her trip to Maui. She and her squeeze stayed in a little bungalow by the beach. Maui is a place where you spend time isolated. Unlike Waikiki, it’s not about shopping and night-life. It’s about getting away from it all. You have to be fabulously in love to go to Maui, I hear, because all there is to do is to enjoy Paradise, enjoy the ocean and rain and be together.
They were driving around the island and saw a sign for the Hana airport, a private landing strip for people who have small planes.
Her S.O. (significant other) said: “Hey, let’s check out this airport.”
They drove down the road and came across two men and four dogs. The men had landed and apparently the person who was supposed to pick them up had not arrived. Hyacinth said that either they didn’t have a cell phone or there was no cell phone reception, so they were stranded.
H and her S.O. said they would gladly give them a ride to wherever they were going.
It turns out it was Jim Nabors and his pilot. Yes, Gomer Pyle.
They drove to his ranch, a macadamia farm and Nabors invited them to lunch.
Hyacinth and I were cracking up as she told me this, because I never in my life have known anyone who has had lunch with Jim Nabors. Who would have thought?
She said he was a delightful man, very gracious, and showed them around his ranch.
You just dont have that type of experience every day.

A certain etiquette exists with asking if someone is pregnant.
If there is any doubt, don’t ask. Basically, if someone wants to share their impending bundle of joy with you, they will.
New Year’s Eve I went to a party at a neighbor’s house. Tommy didn’t want to go because he doesn’t like to be thrown into a group of new people he has never met. I was thrilled to have the invite because our neighbor seems so delightful and sent us a Christmas card with the invite. My best friend next door agreed to go with me. I told Tommy I would just pop in for an hour at the party and if I had a fun time I would drag him over.
We had another party to attend afterwards.
So, my best friend was invited on a date and suddenly I was in the situation where I had to attend the neighbor party alone.
I was a little nervous because I didn’t know the folks, but put on makeup and what I thought was a cute/comfy outfit.
Judy, the hostess, was extremely gracious and introduced me to all the people at her party. I was alone, and going to a party alone can feel awkward. I didn’t know any of these people. They were all couples and I didnt have a sidekick. But everyone was very nice.
Somehow, when you gravitate toward the food, it feels like you’re not feeling as awkward. The food was yummy, of course, and I made a point of sampling everything and complimenting people on what foods they had brought.
Then I had a brief conversation with one couple. They were really nice and we talked about our mutual interest in sailing.
I guess it was because I was awkwardly scarfing food, and the woman asked when I was expecting my baby.
I laughed.
“No, I’m not pregnant.”
I felt sorry for her as I saw her expression.
“Oh, I just thought because you were eating a lot that you must have been eating for two,” she said, or something like that.
I know I’m not a supermodel, and carry around a few extra pounds. But I’m comfortable with myself and didn’t take it like an anvil falling on my head.
I felt more sorry for her for knowing she felt badly for making a faux pas.
You just don’t ask someone if they are pregnant unless the person is wearing a pink shirt with the word “baby” on it with a giant arrow pointing to their naval.
I was holding a glass of white wine in my hand, which would have been a good indication that I was not drinking for two.
I left soon after, and Tommy and I got a good chortle out of it all.
His nickname for me is Buddha because I tend to carry the extra pounds in my belly and he likes to pet it affectionately.
I guess it’s a sign that I’m happy that the pregnant question did not devastate me.
I remember a few years ago I was at a meeting in Glenn County and wearing a loose, comfy sweater and an attorney with whom I was chatting asked me when I was expecting. I told him I wasn’t and he blanched.
He sent me an e-mail the next day telling me how sorry he was for the comment and gave a long explanation about how his daughter was pregnant and the whole family was so excited about it that he must have just had baby on the brain, and was so joyful that he must have wanted to extend that joy to others.
Although, I must admit, I re-evaluated the outfit I was wearing that day and never wore it again.

My best friend had a date New Year’s Eve.
This isn’t the biggest news in the universe but for our little corner of the world it was a momentous occasion. She’s been in various states of mourning for the past year after her fianc died in a car accident.
It’s been a tough year.
I will never know, hopefully, what she has been through.
I live next door so likely the proximity gave me a closer look into her journey through healing than a normal best friend would witness. In the first few months I felt helpless. There wasn’t anything I could do to take away the pain. It seemed like she just had one tape to play and it circled around and around every day.

She needed to talk a lot about what she was feeling, but it was frustrating because it seemed like the thoughts were always stuck in this repetitive mode, like one of those hip-hop bands that keeps sliding the record back and forth and back again.
Adding to the uncomfortableness, I was in the beginning of a happy relationship and our doorways are about 15 feet from one another. I had this sense of guilt for being happy.
At the beginning of her mourning, I would purposely not hug Tommy in front of her. I thought about how painful it must be to watch the two of us at mundane domestic tasks, like unloading the groceries or having him check the oil in the car.
People at the beginning of a relationship can be fairly obnoxious, always petting and giving each other goo-goo eyes. That would be painful to witness after losing someone with whom you shared that same sense of ga-ga.
After a few months, I found myself really frustrated. I came to the conclusion that there wasn’t anything I could do or say that would lift the blanket that kept her in darkness. At some point one of my advisers must have told me that only time would heal.
So Tommy and I decided to concentrate on Leif, her 9-year-old son. The only thing that made me feel productive in helping her was to provide an open door. Her son could come over and play a card game or get a popsicle when mom was sad. Sometimes she’d come over and sit on the couch and watch us play. She would sometimes join us and sort of rock back and forth on the couch in a numb state. But that was better than sitting behind the closed curtains, alone.
It got pretty bad after a while and I was frustrated. I talked to a grief counselor and learned that the most important thing was that I just be there to listen. It was normal for her to need to be repetitive, as if saying the same thing over and over again would disperse those feeling of loss, somehow dislodge those gasps of broken air that got stuck in her stomach.
We concentrated on the 9-year-old and waited.
Sadness is a strange thing. When you look around the world each day, there are so many things from which to find happiness.
Sure, you get pissed off when a driver cuts you off on Mangrove, or there is a leak in your water heater. But if you open your eyes when you’re driving down the Esplanade in fall, you can’t help but smile when you see the colors of burnt orange and yellow.
But the blanket of sadness is like turning your television from color to black-and-white.
The grief counselor I spoke with said I should expect my best friend’s sadness to last at least a year. She said that was about normal for most folks.
This was sort of a relief for me, because I had something with which to gauge my patience. When I knew it would likely last about a year, I could not feel like I was a bad friend for not having some secret formula to make her feel better.
Seasons changed.
Tommy and I continued.
He changed the oil in the car and mowed the lawn. We had my best friend and her son over for barbecues and sometimes she would feel in the mood to make a nice dinner and invite us over. She would light candles and make the place homey. I knew she was lavishing us with the graciousness she wished she had to lavish on a man.
Time passed.
This weekend she had a date.
We’ve been friends since high school so I remember her having dates before. She was nervous about what to wear, of course, and came over several times to be reassured that she looked fantabulous. We were giddy discussing whether she should wear earrings. She was instructed not to eat because she was going to have such fabulous food that she shouldn’t waste her appetite on a piece of toast.
We talked on the phone several times while she was getting ready. She called when her date said he was going to be 10 minutes late.
“That was a good sign, right, that he called and said he was going to be 10 minutes late?”
“Yes, that was a good sign he called to tell you that.”
“Do you have that feeling like you have to pee every 10 minutes because you’re nervous,” I asked.
“Yes. I remember you always had that before you had a date,” she said.
I couldn’t help but hold my breath through those 10 minutes. When her date arrived, I opened the door two inches to peer out, watching him come to her door. She walked out looking fantastic. I think she had followed my advice and put nail polish on her toes.
I nodded as he opened the door to his truck, and Tommy and I hugged each other like proud parents.

As per the agreement with my friends and family, we decided to exchange perishable items this Christmas. Instead of braving the crowds and chaos at the mall and big-box stores, I combed the baking aisle at the grocery store.
The week before Christmas, Tommy would pull the dining room chair into the kitchen so he could talk to me as melted, stirred and poured.
For the past several years the Enterprise-Record has held a dessert contest. About half a dozen folks bring in some delectable and we all have a nibble and then vote. One of the best treats was from Terri, who would have won first place but there were lots of other fabulous treats in the contest.
After nearly melting in ecstasy after tasting her no-bake-rocky-road-bars, I cornered her to rattle off the recipe:
A bag of chocolate chips, half a bag of butterscotch chips, one stick of butter, half a cup of peanut butter. Melt until gooey and then stir in miniature marshmallows and Rice Krispies.
Easy enough.
With one success on my hands I thought I would get crafty.
Tommy said his mom always made fudge when he was a kid so I thought I would wow him with my superwoman baking prowess.
Thinking I would mail off big boxes of the stuff back to Iowa to impress his loved ones, I made a double batch.
For some unknown reason, the fudge didnt harden like it was supposed to. Instead it was like a super-sticky pudding.
I ended up melting more chocolate chips and sort of rolling a spoonful of the mushy mess into the chocolate to make it stick together. They were quite delicious but looked like they were made by a three year old or produced by an enormous rabbit.
With three Corningware dishes filled with the leftover mush large Corningware dishes I thought if I baked the black stuff maybe the chocolate would harden.
This turned out to be another mistake. The concoction was so hard it could have been used for chocolate asphalt in Willy Wonkas chocolate factory.
A week later, the pans are still soaking on the kitchen counter.
It turns out chocolate is trickier than I thought. Its actually somewhat of a science and I think somewhere they probably offer a bachelors in chocolate arts.
Then I tried the microwave version of peanut brittle.
The end product was yummy, but it never got brittle.? Instead it had the consistency of a fruit roll-up.
After botching mass amounts of baking supplies, we went to the library and I checked out some books and learned why the recipe I had used for the fudge had suggested using a candy thermometer.
There was an entire chapter that detailed how not only does chocolate need to melt correctly, at specific temperatures, but it also needs to cool correctly, at specific temperatures.
I knew that most of the dismally deformed treats would be appreciated by my family. It was Christmas and nobody is going to go out of their way to tell you what a failure you are. Of course not, theyll save that for saying behind your back.
Then, an enormous box arrived from Tommys sister Deb in Iowa.
My skin still felt saturated with sugar after four straight nights of baking. There was a sickening sweet smell at the back of my nostrils and the concrete fudge was still staring at me from the corner of the counter.
We opened the Deb box.? Each perfectly formed loaf of banana and pumpkin bread was neatly wrapped in foil. Somehow she froze it so that when it was shipped it arrived perfectly moist.
Then there were the bags of peanut brittle, which snapped into bite-sized bits ready to pop into your mouth.
Next were the seven-layer miracle bars,? that didnt fall apart all over the floor when you took a bite of them.
Of course, there was fudge the perfect kind of fudge where all you need is one little nibble to make your toes curl as you roll your eyes back in your head.
Christmas day I answered the phone and was having a nice chat with Tommys mom. She asked about yada-yada and we talked about yada-yada. The question came up about whether we had received the gifts the family had sent.
Yes,? I couldnt help but snort out. I baked all week with terrible results and then that witch Deb sent us a box of perfect treats.?
Of course I didnt use the word witch.?
Turns out, I wasnt talking to Tommys mom. His sister and mom sound very similar on the phone.
Thankfully, she burst out laughing.

That last half-hour of sleep is the most sacred. People are in bed and relishing those last few moments of warmth, hopefully snuggled against a loved one. Jammies are warm and soft against your skin and you can see the sun barely peeking out the sides of the curtains. You look at the clock and know you have that magical half-hour to squirm and contemplate what the dream featuring Matthew McConaughey might have meant.

Then the leaf blower starts.
Your skin turns Grinch-like green. Your head shakes and you cant believe the universe does not understand how sacred this last half-hour is.
How could someone be up and firing up a gas-powered engine at this time of day? Where is the law? Where is common decency? Where is Spider-Man?
I know this seems like hysteria. But seriously, the leaf blower this time of year is heard nearly every morning.
Later we were told that technically the laws allow hideously-obnoxious sounds to begin at 7 a.m.
Now, I can understand this for construction workers in summertime. They need to get started as soon as possible because its 107 degrees in summer and 112 on the roof by noon.

(This is actually an electric leaf blower, only slightly less obnoxious than the gas-powered version of the evil beast).

But leaf blowers in winter? If theyre up early, theyre working at one of the worst times of the day.
My head is shaking back and forth so much in wonderment that Im sure a tooth is loose.
One morning Tommy and I were subconsciously auditioning for the Olympic snuggling competition. I was zoning out and listening to the wind blowing through the birch tree. Then I heard that distinctive sound of a gas-fueled engine.
No, it was not directly outside my door, but it sounded like the operator was blowing that dastardly machine directly into my eardrum. I imagined his maniacal sneer.
I turned a gummed-up eyelid toward the digital clock and saw that it was 6:19 a.m. Wait, I set my clock 10 minutes ahead so it was actually 6:09. Is there some daylight saving time that I dont know about?
I did the patented Hacking elbow move and woke Tommy up.
Its 6:09 and someone is blowing leaves.?
He understood the urgency of my directive and padded outside to talk to the operator.
Soon the gas-powered monster was subdued. Be assured, no violence was involved.
Sadly, there is no price tag that can be given to that precious last half-hour of sleep. If there was, I would have sued.
Like jet skis, Im sure leaf blowers are fun to use, in a sadistic sort of way.
Heres a list of other most-annoying morning sounds.
Garbage collectors.
Enloe Flightcare, although one cant complain because theyre important to saving lives.
Neighbor Curious George when he is bonded to his power tools.
The feral cat that sets the dogs off barking.
Snoring that sounds like honking birds and rivals the entire Pacific, Central and Atlantic flyways.
The neighbor who warms up their ridiculously huge truck at 3,500 rpm.
Needless to say, Im rallying for a change in laws about leaf blowers. I understand their usefulness, for helping with liability around walkways.
However, given the right circumstances, leaves will just turn into compost and enrich the soil. They can also be used for crunching and weed suppression, although leaves should always be raked from the lawn.

Shorter nights/longer days
Thursday was the winter solstice. Although the day marks the beginning of winter, it also represents the shortest day of sunlight of the year. This is an opportunity to rejoice and think about the fact that the days are now getting longer.
As usual, I was late in getting my spring-bloom bulbs in the ground this year. I put the tulips in the back of the fridge for chilling, then of course forgot about them.
I was reminded of them when a friend brought me another bag of them. Plus, the daffodils planted several years ago already have stems about 12 inches long, which jogged my memory.
Because the tulips werent planted until mid-December, I wont expect fabulous results. They have a tendency to be gobbled up by the neighborhood squirrels.
Normally I would compost, but composting cant be guaranteed to kill all the weed seeds unless you have your turning, aerating and watering techniques down. I use(d) an old flimsy metal bucket to cart heinous weeds to the green waste can.
Tommy apparently misunderstood me when I said we couldnt plant a bunch of bulbs in the old tin bucket because there wasnt proper drainage.
Somehow, when I had my back turned, he proudly returned with the bucket, to which he had punched a bunch of holes in the bottom with a hammer and nail.
Ah well, I guess well have to look for a new bucket at the thrift stores, and will have a nice, big pot of tulips at some point in the spring.
In the past, I have planted tulips too late and then the tree canopy reaches out and the tulips have to stretch to get the sun they need.
With a pot, you can just move it around in the yard to help the tulips stand up tall.
Theres some cool, basic info about tulips on a British Web site at: http://tulips.blomsbulbs.com.
Thanks to all the readers who sent in holiday treat recipes, including a really bizarre one fans should enjoy. (Hint: It has to do with kitty litter).

Hilarious gag cake recipe

And we mean “gag” in more ways than one.

Thanks to our reader for sharing this.

KITTY LITTER CAKE
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