Walk2Write in Florida

A Sunday Leftovers Story

2012-01-30T08:54:00.000-06:00

The poorest experience is rich enough for all the purposes of expressing thought. Why covet a knowledge of new facts? Day and night, house and garden, a few books, a few actions, serve us as well as would all trades and all spectacles. We are far from having exhausted the significance of the few symbols we use. We can come to use them yet with a terrible simplicity. It does not need that a poem should be long. Every word was once a poem. Every new relation is a new word... (Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays, "The Poet, 1844")

Yesterday morning we visited a church we had never been to before. We've passed by it many times in the past year as we travel back and forth between Tallahassee and Havana and wondered what sort of place it might be. The church website doesn't give much indication of its nature. In fact, it doesn't make much sense. You would think that if some entity is trying to make itself known to the world, it would use some elegance of expression or at least clearly describe its mission or purpose for being. Maybe their Facebook page does a better job. I'm not sure because I don't use that particular social medium. A blog and a Twitter account already occupy too much of my time!

At any rate, upon our visit to the church that offers new hope--what's wrong with the old one, I'd like to know?--we discovered the members of the congregation to be friendly enough (and wonderfully diverse), the sermon enlightening (if a little too emphatically delivered), and the music uplifting. Though we may not be going back, I'm glad that we did make the effort. The whole experience was just what I needed to fine tune a story that I had written very early in the morning. It sharpened the knife, so to speak, that trimmed the fat and carved the roast, I mean the story, to be served up for your dining, I mean reading, pleasure. Please help yourself here in my other kitchen (Big Bend Over Easy in Florida) and enjoy our Sunday leftovers!

Subsidies? 'Fur' Sure!

2012-01-19T15:47:00.000-06:00

Once in a while it's nice to get off this speeding bullet train called life. From the back porch of our temporary home, the lakeside tree house, we witness progress of a different sort. What we think might be a northern river otter, Lutra canadensis, pops its head up from the muck and chomps noisily on some crunchy morsel. A fish made sluggish by the cold winter water or perhaps a frog venturing forth from the cold mud becomes supper for this member of the weasel family. As I try unsuccessfully to capture it in focus on the camera, I think about the trappers and fur traders who once made a substantial income from its ancestors' hides.

Beavers, otters, muskrats, and minks were at one time so popular as winter outerwear for wealthy Europeans that our own Congress under President George Washington agreed to subsidize the fabulously profitable fur industry. Something unthinkable today, this subsidy encouraged the slaughter of thousands of animals for the sake of a fashion statement. Thank goodness that was short-lived, the fashion I mean. Subsidies continue in perpetuity even though entrepreneurs like John Jacob Astor proved without a doubt that private industry prevails over the lumbering giant known as Government. Just about anything you can think of in this country is subsidized in part or in its entirety by tax dollars: Education, healthcare, ethanol production, farming, ranching, solar power, wind power, oil and gas production, churches.... Help me out here. I know there are more things to add to the list.

Aristocracy never really disappeared from this country. It just morphed into elitism that preys on sluggish minds: We know what's good for you. We must continue those subsidies, or else!

There is something so massive, stable, and almost irresistibly imposing, in the exterior presentment of established rank and great possessions, that their very existence seems to give them a right to exist; at least, so excellent a counterfeit of right, that few poor and humble men have moral force enough to question it, even in their secret minds. Such is the case now, after so many ancient prejudices have been overthrown; and it was far more so in ante-revolutionary days, when the aristocracy could venture to be proud, and the low were content to be abased....

Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables, 1851

Occupy Destin(ation)--A Christmas Visit to the Redneck Riviera

2011-12-28T11:52:00.000-06:00

Peanut, the Christmas tree occupier

Peanut occupied the space beneath the Christmas tree where the presents usually go. Her food and water bowls were full, the litter box was clean and ready for use, so what did she care that the presents were loaded into the car instead of piled up on the tree skirt? She didn't so much as wave a paw as we shut and locked the front door behind us.

Instead of the usual gathering at one of our homes, this year for Christmas we decided to occupy Destin, also known as the World's Luckiest Fishing Village. This being the off season, hotel rooms were cheap. We stayed at a fairly new, very nice one not far from Harbor Walk, and the cost was only $59 a night (plus tax). You don't have to wait for your ship to come in to enjoy a weekend stay here in winter.

There were plenty of things to see and do to keep a busy boy occupied and still for a few minutes.

Grandson would gladly have lent a hand in this catch but perhaps not so eager to help with the cleaning of the fish. He thinks he's already old enough to go on a deep sea fishing trip. Maybe next year.

We were fortunate to have a warm, sunny day for Christmas Eve. Grandson's other grandma had come for a week-long visit and said this was the first really nice day they'd had all week.

One of Grandson's favorite places to go in Destin or in Spanish Fort, Alabama is Bass Pro Shop. His daddy has been to the original, flagship store in Springfield, Missouri. He was just as fascinated by the fish swimming around the huge tank there, even though they were bass and catfish instead of redfish and jack cravelle.

While Grandson went down for a much-needed nap in his parents' room and his other grandma prepared a wonderful Peruvian meal for us, Daughter, SAM, and I took a walk on the beach. You can find snowmen even here in Florida, though they tend to sag a bit. Sand doesn't pack as well as the stuff the real ones are made of.

Sometimes they decide to get a suntan on the beach. This one was sans bathing attire. I guess he doesn't know this ain't the French Riviera. It's the Redneck Riviera, buddy, and they don't allow that kind of thing here. Count your blessings...

'Sandy Claws' Rides Again

2011-12-22T08:54:00.000-06:00

Father Christmas (Santa Claus?) Bearing Gifts by Goat
(picture from article about Santa Claus in Wikipedia )

Now that the kids are grown and (mostly) moved away from the family nest--wherever that happens to rest at the moment--I miss those bedtime stories we used to enjoy together. Winter nights are especially difficult. The early onset of darkness and its companion COLD keep us inside with hours to go before we sleep.

Shall I read to you, dear? Television has no more allure. We've both exhausted our gender-determined word allowances for the day. Let's open a book--novel idea!--and see if we can kill a little time, dispel the darkness, find some meaning in life, ignore that bottle of French brandy sitting on the counter...

So we climb into bed, and I open a new favorite Christmas story. It's Bret Harte's short story "How Santa Claus Came to Simpson's Bar." I found it in one of the red-bound, Black's Reader Service Company books that Mom gave me from Dad's extensive book collection. Now you might think it's a strange one to choose from a veritable treasure trove of stories concocted about the old fellow over hundreds of years. I guess I like it because it's not your traditional sappy story. It's written by a man whose genius captures his fellow Americans, male and female, simultaneously as the fools they are and the heroes that they become. I have to wonder. Are we really as complicated and conflicted as that? Not so easily pigeon-holed or neatly wrapped and ribboned as social and political scientists would have us be?

Better not think too much. "Do not all charms fly/ At the mere touch of cold philosophy?" (Keats, "Lamia")

Jane Austen: No Swooning Allowed

2011-12-16T17:46:00.000-06:00

If not for SAM's cold--probably contracted whilst celebrating at Walk2Write's post-graduation party last Sunday (a bitterly cold day) on the patio of a local Mexican restaurant, somewhat warmed by propane heaters but still drafty--a visit by the irascible sister-in-law would be imminent this weekend. Fortunately, or not as you might imagine, the weekend was saved, and there was another celebration of sorts. Walk2Write was alerted to the fact that today is the 236th anniversary of Jane Austen's birthday. Love and Friendship was read and enjoyed for the first time ever by yours truly and SAM, whilst on the deck of their tree house, warmed by the afternoon sun and each other's company. It doesn't get any better than this and probably shouldn't.

Merry Christmas and may God bless you!

'Press On,' Literally

2011-12-09T08:48:00.001-06:00

If you have been following yours truly since the beginning of this blog, you know that the journal and the journey began with a dream. The dream may have been put on hold for a while, but the journey continued. I didn't want to talk about the dream anymore; it went into a box and was sealed up for a while.

Then we moved to Tallahassee, and the most amazing thing happened. The dream was so strong that it broke the seal on the box and danced around in my head again. Its rhythmic beat would not be still. So I let it play out, the whole song, the whole dream. Only I didn't want to share it again with ya'll. I kept it close to the chest and piled on the layers. Call it superstition if you like. I prefer to call it intuition.

School is now over, and the test has been taken
My faith has been tested, but it wouldn't be shaken
The reason is clear
If you choose to look here

"Press On" were the words
That I heard in my head
"Press On" were the words quite real
The words that often were spoken
The words that heal
The broken...

Dream

Walk2Write's Lasagna Theory of Social Penetration or How to Break the Ice

2011-12-01T09:39:00.000-06:00

By now, most people are aware of the Onion Theory of Communication or Social Penetration Theory. As someone who enjoys preparing and eating good food, I have to wonder why the theory, originated by social psychologists Irwin Altman and Dalmas Taylor in the early 1970s, relies on the lowly onion to reveal such a complex idea. Maybe because it's now such a universal root, cultivated and eaten throughout most of the world? Given the current globalization and resulting complexity of everything, including cuisine, perhaps the time has come for consuming a new, more elaborate metaphor: Walk2Write's Lasagna Theory of Social Penetration.

I've been preparing this dish for more than 30 years so I know a thing or two about how it can spark a conversation and cement relationships. We (SAM and I) were newly wed, and it was the first dish I prepared for "important company," namely SAM's first boss and his wife. It made a favorable impression on them, and I was even asked for the recipe. I was overjoyed that it turned out so well, but why should I have been surprised? The recipe has only failed me one time, and that was when I prepared it in someone else's kitchen using her not-so-fresh ingredients. Yes, the quality of the ingredients make a big difference, so don't even think about using ancient pasta or cheese that's a little green around the edges. Conversation will fall flat on its face in a hurry.

The recipe (discourse) begins (I hope!):

1 pound of lean ground beef, turkey, or chicken
1 medium size onion, chopped finely
1 green pepper, chopped finely

Combine the above ingredients in a saucepan on medium heat until most of the moisture has evaporated. This step is important, and I'm guessing it's because the other ingredients' unique flavors would be lost in excess vapor when they are added later on. Have you ever noticed how the same kind of thing happens when someone or a select few dominate the conversation?

Add to saucepan:
28-32 ounces crushed tomatoes
12 ounces tomato paste
1 tsp. dried thyme
1 tsp. dried marjoram
1 tsp. dried oregano
1 tsp. dried basil
A few bay leaves
1/8 to 1/4 tsp. dried chipotle or other red pepper
1/2 cup dry red wine
1/3 cup honey (more or less depending on how acidic the tomatoes are)

Simmer for at least one hour over low heat with the lid slightly ajar. Remove bay leaves if you can find them. If they're as old as the hills, they can crumble and get lost in the sauce. It's sort of like what happens to an elderly statesman these days in a room full of freshman lawmakers.

Prepare a 13 x 9-inch glass pan by coating it liberally inside with olive oil. Ladle enough of the sauce in the pan to cover the bottom of it. Arrange dry lasagna noodles (I use whole wheat pasta) over the sauce to cover it. Reserve the rest of the meat/tomato sauce for the final layer.

Combine:
32 oz. small curd cottage cheese
2 large eggs
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese

Spread just enough of the above ingredients to cover the noodles. Cover with grated mozzarella. Repeat with another two layers (noodles and then cottage cheese mixture) but without sauce and without mozzarella. The final layer will consist of noodles, cottage cheese mixture, and the remaining meat/tomato sauce. I haven't mentioned the exact quantity of noodles required for the recipe because it varies. The brand you buy, the size and thickness of the noodle, the number of layers you decide upon: all of these factors determine how much you will use. It's much safer to speak in generalities at first anyway. People think you're weird if you get too specific or seem to know everything about a subject. There's no room for discussion. They think you think you're an expert, and the relationship is over before it begins.

Cover with heavy duty aluminum foil (necessary to cook the dry noodles). Bake in 375-degree (Fahrenheit) oven for at least one hour, maybe 1 1/4 hours, depending on the number of layers. Uncover pan (carefully! the trapped steam is very hot) and add enough grated mozzarella cheese to cover sauce. Return pan to oven and bake uncovered at 400 degrees for another 15 minutes or until cheese browns.

This is a dish suitable for guests, best served with a mixed green salad, some French or Italian bread drizzled with olive oil, and a bottle of dry red wine. Of note, it also works fairly well with the Chronobiotic nutrition plan that SAM and I are trying. It's a "shrub" dish (please see my earlier post). The eggs and the onion are the only exceptions to the rule of "shrub" since they're both considered "roots."

Peanut, the Skate-on-the-Stairs Cat

I must say that since I started on the Chronobiotic plan I've gotten a little lighter on my feet, to the tune of about four pounds, which is a very good thing. Peanut certainly keeps me on my toes, and I've gotten more adept at sidestepping things in my path. That includes conforming to the Onion Theory. I'd rather talk about lasagna.

The laminae have more stamina
The lamellae aren't as smelly
These layers are oh-so nice
When you're trying to break the ice

Florida Sinkhole: Thoughts About Writing

2011-11-25T07:29:00.000-06:00

Big Dismal Sink at Leon Sinks Geological Area, November 20, 2011

The depths to which you've sunk before,
The heights you scale today
These things are fit to talk about
The future's not okay

The water level in your swamp
Will drop before your eyes
The world made aware of it
Will cut it down to size

The vast majority of viewers
Wish you nothing but the best
It's the malcontent will take you down
The Heathcliff, hand in vest

It's nothing new and often seen
This saprophytic rite
The feeding on the fallen log
It's natural...all right?

So keep it light and funny
And laugh away the dark
Distract the negativity
Don't feed it any snark

The sign you've sent the malcontent
Is clear for all to see
The all who wish you always well
Enjoy your cup of "T."

Bystander Weekend in America: Have You 'Herd'?

2011-11-21T14:04:00.000-06:00

Our bystander weekend in America started last Friday in Pensacola, but the beach wasn't where we started standing by. While SAM used a paid vacation day and I adjusted my schedule, Son and Daughter-in-law both took a half-day off without pay for something that took five years to realize: Daughter-in-law's naturalization ceremony for U.S. citizenship. Freedom in America ain't free. In fact, it's fairly expensive. There's the cost of the application itself, legal assistance if you're confused by the process, as well as frequent travel to and from immigration offices. Our DIL had to go to back and forth to New Orleans and Jacksonville several times over the past several years to prove something. Lawful resident status, I guess?

According to the Honorable Roger Vinson, District Judge, who presided over the occasion, citizenship is an equal opportunity, not a commodity. In other words, it can't be bought or sold. Several snickers proceeding from the peanut gallery (the result of a standing-room-only crowd) made it clear that not everyone in the room believed him. Yours truly was one of the peanut gallery bystanders. The incredulous behavior probably comes from being primed. Reading things like The EB5 Path to Citizenship (Invest One Million Dollars in Florida Real Estate, and You're In!) tends to make you wonder where this country is headed. That EB5 Visa thing is nothing new, by the way. The U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service has been stacking the deck in favor of wealth and fame (officially) since 1991. Bystander effect, indeed. Really, what can one of the herd do about any of it? Shut up and pay your taxes, I guess.

We are very proud of DIL for all of her hard work and patient effort to gain citizenship. She's one in a million.

After all of that standing by, shoeless, sore-footed SAM and I picked up our grandson from daycare and headed for the beach, and Son and DIL went to work. Grandson had to miss the ceremony. Can you imagine a 4-year-old standing and waiting patiently and quietly for hours while a bunch of people spoke of and listened teary-eyed to things like "true faith and allegiance" to the Constitution of the United States? I'm of the opinion that every U.S. citizen, not just the naturalized ones, should have to swear this oath at one point or another. It's prime stuff for thinking about service, integrity, honor, freedom, responsibility...And then there were the songs. Dr. Leo Day sang The Star Spangled Banner to begin the morning's proceedings and ended them by singing America the Beautiful in English, Spanish, and German. There's nothing like music to reinforce some powerful ideas.

While I walked around and sifted and stored some more ideas in my already overloaded brain files, SAM and Grandson dug something up from a hole in the sand.

Ghost crab (Ocypode quadrata) on the beach at Pensacola Pass

We joked with Grandson about having crab for supper. He was having none of our nonsense. The crab was set free and claimed by the sea.

Chronobiotic Nutrition--Just-in-Time Eating from a Gardener's Perspective

2011-11-09T09:31:00.000-06:00

Many years ago when I was preparing for a career in food-service management, I ran across a useful concept developed by Japanese manufacturers: Just-in-time production. It's defined by the Institute for Manufacturing at the University of Cambridge as "a management philosophy and not a technique." Originally referring to the "production of goods to meet customer demand exactly in time, quality and quantity," it's now used by many management professionals as a "means of producing with minimum waste," which is understood to include time, resources, and materials. Does it sound like a win-win scenario? Japan's own Toyota Corporation sure thought so and implemented this philosophy dreamed up by Taiichi Ohno, now known as the Father of JIT.

At that time in my life, it (JIT) was just another acronym--skeleton of a word--to absorb and memorize for a test. Now I understand its full implication for me as a gardener, a consumer, a wife, a mother, a student...
Looking at the picture of SAM and me in my last post gave me an idea. Why not use time to improve the way we consume food and thereby enhance our productivity and, ultimately, appearance? I'm talkin' bloat here, right now.

Over the years, I've noticed that if I eat certain foods at certain times of the day, my digestive system strongly objects. Ahem! I could clear a room in five seconds, if you know what I mean. I didn't understand the correlation between time and food. Now I do.

According to Marcella Vonn Harting's book "Yes, No, Maybe" Chronobiotic Nutrition, instead of dieting, we should be concerned with "being on time in time all the time" and "celebrate eating foods at precise times of day for specific health results." Our body processes, as in every living thing, are governed by circadian rhythms. Light and darkness affect us mentally, physically, and behaviorally. They also affect the things that grow that we consume: plants and animals. The sun and the moon, solar and lunar effects, somehow tell our bodies when to produce certain enzymes, hormones, and proteins that keep us going, strong or not, depending on what and, most importantly, when we ingest.

I'm about a third of the way through the book and just started following the dietary recommendations at the beginning of this week, so it's too early to tell if things are changing for the better. And this week is a strange one in the scheme of things. The last few days' schedule are a little mixed up. Ordinarily, we would eat "Tree" things like tree fruits and nuts first thing in the morning; "Shrub" things like veggies, vine fruits, meat protein, and dairy products for lunch; and "Root" items like carrots, potatoes, turnips, parsnips, seafood, and eggs for dinner. The first few days before the full moon and the first few days after it mix things up. Right now we're supposed to be eating "Roots" in the morning. Okay, eggs and potatoes seem like good breakfast items but shrimp, carrots, and onions? SAM is not entirely on board with this idea. He's a little concerned about the onions I added to the mix this morning. They're somewhat of a deterrent to social interaction, especially at the office.

Crystallized Ginger

Before he headed out the door with his lunch of an apple, pear, assorted nuts, and shaved coconut, I handed him a small bag of these homemade goodies: Crystallized ginger slices. Guaranteed to freshen breath and aid digestion but for optimal results probably best consumed before 11:30 a.m. They're in the root category, after all.

SAM's fluorite octahedron

Now if only rocks like this octahedron were part of the plan, SAM the geologist would be grateful for my efforts to improve our nutrition. Nah, they're too pretty and, according to SAM, valuable to eat.

Just Stopping By--Dead Man's Sink and Monarch Butterflies

2011-10-31T13:09:00.000-05:00

Monarch butterflies on Baccharis halimifolia (salt-marsh elder aka Consumption Weed)

Secret Aging Man (SAM) and I both agreed on Saturday morning that we were ready for a change of scenery. How about the Aucilla River Sinks Trail? I had received a forwarded e-mail from someone earlier in the week. It promoted an upcoming field trip to this place, known for its abundance of wildflowers and unusual geologic features. Perfect for us! we thought--that is, until we met the man in the cherry-red truck.

Josh, he said his name was, and, now that I think about it, I don't think the name was a coincidence. We were lost, you see, having driven down dusty back roads for the better part of three hours. The map we had printed from an Internet site was pathetic, and the Suwannee Water Management District signs weren't very helpful either. True to our low-tech nature, we didn't have a GPS device on hand to direct our course and pinpoint our destination. Enter Josh, the man in the truck. Ya'll aren't from around here. Plannin' to drive that car down these here roads? Why yes, we're looking for this trail, you see, and we've been driving down these roads for a while now, looking for it...

Monarch butterflies not too proud to share the feast with some Common Buckeyes

He told SAM to pull up behind him just past the intersection of two more dusty roads. They both got out of the vehicles, he proceeded to introduce himself and his "wife" (who looked about 14 years old, according to SAM), and then he gestured in the direction of one part of the trail. The men walked several yards in that direction, and I missed most of the rest of their conversation while I waited in the car. I did hear something about Dead Man's Sink, people never being seen again after straying too far from the main road, and this here bein' drug runnin' country. By the time SAM made it back to the car, I had already made up my mind. Let's skip the Sinks Trail and go to St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge instead.

We were both glad we did, because the Monarch butterflies were just stopping by on the way to Mexico, and the Muhly grass was showing off its pretty pink fluffiness all over the place.

Muhlenbergia capillaris seen at St. Mark's NWR

After driving around for hours, a walk was just what we needed. It was a sunny and very windy afternoon. Unlike Maria in James Joyce's story "Clay" (Dubliners), by the time we were ready to go home I wasn't "coloured with shame and vexation and disappointment" for having lost something because of confusion--plumcake in her case, time in ours. My cheeks were almost as rosy as Muhly grass from the sun, the wind...

Love is...a blind--for bird watchers

and the afternoon's adventure shared with my cohort in confusion.

SAM and Walk2Write on a trail at St. Mark's National Wildlife Refuge

(I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls...But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, That you loved me still the same...)

Progressively Profligate Pumpkins

2011-10-26T10:30:00.000-05:00

"When Pumpkins Drink" Original Source: Unknown.

I know. It's shocking. I thought I should warn you in case you're planning a Halloween party. The repeal of the popular-with-Progressives 18th Amendment (Prohibition or Volstead Act) should have excluded pumpkins. They are, after all, naturally seedy characters and prone to this sort of behavior. Keep your sharp knives, booze, and car keys as far away from those pumpkins as possible.

I'm Sorry For Being Such a Lazy Blogger, But I'm Still on Twitter!

2011-10-24T14:35:00.000-05:00

You know how people put themselves on budgets to stop wasting so much money and maybe save some of it? I've never been good at budgeting money. Hey, I came of age when people in the U.S. started thinking that money grew on trees. Maybe they (we) were right. If there's not enough in the Treasury to pay the bills, just borrow like there's no tomorrow and print more of it!

Now instead of just money (or the lack thereof) being a problem for me, time has entered into the picture. Or rather, it has fled the scene. So I don't get to prepare those elaborate posts like I used to, and I don't get around to visiting my blogging friends like I used to. Bummer!

Anyway, since I have a time deficit, I thought the best way to make more of it (for blogging) was to save it for important stuff. I'll let you know when I figure out what that might be. In the meantime, you can still find me on Twitter, tweeting about things I find interesting. Check out the new button on my sidebar. Please stop by and say hi on Twitter. And if you tweet, let me know. I'll try to keep up with your chirps or whatever they're called. Birds of a feather, you know?

Down to One Comment? 'Nuff Said.

2011-09-23T20:21:00.000-05:00

Down to one comment? Well, there was that odd so-and-so I deleted who said something about American women not being worth their salt. Would it be weird to say that I've been waiting for this moment? The time when comments of mine haven't exactly been spilling over to fill someone else's cup. Or the time when my thoughts haven't been vibrating at exactly (let's be real: not even close to) the same frequency as the places where those comments are frequently made? It must be something in the water or the air. Or should I call 1-800-BAD-DRUG? Gotta blame someone or something. Nah! Just the fact that human nature is fickle, blogs are finite, and life goes on in a different direction.

'Nuff said.

One Anguish in a Crowd, Do You Hear?: Things in the News That Fire the Imagination and Make a Sound

2011-09-22T11:48:00.000-05:00

If you live in New York or somehow keep up with the news (Internet, television, newspapers), you know there's a lot of stuff going on. Things to fire the imagination, if nothing else. Besides the Palestinian statehood issue being discussed at the United Nations, former President Bill Clinton is heading up his annual Global Initiative meeting. Today marks the last day for panel discussions among leaders from around the world. Lots of interesting topics on the agenda. It's not yesterday's news. You can watch it and hear it happening live right now. Better hurry, though. Time's almost up. Then it will be history. Stuff to write about.

One hundred days from today, the year will end. There were as many days left in 1862 when Abraham Lincoln issued his Emancipation Proclamation, scheduled to take effect on January 1, 1863. Ever wonder how the idea of slavery stoked the American literary imagination during that time and even before when the Fugitive Slave Law was in effect? It's not difficult to find plenty of examples. Walt Whitman, John Greenleaf Whittier, Emily Dickinson....

Poets with an ear to the ground, listening to friends, neighbors, pastors, families talk about their fears, hopes, and plans for their place in this country's future. Poets reading the newspaper articles that carried details of bloody battles like the one at Antietam. Letters from loved ones wounded on the front lines made it clear. From a military standpoint, that particular battle was a draw, meaning nobody lost or won. From the standpoint of political strategists on the Union side, it was declared a victory (Lee withdrew his troops) and gave Lincoln the fuel he needed to stoke the fire of public opinion. An Emancipation Proclamation, an Executive Order, was written, not a repealable thing, and the rest is history.

One Anguish--in a Crowd--
A Minor thing--it sounds--
And yet, unto the single Doe
Attempted of the Hounds

'Tis Terror as consummate
As Legions of Alarm
Did leap, full flanked, upon the Host--
'Tis Units--make the Swarm--

A Small Leech--on the Vitals--
The sliver, in the Lung--
The Bung out--of an Artery--
Are scarce accounted--Harms--

Yet mighty--by relation
To that Repealless thing--
A Being--impotent to end--
When once it has begun--

(a poem by Emily Dickinson, c. 1862)

Moon to Earth: Testing 1, 2, 3?

2011-09-16T12:35:00.000-05:00

Tuesday, in case you didn't know, was a full moon day. Nothing out of the ordinary. A full moon appears with great regularity. If it didn't, we'd be in a boatload of trouble. Tides wouldn't occur as scheduled. The whole rhythm of the planet would be off, and time wouldn't occur as we know it. The moon has such an effect on the Earth that the rate at which we are spinning around the sun is slowing ever so gradually while the moon's rotation is accelerating. According to this site, nineplanets.org, it's only about 1.5 milliseconds per century, but the moon is ascending to a higher orbit at the rate of 3.8 cm per year. The Earth is in a constant state of torque, thanks to the moon.

As SAM was leaving for work Tuesday morning, the sun's appearance on the eastern horizon was heralded--or was it eclipsed?--by the setting of the moon in the western sky. The sight of it was just too beautiful to ignore.

Tuesday evening, I was sharing a meal with a group of people. We were celebrating the end of one term and looking forward to the beginning of another. One of the women in the group asked me how I had done on a test the night before. I had missed one question. I hate you, she said. Really? No. She laughed. She didn't mean it. Still, the words somehow stung. Should I fail so that someone else can feel good about herself?

Last week, another woman in our group started a lively discussion with one of those "what if" questions. She asked us if we (the women in the group) would be willing to carry someone else's baby (an implanted embryo, previously frozen) if the mother of the egg and the father of the sperm were unable to conceive in the usual fashion. While we puzzled over the question, she added that allowing the pregnancy to proceed would keep the embryo from being discarded. Various opinions were voiced, and even the instructor chimed in. An Arab-American and devout Muslim, he agreed with me that life is sacred but added that it would be foolish and just plain wrong for a woman to carry someone else's baby inside of her womb. If the real parents could not have a child in the normal way, it must be some kind of test for them. Warping their usual orbit around each other. Making life just a little less harmonious, synchronicity askew. Causing them to ask. Why?

Life does that to us. Torquing, twisting, testing...1, 2, 3. I remember my dad, with a wry smile, asking, Why me, Lord? whenever something bad happened to him. He used to tell a joke about a nice guy named Marvin whose whole world began to fall apart around him. Marvin would ask the Lord why? but was always met with silence. His friends had plenty of reasons why and weren't shy about sharing them. They thought Marvin had become such a loser because he had done something wrong. Marvin kept denying it and proclaimed his innocence. No one believed him. According to the joke, not even the Lord did. Finally, the Lord spoke to Marvin and his friends. There's just something about you, Marvin, that really pisses me off.

My dad usually had a great sense of humor, but I never thought that joke was funny. It's a perversion of the book of Job in the Bible. The part about the friends is true and so is Job's claim of innocence. I guess it's difficult to believe that anyone could be that righteous. Unstained. Faithful. Impossible? Why?

If I have put my trust in gold

or said to pure gold, 'you are my security,'

if I have rejoiced over my great wealth,

the fortune my hands had gained,

if I have regarded the sun in its radiance

or the moon moving in splendor,

so that my heart was secretly enticed

and my hand offered them a kiss of homage,

then these also would be sins to be judged,

for I would have been unfaithful to God on high.

If I have rejoiced at my enemy's misfortune

or gloated over the trouble that came to him---

I have not allowed my mouth to sin

by invoking a curse against his life---

(Book of Job, 31:24-30)

Make It Happen, Boat Cap'n--at Navarre Beach!

2011-09-02T13:17:00.000-05:00

Make It Happen, Boat Cap'n!

Somebody celebrated a birthday this week. Since she missed someone else's birthday celebration back in May, complete with a "party barge and brownies and cupcakes" per his request, she had a bright idea. Make it happen again. Boat Cap'n. Only this time there would be sandwiches, chips, and cookies. And this time the boat didn't set sail from Destin Harbor. Navarre Beach is more her style. More laid-back. Fewer people. Less expensive.

View of the bridge across Santa Rosa Sound to Navarre Beach from the Best Western on Highway 98.

She is, after all, of the age where night life is now defined by a comfortable bed, quiet, and lights out by 10 p.m. The other day she asked a couple of much younger friends to guess the year of her birth. I'll give you a hint, she said. It was the year John F. Kennedy was elected President of the United States. They were stumped. She didn't think it would help to add that the year ushered in a decade of literary jewels like To Kill A Mockingbird, Catch-22, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. According to this excellent website that chronicles America's cultural history, people, especially the younger crowd, were being drawn like flies to the idea of change in that decade. No, not that stuff that's left in your pocket after you get to pay your fair share these days.

And it's not "the change" often dreaded or maybe anticipated by women of a certain age. Speaking of drawing flies, there were some sort of blood-sucking critters taking over the beach for most of the weekend. The only way to avoid them was to keep on the move or jump in the water. The birthday girl and her party did a fair amount of both...

...whenever they could convince Boat Cap'n to give up on the fishing. If the flies were biting, the fish sure weren't.

One thing that hasn't changed much since the birthday girl first moved to Northwest Florida eight years ago is the amount of development at Navarre Beach. There's no pass like at Destin or Pensacola to enter the Gulf of Mexico so there's no fleet of fishing vessels or hordes of tourists clamoring to charter them. No fancy yachts here.

Tourists who do visit Navarre (and like it) don't mind stepping out of their room to see snapped off trees in a vacant lot next to the hotel--remnants of some hurricane or tropical storm that blew by. Sunrise has a way of softening the effect.

The early bird gets a good spot on the beach too. Even later in the day there aren't any bad spots on the beach. A state park occupies a large chunk of prime beachfront property. According to a gentleman who was out early picking up what little trash had accumulated from the night before, there will soon be artificial reefs in place here for fish to hide in and for snorkelers to explore. He's been a resident of Navarre since the mid 90s and looks forward to this kind of change. A gentle tweaking of the natural beauty rather than a facelift, tummy tuck, or breast enhancement.

Locals and tourists alike enjoy visiting the Gulf's longest fishing pier at Navarre Beach. The pier is celebrating its first anniversary. It had to be rebuilt anyway after being hammered repeatedly by storms a few years back so why not make it the longest? Before the birthday girl headed back to Tallahassee (after doing a drive-by snooting of the old homestead to see if the tenants have changed anything else by landscape looting), she and the original boat cap'n stopped by the pier to purchase some coffee. It was too early for beer...

Navarre Beachside Church

...and it was Sunday morning. If it hadn't been for the biting flies and the drive-by snooting still on the day's agenda, this church without walls would have been a fine place to spend an hour or two. The wind carried the sound of worship music and prayer all the way out to the end of the Gulf's longest fishing pier.

Upgrade Now--Or Else, Yahoos!

2011-08-23T12:19:00.000-05:00

For a few weeks now, whenever I've tried to check my e-mail, this message has popped up. Easier, faster, newest version. It's got to be better than the old classic, right? Wrong.

Take a look at what showed up on my screen today. Note the spelling error. "Newset?" Trust a Yahoo with my precious mail? Like Gulliver, I will--not! I'd rather believe that there really are Houyhnhnms.

...I gave the captain, Pedro de Mendez, a very short relation of my voyage, of the conspiracy against me by my own men, of the country where they set me on shore, and of my five years' residence there--all of which he looked upon as if it were a dream or a vision; whereat I took great offense, for I had quite forgot the faculty of lying, so peculiar to Yahoos, in all countries where they reside, and, consequently, the disposition of suspecting truth in others of their own species...

(from Gulliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift, 1726)

What Drives You?

2011-08-21T17:40:00.000-05:00

Daughter knows this song by the group Incubus quite well. I keep bugging her to play it for me when she picks up the guitar, which isn't often enough in my opinion. We usually sing together, but we've never tried the whistling bit shown on this video. Her grandpa would have loved that part. Maybe when she gets home. This weekend she is off visiting friends and family from where we used to live near Pensacola. Her 29th birthday is next week, and I remember the moment that made it all possible, Daughter-Mine. It's what drives me.

Luna Moth--'Dow's Flat' Relief

2011-08-11T21:09:00.000-05:00

Remains of Luna Moth, Actias luna, Lake Tallavana area

Do you ever have one of those mornings? A 'Dow's Flat' kind of morning? See below. You wake up, a miracle in itself. The sun is shining brightly again. A nice breeze is picking up, and the prospects for a long walk are looking mighty fine. Then the stuff hits the fan or at least the floor. My stuff this morning was a glass jar of mayonnaise that slipped from my hand and shattered into a million pieces on the kitchen tile. Walk delayed. Drat! Now it's going to be hot. The bugs will be bugging me. I'll be dripping sweat.

After covering myself with choice epithets from head to toe for being so clumsy and then cleaning up the million pieces of glass and mayo mess, I took that walk anyway. Sweat be damned!

The loop trail (road) is about 2.5 miles long and seemed punishing enough. I didn't expect to be rewarded. But there it was when I looked down at the road. The remains of a luna moth. And then I got to show it to the man who picks up the recyclables and hauls them off in his truck. And then the lady who was going the opposite direction from me stopped and stared at it. I'd passed her earlier on another part of the loop, and we greeted each other briefly. Now we were conversing, and she was smiling. Me too! I was, after all, carrying around a dead moth and showing it off like it was a marvelous thing. It was. "Dow's Flat" relief.

Dow's Flat

1856

Dow's Flat. That's its name.

And I reckon that you

Are a stranger? The same?

Well, I thought it was true,--

For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at

First view.

It was called after Dow,--

Which the same was an ass,--

And as to the how

Thet the thing kem to pass,--

Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here

in the grass:

You see this yer Dow
Hed the worst kind of luck;
He slipped up somehow
On each thing thet he struck.
Why, ef he'd a straddled that fence-rail the derned thing 'ed
Get up and buck.

He mined on the bar
Till he couldn't pay rates;
He was smashed by a car
When he tunnelled with Bates;
And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five
Kids from the States.

It was rough,--mighty rough;
But the boys they stood by,
And they brought him the stuff
For a house, on the sly;
And the old woman,--well, she did washing, and took on
When no one was nigh.

But this yer luck of Dow's
Was so powerful mean
That the spring near his house
Dried right up on the green;
And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to
Be seen.

Then the bar petered out,
And the boys wouldn't stay;
And the chills got about,
And his wife fell away;
But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous
Way.

One day,--it was June,--
And a year ago, jest,--
This Dow kem at noon
To his work like the rest,
With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a derringer
Hid in his breast.

He goes to the well,
And he stands on the brink,
And stops for a spell
Jest to listen and think;
For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir!) you see, kinder
Made the cuss blink.

His two ragged gals
In the gulch were at play,
And a gownd that was Sal's
Kinder flapped on a bay;
Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,--as I've
Heer'd the folks say.

And--That's a peart hoss
Thet you've got,--ain't it now?
What might be her cost?
Eh? Oh!--Well, then, Dow--
Let's see,--well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his sir, that
Day anyhow.

For a blow of his pick
Sorter caved in the side,
And he looked and turned sick,
Then he trembled and cried.
For you see, the dern cuss had struck--"Water?"--
Beg your parding, young man, there you lied!

It was gold,--in the quartz,
And it ran all alike;
And I reckon five oughts
Was the worth of that strike;
And that house with the coopillow's his'n,--which the same
Isn't bad for a Pike.

Thet's why it's Dow's Flat;
And the thing of it is
That he kinder got that
Through sheer contrariness;
For 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck
Made him certain to miss.

Thet's so. Thar's your way
To the left of yon tree;
But--a--look h'yur, say?
Won't you come up to tea?
No? Well, then, the next time you're passin'; and ask after
Dow,--and thet's me.

(A poem by Bret Harte)

Hydrotherapy for the Soul--Time for Ichetucknee

2011-08-09T11:42:00.000-05:00

Saturday's plans for a float trip at Ichetucknee Springs State Park nearly fell apart. The three of us--SAM, Daughter, and I--certainly needed a break from the daily routine. SAM's daytime job gets a little stressful at times. Daughter has been busy trying to build her massage practice here in Tallahassee (not an easy task in this economy). I was ready to get away from thinking about something that happened to me Friday evening. It's not something I can talk about just yet because it involves future plans. Call it superstition if you want, but talking about the future, at least here on the blog, usually gets me into hot water. So a little of the cold stuff (spring-fed river water) would be just the ticket. I consider it hydrotherapy for the soul.

Saturday morning the three of us sat around sipping our coffee and tea, trying to decide if we wanted to make the effort and the drive east and south to visit Ichetucknee. SAM reminded us that the trip would require a tight schedule. First, we'd want to check in at a hotel in Lake City on Saturday afternoon. Next, we'd go visit the High Springs downtown area, something we missed on our last visit. Then (after having secured reservations by phone on the way), we'd enjoy dinner at the Great Outdoors Restaurant in High Springs and maybe catch some live music on the patio. Finally, after (hopefully) a good night's sleep and early breakfast at the hotel, we'd be on our way to the springs for a tube float trip, arriving at the state park no later than 8 a.m. Any later than that, and you risk not being admitted. The park allows only a limited number of tubers per day because of parking space, for safety's sake, and to limit human impact on the pristine environment as much as possible. Good luck with that one!

Whew! What an agenda we were committing ourselves to. The alternative, though, was way less appealing. Stay inside all day and be bored. You really don't want to be outdoors much right now. A certain lethargy takes hold of the body and maybe the mind when the temp and percent humidity hits the 90s.

A program I watched on TV while we were waffling about our weekend plans, though, gave me just the boost of get-up-and-go that I needed (kick in the keester?). In the Heat of the Night was on one of those cable networks that feature shows from the latter half of the twentieth century. In case you're not familiar with the story, Carroll O'Connor plays Sheriff Bill Gillespie who upholds the law in a small Mississippi town called Sparta. I think the timeframe is the mid 80s when civil rights still simmered on the back burner in the South.

Sheriff Gillespie is a true Southern gentleman with a heart of gold. In this particular episode that kicked me in the keester, he takes time out of his busy schedule to visit a man in prison he had arrested for bank robbery and murder some years earlier. The man is scheduled for execution by lethal injection and wants the sheriff to be in charge of what little he has left in the world. The sheriff is puzzled as to why this man has chosen him, The Man, of all people, to handle his estate. It's simple, the elderly black man says. It's because you do what's right. The man wants the sheriff to be there the next day when the execution is to take place, and at first the peace officer declines, saying he has a busy schedule and has to immediately return to Sparta. Time. It makes prisoners of us all, doesn't it?

Long story short, the sheriff does the right thing again. At the prisoner's request, he reads a passage from the Bible, John 11: 25-26. I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in me will never die... And the next day as the man's right to life is stolen by the State (The Man?), the sheriff is there as witness, keeping eye contact with the prisoner, letting him know that someone who shares his faith cares about him. Gillespie frees himself from time's shackles.

Did we really need to go on this trip? Spend the money on fuel, food, and accommodations to free ourselves from time's shackles just to keep from being bored? It wouldn't be a noble gesture like Gillespie's, but what might come of being among other people who would submit to a tight time schedule on the weekend just to float down a cool river? It didn't take long to find out.

Before we went to dinner on Saturday evening, we decided to take advantage of the social hour at the Cabot Lodge where we were staying the night. We had been to the one in Gainesville before and enjoyed talking to strangers (imagine that!) while nibbling on snacks and sipping a glass of wine or two. This time was no different. We met a couple about our age from the Orlando area who were planning a float trip with their two grown children the next morning. There was something about the man and his wife that made conversation with them as natural as taking a dip in a cold spring on a hot day. When they sat down next to us, we were watching a news program about the heap of trouble this country/world is in right now. Who knows what's going to happen next? Funny thing, we all came to the same conclusion. The Man (of Galilee) knows. Not to worry. Pray for each other? Keep in touch? Sure.

We saw the couple with their kids the next morning, Sunday, bright and early, and wished them a safe journey down the river and home again.

Itsy-Bitsy Spider Flouts Copyright Laws, Copies Web Design, and Gains Own Following

2011-07-29T14:17:00.000-05:00

Golden-Silk Spider, Nephila clavipes, resting on its artwork

Oh, you Itsy-Bitsy spider, you're getting mighty big.
With all the bugs you've eaten, I ought to call you "pig."
But out from Charlotte's Web fans would come a mighty yell
That "this itsy-bitsy spider her own story must spell!"

A recent blog post by a fellow Floridian, Mary Lemmenes, got me thinking. And then a post by Arlee Bird of Tossing It Out fame got me thinking even more. Mary expressed concern about how discouraging plagiarism is to artists who want to be discovered and sell their work on the Web. It seems that there are unscrupulous people out there (online) who steal ideas/stories/artwork and put them on their own websites, trying to make money with stolen "property.". And Arlee pretty much said that putting my derivative story based on Winnie-the-Pooh and friends (written and illustrated when I was nine years old) on the Web would probably result in legal action by Pooh's modern-day handlers.

Hmm. I think I'll check into this whole derivative/copyright thing a little more closely. Someone might decide to copy and profit from a work of mine before I have a chance to say anything about it. Like, wow, I'm impressed that you can make money from this stuff. I sure can't. Or maybe I don't want to.

After a while--it does take more time these days--the old brain really started to work. I thought to myself: Self, it's a good thing that spiders don't need or pay attention to copyright laws. Otherwise, they'd be hiding their "artwork" (webs) which would never be discovered by those bugs they like to catch and eat, and you, self, would be covered up with bugs a mile thick.

By the way, does anyone happen to know who wrote the song and lyrics to Itsy-Bitsy Spider? I'd like to give credit where credit is due. I just hope whoever it is doesn't expect any royalties from me for borrowing an idea.

Long Ago and Far Away: Is Water Hyacinth Here to Stay?

2011-07-27T12:42:00.000-05:00

Water Hyacinth, Eichhornia crassipes, on Lake Tallavana

While drinking my coffee on the deck Saturday morning, I indulged in some lake gazing. What's this thing? Overnight, a raft of purple flowers and lush vegetation has parked itself in plain view. Will it stay? In one sense, yes. According to this UF IFAS site, the Center for Aquatic and Invasive Plants, water hyacinth has been making itself at home in the United States since at least 1884, when it made an appearance at an exposition in New Orleans. Originally from Brazil, it sure is pretty to look at but not so pretty in terms of what it can do to a lake or river if left to its own devices.

A raft like this one can double in size in a matter of a week or two and spreads easily either vegetatively or by sexual reproduction (seed dispersal). It may have gotten its start here on this lake by a piece of it being carried in on someone's boat propeller (an example of the vegetative method of reproduction). It could have been introduced by someone dumping a fish aquarium into the water. Or, maybe someone thought since it looked so wonderful in one of those backyard water features, it would really spruce things up out on the open water. Oh, yes. You can buy these things online and make your pet fish think they're living it up on the Amazon River.

Still in my pajamas, I fussed with the camera and fumed (blame too much coffee?) at yet another example of humans' carelessness with Mother Nature. SAM and Micah, blissfully unaware of Grandma's numinous musings, had already cast off for a morning of fishing.

Now that water hyacinth may be here to stay, what's a person to do? Fume or fish? Maybe a little of both but certainly not at the same time.

'Get a Life!'

2011-07-18T13:18:00.001-05:00

We now live in a tree house!

"Get a life!" Early on Saturday afternoon, these words rang out from the property across the street. I was on the front porch showing Daughter my new plant acquisitions. I do like that word better than "purchases" for some reason. Maybe it's because it doesn't cause someone else's eyebrows or blood pressure to go up. We won't mention here who that someone else is. Anyway, the "acquisitions" came home with me from a tropical plant workshop at NFREC that morning. Get a life? Who, me? Neighbor lady--that I haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet but hear yelling fairly often--do you suppose I have nothing better to do than take pictures of plants and get all excited about adding more of them to the collection on the porch? You have no idea...

It could be that the cat generates an unfavorable impression of us. Peanut does tend to irritate the dogs across the street. She's free to roam, and they're not, at least not very often. Not that she ever does wander off. There's a chance she would miss some of the excitement around here.

I spotted this beauty, Hymenocallis 'Tropical Giant,' while helping move plants from the shade house at NFREC to the main building. There were quite a few pots to shuffle in order to get ready for the plant sale after the workshop. After helping clean up in the kitchen after the event, I was glad to see this plant still available for purchase. Four dollars seemed like a reasonable price to pay for such a stellar member of the Amaryllis family. The proceeds of the sale of this plant and the other ones we shuffled go to Gardening Friends of the Big Bend, an organization which supports NFREC's research efforts and organizes events like the workshop. Do you suppose being active in that kind of group qualifies one for Getting a Life?

Hymenocallis 'Tropical Giant'

Of course, I didn't bring my camera to take pics of the speakers, the beautiful flower arrangements designed by some of the more creative volunteers, or the many and varied plants for sale. I did, however, take copious notes of the speakers' presentations. Click on the pic below if you're interested in reading some of them.

One of the workshop presenters is a renowned ginger expert, Dave Skinner, who lives right here in Tallahassee. A retired state employee, he has his own website, GingersRus, dedicated solely to the many species of ginger, and he travels around the world scouting out and collecting new specimens.

Ginger Costus pictus 'Red Stem Form'

Mr. Skinner had his own plants for sale after the workshop, and I decided to add a couple of them to the ever growing collection of potted plants on our front porch. They did "cost us" a bit more than the GFBB's plant selections. I've come to the conclusion that it's not healthy to be a cheapskate all of the time. Gingers are fairly hardy in this zone, but I don't want to take any chances with this investment. The past couple of winters have been especially severe, and who knows what surprises await us for this next one?

Ginger Costus productus

I hope the 'Red Stem Form' gets a pretty flower bract like this one, but I won't be too disappointed. The spirally arranged leaves of the Costus gingers are enough to keep me fascinated. It doesn't take much to entertain me. Maybe the neighbor lady is right...

Malvaviscus arboreus 'Dwarf Pink' Turk's Cap

I was glad that NFREC's own Dr. Gary Knox talked a little about his work with tropical plants. He offered visitors a tour of the display gardens around the main building to give them an idea of what kinds of plants do well in this region. Hibiscus plants have always been a favorite of mine, but the kind that most nurseries sell are meant for real tropical climates. It's nice to know that there are hardy varieties we can grow right here like this Dwarf Pink Turk's Cap. According to this Floridata article, it's better suited for Zone 9 or higher, but it will grow and bloom in Zone 8. Even if frost nips it back, it's still fine underground and will send up new growth the next spring. Blooms might appear a little later in the summer than usual.

The other speakers besides Mr. Skinner included Hayes Jackson, an Extension Agent from Alabama who described his experience with a number of plants suitable for "tropicalesque" gardening. What does that mean exactly? According to Mr. Jackson:

"It's a landscape with a tropical feel to it."

"It's the utilization of tropical plants with bold textures and colors."

"It's the result of an overwhelming need to recreate a tropical resort in a climate not necessarily ideal for growing tropical plants."

Given the weather that many parts of the country have endured these past few winters, it's not unreasonable to expect that most people wouldn't mind escaping the harshness of winter to spend some time in a tropical resort, real or imaginary.

Secret Aging Man, a true Florida "afishionado"

While various gardening aficionados were spending time on Saturday morning learning about tropical landscaping, other "afishionados" were busy getting hooked (again) by their own particular passion. It's not unreasonable to expect people (especially those married to each other for a really l--o--n--g time) to have some different interests in life. I just wish I knew how to share that idea (politely) with the lady across the street. Do you think the offer of a few fish or--even better--a dinner invitation would help?

Independence Day Recipe: Dark Chocolate Blueberry Clusters

2011-07-02T12:19:00.000-05:00

A holiday like July 4th should include freedom from the kitchen

It's not easy to improve on Nature's little blue beauties. Though they do seem kinda plain and naked...

when dark chocolate enters the picture.

Taste one of these clusters, and those little blue beauties start looking a mite shabby without their chocolate robe.

Ingredients:

Fresh blueberries, gently washed and thoroughly dried, at room temperature. The amount varies, based on the size of berries. I didn't measure, but I probably used 4 or 5 cups. You want just enough naked berries to slip comfortably and completely into that silky robe of chocolate.

12 ounces dark chocolate--use a good quality kind, like Ghirardelli 60% Cacao, Bittersweet Chocolate

Microwave the chocolate in a heat-safe glass bowl, first for one minute and then thirty seconds at a time, stirring until smooth and completely melted.

Gently fold blueberries into the melted chocolate and drop by spoonfuls onto a wax paper covered cookie sheet.

Freeze for about 10 minutes or until chocolate is firm.

Clusters should be kept refrigerated and eaten with 24 hours. Around here, that's not a problem.

Happy Independence Day!

Encouragement from Other Bloggers

2011-06-20T13:22:00.000-05:00

I hadn't posted anything to the other blog, my fictional short story one, since last November, and I'm not sure why. Stories keep popping up in my mind, demanding to be dusted off or written for the very first time. Maybe all it took was a little encouragement from another blogger. A few weeks ago, writer E. J. Wesley left a nice comment on my last post on Big Bend Over Easy in Florida, so I figured it was time to add another story. Here's a link to a very-first-time story.

Landscape Looting, Sweat Equity, and a New Way of Living

2011-06-13T12:41:00.000-05:00

One day not long ago, a pair of walkers packed up all of their worldly belongings and set off to find their fame and fortune in Tallahassee. They thought that their modest home and garden near Pensacola would be in good hands with an experienced property manager watching over them. He promised that the tenants he had found would take care of and cherish this landscape the walkers considered was truly sweat equity.

Would it be okay if the tenants were to add a few plants of their own? They love to garden, you say? Well, then, what's a few more plants?

Oh! We see (courtesy of a concerned neighbor and friend). They've moved--among many things--mature, fruit-bearing trees during a drought to make room for their "few more plants." And they promise to change it back to the way it was if they decide they don't like it here. Nice thought! It would require way more than "seven maids with seven mops" (see below) to accomplish that feat.

The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.

The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand:
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"

"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear...

(excerpt from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass, 1871)

The same weekend that the pair of walkers were packing up all of their worldly belongings to seek their fame and fortune in Tallahassee, their pride and joy (Son and Daughter) were graduating together from Pensacola State College. No bitter tears shed here.

By the time all that pomp and circumstance was said and done, though, there weren't many dry eyes in the place.

Brother and sister graduating at the same time. One more step, completed together.

SAM has taken to the new way of living on a lake like...well, a fish takes to water! The landscape here suits him just fine.

This walker, for as long as she's allowed, will follow the eldest Oyster's example and stay put for a while. And this latest "oyster-bed" will not be disturbed. Even if she could afford "seven maids with seven mops," no sand sweeping (landscape looting) is necessary or desired.

A to Z Reflections Post

2011-05-04T01:03:00.000-05:00

Funny thing. I only missed two letters during the April 2011 A to Z Blogging Challenge. They vanished in the middle of the month when we moved out of the apartment and into the lake house: N and O. Together, they make a word that's not welcome in my vocabulary anymore. I am not sorry they are MIA.

For some reason, Lawrence Welk's goodnight song is getting mixed up in my head with a tune I learned as a Girl Scout:

Good night!
Sleep tight!
And pleasant dreams to you!

Make new friends, but keep the old...

Make a wish
And a prayer...

One is silver...

That all your dreams come true...

And the other's gold!

And sooo, till we
Meet again...

Adios!
Au revoir!
Auf Wiedersehen!

Good night!

Thanks to all of the fine folks who visited, paid their respects, and wished us well during this Challenge. We appreciate each and every one of you.

Thanks to Arlee Bird and the other hosts who made it all possible. Just in case you missed the long list of Challenge participants that I provided a link to with nearly every post, at the end of this post there's a blog hop with links to other bloggers who survived the Challenge and lived to post about it.

Go ahead and jump! Oh, no. Now, I've got this song stuck in my head. Someone, help, please! Give me some other music to think about, or I may be trapped in the 80s for who knows how long...

A to Z Blogging Challenge: Z is for Zippity Do Dah

2011-04-30T16:26:00.000-05:00

Z is for Zippity Do Dah

The sun was shining through the window this morning, and I could hear the birds outside singing. SAM asked me what I was going to post for Z today. This is the first Z thing that popped into my head and out of my mouth. It's not that I'm ecstatic because the Blogging Challenge is at an end :>)

I hope your day has been a Zippity Do Dah one!

A to Z Blogging Challenge: Y is for Yclept Yeager, Dr. Robert

2011-04-29T13:10:00.002-05:00

Geoffrey Chaucer, 1343-1400

Y is for Yclept Yeager, Dr. Robert

I like to give credit where credit is due.

That the credit is late doesn't (shouldn't?) matter to you.

You taught me from texts with English archaic

My papers, at first, you considered prosaic

The poets you said you admired were dead,

But you brought them to life with a nod of your head

The books that you held in the palm of your hand

Transported the class to Ye Olde England

It was magic you did, to this day I will claim

"Chaucer, Shakespeare, Sidney"--You invoked them by name

And the words that they wrote were revealed to me

As though they were living and fluid and free

No longer confined to the books that were bound

Their words that you spoke from your lips became sound

And the poetry written all those centuries ago

Could reverberate now in tones high and tones low

It was quite like a dance or a symphony or play

And the students were part of the show every day

We were not just your audience to admire your teaching

But expected to act and with our own words be reaching

The high expectations you set then before us--

They were never forgotten, though they now need a chorus

Of voices reminding to make those words written

Daily on keyboard and not intermittent

If now I complain there's too much on my saucer

I know you would say remember Geoffrey Chaucer:

The Knight "bigan with right a merye cheere

His tale anoon [meant now, not soon!], and saide as ye may heere..."

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "Y's" posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: X is for Railroad Crossing Sign

2011-04-28T10:35:00.000-05:00

X is for Railroad Crossing Sign

Just about anywhere in the world, you will find railway crossings. They are a sure sign of progress, or at least they used to be, in the United States. Now we have automobiles to ride in and roads on which to travel. Once upon a time, there were just railways to bring goods and carry people across vast distances. They opened up new territories to the settlers who built this country's small towns and big cities.

Those parallel lines--a sign of the changing times--laid across hills and valleys, tunneled through mountains, and suspended high above rivers and bays inspired writers like Stephen Crane to describe a special milieu. It was instantly recognizable to anyone who traveled by train and paid attention to what was happening around him. Certainly, majestic vistas caught the eye, but a sense of being hurtled into the unknown, which could be dangerous, was for many people also part of the experience. The old, familiar way of life appeared to be vanishing right before their eyes:

The great Pullman was whirling onward with such dignity of motion that a glance from the window seemed simply to prove that the plains of Texas were pouring eastward. Vast flats of green grass, dull-hued spaces of mesquite and cactus, little groups of frame houses, woods of light and tender trees, all were sweeping into the east, sweeping over the horizon, a precipice... (Stephen Crane, "The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky," first published in McClure's Magazine in 1898.)

Anymore, we don't usually associate trains with something bad happening like falling off a cliff since most of us rely on other modes of transportation. And therein lies a real danger. Is it a lack of sensibility or too much complacency that's the crux of a potential problem? Railroad crossings--where the modes intersect--and motorists who fail to pay attention to signs are not a good combination. It can't be that the warning signs aren't recognizable. They really haven't changed much over the years. A simple crossbuck or crux decussata (the Roman numeral ten) with the words "Railroad Crossing" clearly lets you know that there could be a train about to cross your path. You would be smart to stop, look, and listen for it, especially if there are no warning lights or mechanical arms descending to block your path.

It's estimated that a 150-car freight train traveling 50 miles per hour takes 1.5 miles to completely stop. So why do people ignore the warnings and take chances? I found an interesting site developed by the Florida Department of Transportation (FDOT) that chronicles with video some near-misses. Some of them will make the hair on the back of your neck stand up. They'll make you wonder if those drivers got their licenses from Cracker Jack boxes.

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for more "X's" posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: W is for Wee Ball

2011-04-27T10:35:00.000-05:00

W is for Wee Ball

When winter waxes into spring

With warmer days a curious thing

Will take its place in center ring

Wielding a bat, waiting for a turn...

We find a young'un eager to learn:

What do grownups do when they've time to burn?

When work is done at end of week,

Why grandparents through a fence will peek

While young'un takes a swing not meek

Walking up to stomp home plate,

Where years from now, if allowed by fate,

We'll cheer him on at faster rate

While taking time to contemplate

When young'un did play Wee Ball

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to other "W's" posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: V is for Viticulture in Florida

2011-04-26T08:20:00.000-05:00

V is for Viticulture in Florida

When we lived in southern Illinois, one of our favorite weekend activities--besides hiking--was visiting various vineyards and wineries located throughout the region. Viticulture has burgeoned into a vim-and-vinegar enterprise in Illinois over the past few decades. Here's a link to a YouTube video that explains some of the history behind the phenomenon. Quite a lot of the credit for the tremendous growth goes to partnerships established between industry leaders and university researchers. A great deal of public funding in the form of grants and low-interest loans has been made available over the past several decades for entrepreneurs to try their hand at winemaking. You might say it's a vin-vin situation for everyone concerned, including consumers like us.

Once we moved to Florida, I began to miss our weekend visits to the countryside to sample the fruit of the vine. Our first home in Florida, a rental place on Anastasia Island, afforded us a chance to stop by San Sebastian Winery in St. Augustine. There we discovered fine wines, yes, but a vineyard with rustic ambiance? No.

Grapes obviously flourish here in Florida. You see wild vines thriving in just about any patch of woods you care to explore. And cultivation is certainly not a problem. There are vast resources available to help someone grow a business. One of the local universities in Tallahassee, FAMU, even has a Center for Viticultural Sciences and Small Fruit, which has been in existence since 1978.

So why is there a veritable vacuum or void of any viable vineyards close to Tallahassee? The consumer base is here, believe me. The student population alone could drain a thousand casks an hour or more if given the chance.

I guess lately the economy has placed public funding in peril or over a barrel. The think tank is in place. It's just missing someone with the vision to make it all happen here like it has in southern Illinois. A certain joie de vin--along with vast amounts of cash--is all that's required. So is anyone out there interested in vineyard investing?

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "V's" from Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: U is for Uxor

2011-04-25T09:51:00.000-05:00

A rare uxor recently spotted at Torreya State Park

U is for Uxor

When SAM and I were teenagers, the word "wife," from the Latin uxor, was well on its way to becoming a dirty word. Marriages that lasted more than a few years were considered unusual by most of our peers. And an uxorious man would have been (and probably still is) considered unworthy of the term manly.

What, specifically, is so wrong about a man who--according to Webster's definition--dotes upon or is affectionately submissive towards his wife? Does it make him less of a man to treat her as he would like to be treated? As long as one partner in a marriage doesn't take advantage of that affectionate submission and expect to always be on the receiving end of it, there should be no problem. A marriage that works--most of the time--and lasts may seem mysterious, but it doesn't have to be.

The day these pictures were taken at Torreya back in late February, we celebrated our 31st anniversary. SAM graciously insisted that I should choose how we would spend the day. Even though his foot frequently bothers him (podiatrist says it's a neuroma), he was more than pleased and understanding when I chose a hike through the woods. Many of our first and most memorable dates were spent walking the hills of Southern Illinois. Walking and love go hand in hand for us. He delighted in letting me plan our day together. Guess who delights in giving him foot rubs?

Tupelo honey, the Cadillac of honeys, always stays smooth and never gets grainy

Maybe love and marriage are supposed to be mysterious. If we knew exactly what makes them tick, then we probably wouldn't be so eager to want them. It's kind of like honey. Just think. It's really not much more than bee spit. But, oh, is it ever sweet and delicious!

I've been thinking a lot about relationships, specifically marriage, in the fiction that I write. Common practice these days has marriage either not making an appearance at all or winding up dead on arrival. Is it wrong to want to portray it in a good light? Maybe a few examples of it actually working despite the odds against it wouldn't be so bad.

What do you think? Does the topic of marriage ever come up in your work, and how is it portrayed?

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for more "U's" posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: S is for Springtime and Sale, T is for Trash or Treasure

2011-04-23T15:15:00.001-05:00

S is for Springtime and Sale, T is for Trash or Treasure

I know I'm probably breaking the rules for the challenge here, but I'm going to combine S and T because they go together so well for this post. And I've been too darn busy the last couple of days to do one at a time.

Springtime in Florida is ideal for having a garage sale or moving sale or whatever-you-fancy sale. We fancy getting rid of a lot of stuff before we make the final move to Tallahassee. The house we're moving into is about 400 square feet smaller than our home, and there's no garage or barn for extra storage. Besides, what do we need with all of this extraneous stuff? It's not exactly trash to us, but it may well be treasure to someone else.

Microwave, anyone? Don't need it since the new house already has one. Christmas tree stand? Extra one purchased years ago for an extra-large tree when we were younger and even more careless with our money. Cookie tins? They're great for giving away homemade treats! In-line skates? Not mine, Daughter's. My ankles aren't that strong. Orthopedic boot? Now you see why I don't skate. Weak ankles.

SAM thought he could sell some of his surplus rocks, but no one seemed all that interested. Yard sales don't seem to attract serious mineral collectors. There were a few kids, though, who oohed and ahhed over pieces of fluorite, quartz, and pyrite. They got a great deal on some they picked out. SAM is such a sucker for kids who love rocks.

We found a buyer for one of our big-ticket items. The treadmill. Who hasn't had one or wanted one? This one was professional grade and logged several hundred miles for someone with weak ankles. I wish we could take it with us, but there's no room for it at the new place. Not to worry, though. We have plenty of places there to walk outdoors, and no fake hills are necessary.

The only item I wish we could have sold and haven't so far is the roll-top desk. No room for it either. I guess not many people use fancy desks anymore. Laptops and hand-held devices have made them almost obsolete. Today's trash may be tomorrow's treasure. I hope I'm not stealing some popular TV show slogan. If you see this desk netting someone big bucks on Antique Road Show 50 years from now, you can say you saw it here first. Of course by then, TV will probably be obsolete.

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more S's and T's posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: R is for Remember (Sign)

2011-04-21T09:58:00.000-05:00

R is for Remember (Sign)

Rediscovering remarkable books and remembering the reason for buying them removes some of the pain of moving. I purchased this sign language book some years ago when Daughter and I took a beginners' course in sign language. It was one of those courses offered at a community college. Daughter had just begun her career as a licensed massage therapist, and one of her first clients was a young deaf-mute man. She had learned in school the importance of communicating with a client for determining his comfort level (enough pressure/not enough?) and likes or dislikes ("don't mess up my hair" or "oooh, my feet really need it today"). Intake forms are a good place to start understanding a client's history, but they're just not enough to realize all of his or her preferences, long or short-term. Maybe a client won't include minor details on the form and suddenly thinks of them during the massage session. At any rate, Daughter thought she needed to know sign language, and I wanted to learn right along with her.

I recall wanting to know just as much or more about the history of sign language and the reasons behind the signs as the signs themselves. For instance, what's the purpose of the thumbs in this particular sign for "remember"? As far as I've been able to determine, the thumb (pollex being the Latin word) stands for strength. We would be rendered powerless without our thumbs. The same thing could be said about memories. They help define who we are, where we came from, and why we choose certain paths in life. Remembering should be an integral part of any story. Is it part of yours?

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "R's" from Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: Q is for Quadratus Lumborum (the Reading and Writing Muscle)

2011-04-20T10:12:00.000-05:00

Q is for Quadratus Lumborum

If there's anything I've learned from all of the moving we've done over the years, it has to be: Quit expecting the back to do more than its fair share of the work. Lift with the legs. Don't carry more weight than you're capable of lifting without straining those back muscles. If you're like me, those muscles are probably weak anyway.

Take the quadratus lumborum (QL) for example. It connects the pelvis to the spine, adding stability to both regions. Its most important function is to hike the hip or laterally tilt it. I sure gave mine a workout this past weekend. We have steps from the parking area up to the house, and there are more steps leading to the bedrooms upstairs.

Can you guess what most of the heaviest boxes contained? Yes, I'd bet my books could outnumber Imelda Marcos' pairs of shoes. Do you think owning a Kindle would help? Fortunately, for this move, SAM hired a local moving company to do most of the heavy lifting. Now I just have to arrange the contents of the boxes among various bookcases located throughout the new place. That's no small task, I'll have you know.

The QL has some hefty tasks of its own to accomplish. Besides hiking the hips, when it shortens or contracts it's also helping you bend to one side or the other. It also helps keep that old back straight when you're sitting in front of the computer and typing away or in your easy chair reading a book. And, since part of it is attached to the last rib on each side, it keeps it from going all over the place when you're breathing in or exhaling forcefully, as in huffing and puffing up the stairs.

If I used it more for its primary action, hiking those hips, and did less of those other activities--except maybe breathing--I'd probably have a really buff quadratus lumborum.

In the meantime, while I'm waiting for it to win prizes in one of those bodybuilding contests, I'll keep it nice and supple with some stretching. I found some good ones here (click link).

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "Q's" from Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: P is for Putting Things in Perspective...but Which One?

2011-04-19T10:11:00.000-05:00

P is for Putting Things in Perspective...but Which One?

It's been a while since I last posted...or commented anywhere. Please forgive me!

Moving is a real pain. But that's just my perspective. It comes from experience. In the nearly 51 years of my lifetime, I've moved on average about every two years. You would think I'd be used to it by now. Nope.

I'm too much a creature of habit. I like for things to stay the same. It's comforting to have things in order. I can't stand chaos. All this talk of change--expect it, embrace it--makes me think that the people who insist on it for everyone else won't be playing by the same rules. Things will stay the same for them while the rest of us get moved around like pieces in a game of chess.

I should let my thoughts lay down like the wind does almost every evening. Put the boxes aside for a while. Watch the game from the sidelines. Plan my next move. The first part is over. Now on to the next one. All work and no play...

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "P's" posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: M is for Mockery and Mending

2011-04-15T06:10:00.000-05:00

M is for Mocking and Mending

I should have read Charles Spurgeon's April 14th entry for his Morning and Evening Daily Readings before I wrote yesterday's post. Here's what he and the Psalmist had to say (in red) about mocking:

"All they that see me laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the head." -- Psalm 22:7

Mockery was a great ingredient in our Lord's woe. Judas mocked Him in the garden; the chief priests and scribes laughed Him to scorn; Herod set Him at nought; the servants and the soldiers jeered at Him and brutally insulted Him; Pilate and his guards ridiculed His royalty; and on the tree all sorts of horrid jests and hideous taunts were hurled at Him. Ridicule is always hard to bear, but when we are in intense pain it is so heartless, so cruel, that it cuts us to the quick...

SAM was dismayed about what I said regarding the jungle or mess we have to clean up. Was I muckraking where there really was no muck? This ain't no subdivision we're movin' to, ya know. Well, I never meant to mock the homeowners. I realize they must be feeling the pain of leaving their lovely home to sit empty for so long. They're not as fortunate as we are to live only a few hours away. We can make frequent trips home to keep things neat and visit family. They can't.

This malevolent maelstrom that so many of us are caught up in because of the madcap economy makes me mad as hell sometimes. Then I go and make a fool of myself and write something that might sound mean or judgmental to someone else's ears. Who knows? It might be cutting to the quick in someone's heart. I should mend my mind and my writing...

A to Z Blogging Challenge: L is for Lake Livin' and Lazy Blogger

2011-04-14T06:55:00.000-05:00

L is for Lake Livin' and Lazy Blogger

If you've been wondering why I've been such a lazy blogger lately, here's why: Let the moving commence! No more apartment! SAM and I are once again livin' at a lake, only this time it's in Florida, not Illinois. I was surprised to learn that there are around 7700 10+-acre lakes in Florida. That's a lot of water to enjoy even if you're landlocked like we are in Tallahassee.

The rent at the house we've leased is not much more than what we pay for the apartment. The owners have been trying to sell it for a while with no luck. They've moved on, and we're moving in. Our home in Santa Rosa County will have some tenants too. This move is going to be a two-stage deal for us. What fun!

The dock you see in the picture isn't in our yard. In fact, I can't even walk down to the water's edge from the house without walking through a jungle. SAM and I are going to be busy for the next few weeks clearing up an overgrown mess. Maybe he won't notice if I sneak away now and then to visit you and leave you a comment. Please don't be alarmed if my posting lapses for a while. I may have to miss a letter or two. Hopefully, they (the challenge hosts) won't kick me off the list.

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "L's" from Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: K is for KnockOut

2011-04-13T06:16:00.000-05:00

Pink KnockOut Rose planted to hide unsightly things

K is for KnockOut Roses

The first time I saw a KnockOut--rose, not boxing match--I was smitten. I think it was in 2002. We visited the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis late that summer. Most of the roses in the fabulous garden were on their last legs of the season, but the KnockOuts were still kicking up their heels. Nothing fazed them, not the heat, humidity, smog, bugs...I couldn't wait to add these beauties to my own yard. Of course, I had to. I had already exceeded my budget for roses that year in our West Kentucky garden, and SAM and I pulled up stakes the next year. Florida called, and we answered.

An example of the original red KnockOut rose, a William Radler creation

It wasn't until the spring of 2004 that I was able to plant my very first KnockOut, the original single red variety, and here it still is, blooming its heart out near the northeast corner of our northwest Florida home. It survived Hurricane Ivan that year and the one named Dennis in 2005. Katrina gave us a scare, but we were spared any serious damage. You might think I'm crazy--I probably am--but sometimes I think of it as a member of the family. It's helped me keep my chin up, and that's not an easy task at my age.

David Austin's "William Shakespeare" rose still thriving in a pot, two years later

KnockOuts aren't the only roses to make it through harsh growing conditions in Florida. Remember that William Shakespeare I planted in a pot a while back? A David Austin creation, it's still growing and blooming, although it doesn't make quite the bold visual statement that KnockOut does. In the scent department, it wins for sure. KnockOuts don't deserve any kudos for smelling great, pretty as they are.

"Iceberg" not yet melting in my Florida garden

Iceberg is another sweet-smelling winner in my Florida garden. It does tend to knuckle under to the heat, which starts getting intense in late May or early June, but it keeps coming back every spring--six years so far. I love the way it brightens up an otherwise drab flower bed, and it lights up the landscape at night when the moon is shining.

KnockOuts are probably the most versatile roses I've ever grown. They thrive anywhere I plant them, even in mostly shady locations. Blooming is more intense where they receive more sunlight, especially in the morning. They're bred to resist black spot, a fungus that attacks and weakens most other roses, but plenty of Florida sunshine really helps them knock it out. And that old sun has kept the katzenjammer from KO'ing me a time or two.

What helps keep you from feeling kaput?

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "K's" from Challenge sponsors and other bloggers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: J is for Jerkwater Jaunt

2011-04-12T06:12:00.000-05:00

J is for Jerkwater Jaunt

It doesn't take long for newcomers to Florida to realize that summer is not the best time for a jerkwater jaunt. What's a jerkwater? It's an American term for a place that's "insignificant and out-of-the-way; so called from the jerking (drawing) of water to fill buckets for supplying a steam locomotive."

By the end of April or beginning of May, it's no fun to spend a lot of time by the water's edge. The air gets steamy. The insects start biting. In early April, you still have time to check out a few trails in the Bear Creek Tract of Lake Talquin State Forest. It's not uncommon to see irises jutting out from the earthen dam.

The chance to capture native azalea beauty justifies a strenuous walk up and down steep hills.

Daughter journeyed a few hours east to spend a few days with her not-so-juvenescent parents.

After a couple of nights tossing and turning on the spare-bed air mattress, she didn't mind joining SAM in a low-back stretch or two.

By early June, the great blue herons inhabiting the area will have this jerkwater jaunting spot all to themselves. This one (a juvenile?) was curious about us but decided to fly away as soon as he noticed my jinks with the camera. It's just as well that the heat and bugs are cranking up and will drive us away. The herons don't need to hear humans jouncing about in the woods all summer long. It's peace and quiet they want--not jarring noises--while feeding, breeding, and nesting in the trees.

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "J's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: I is for Indian Bloggers

2011-04-11T06:10:00.000-05:00

I is for Indian Bloggers

Mention the word "India" to me, and you'll notice my eyes taking on a dreamy, faraway look. The very thought of the place transports me to a sensory-rich world of imagination. In my mind, I see vivid colors, smell fragrant flowers and spices, and taste savory food prepared to delight the palate.

How and where did I form these notions of a place where I've never been? Brit lit provided my first impressions: E. M. Forster's A Passage to India, Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, Rudyard Kipling's The Jungle Book. All of these works and more made me wish for my own passage to India. I considered the possibilities. Train to be a nurse, missionary, foreign correspondent...?

Over the years, responsibilities here at home have kept my feet firmly on American soil, but my thoughts still drift to that place I once dreamed of visiting. Movies made of the aforementioned novels only made the longing worse. Then I found an amazing thing. Blogging. I could step aboard a flight to India without having to spend a fortune on airfare or endure the indignities of airport security. There were friendly hosts available 24/7 to take me on a tour of famous ruins, bustling marketplaces, and modern cities. They share their own experiences in these places, illuminating how many gaps there are between what fiction has revealed and what reality exists in India. My initial impressions of their home have been challenged and changed for good.

Here is a list, in no particular order, of some of my Indian blogging friends. I hope you take some time to pay them a visit. Prepare to be delighted and inspired:

Encounter with a Super Star
Vanity Moments
A Corner of My World
In Art Lies My Heart
This 'n That
The Holy Lama

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "I's" from Challenge hosts and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: H is for Hindbrain

2011-04-09T06:29:00.000-05:00

Alligators in H2O at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge

H is for Hindbrain

Hindbrain thinking isn't a hot topic, I'll wager. Everyone these days seems to know what left- and right-brain thinking are all about. You've probably seen that image of a dancer spinning around. Supposedly, if you see her spinning clockwise, you're more right-brain oriented, meaning that your imagination rules your thoughts. You're also more impetuous and not opposed to taking risks. Yes, I can see that. But thought can't be that simple. And the brain isn't political. It's not one side or the other.

The brain, after all, isn't composed of just two halves. It has other lobes, other parts which affect thought and reason. Here's a document that explains much better than I can what all the parts do for you and where they are located. Take that hindbrain, for instance. Pons, medulla, and cerebellum. Together, these structures keep us moving, staying upright, sleeping when it's time to do so, breathing, and carrying on all those other bodily functions necessary to life that we're not usually aware of, like digestion. So what about emotions and feelings of love, hate, aggression...?

You've probably watched that scene with Adam Sandler and the professor in The Waterboy:

Contrary to what the professor says about the medulla oblongata (maybe the waterboy was justified in tackling him), and according to medical experts, it's what's happening in the amygdala and limbic system that makes us happy, sad, or whatever. We're a bit more complicated than alligators and maybe more than what those experts claim.

If thinking isn't dominated by just one lobe or the other but comes from a combination of activities going on simultaneously throughout the brain, then writing must do the same. It should be as automatic as breathing, as hidden and mysterious as blood cell formation, as simple as sleeping, as complicated as playing the piano. Or acting the part of a hilariously funny, swamp-dwelling football player in a comedic film. How many alligators--or medical experts, for that matter--can do that?

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "H's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: G is for (What Else?) Gardening

2011-04-08T06:46:00.000-05:00

Leaffooted bug nymphs on pear tomatoes

G is for Gardening

Writers who have successfully navigated that sea--or plowed that field--of publishing tribulation usually advise you to write what you know. Okay. But not many people would be interested in reading stuff like: Keeping a marriage and family intact during a time when the economy was busting out of its britches and our president was caught with his pants down. Or watching the health care crisis unfold among untold transcribed pages of medical reports. Or learning something very unscientific about what plants/methods/chants work or don't work in a home garden.

Once I realized just how many big fish were already angling for publishers' attention, I gave up the idea of becoming a garden guru and decided to try the fiction waters instead. It can't be much more frustrating than seeing the first tomatoes of the season covered with these suckers. Right?

How does your garden or writing grow? Does Contrary-Mary slip in and mess with things, or do those maids always look pretty and toe the line for you?

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "G's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: F is for Florida

2011-04-07T06:35:00.001-05:00

Cirsium horridulum, "Horrible thistle," commonly found in Florida's disturbed areas

F is for Florida

Florida in all of its many flavors takes the cake for occupying my thoughts most of the time now. Don't worry, Southern Illinois, I'm not abandoning you when it comes to this blog or any other writing. It's only natural for a writer to focus and feed on what's front and center.

When we were just tourists here in years past, I never gave much thought to how much the landscape was being changed to accommodate our family and others like us who would visit the state or decided to stay. Swamps were drained. Native plants were supplanted by more appealing but often aggressively spreading ones. As new houses, hotels, restaurants, and other businesses were built, freshwater usage increased. More wells were drilled into aquifers that supply that fresh water. Hard surfaces like parking lots and driveways increased polluting runoff like lawn and agricultural chemicals into streams and other surficial water sources that feed those aquifers. More and more sinkholes appeared as fragile limestone support underground collapsed under the weight of all that consumption.

I've always admired writing that allows landscape to be uninhibited. From Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, to Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse, and then on to Barbara Kingsolver's Prodigal Summer, landscape becomes a prominent voice telling its own story. Imagine, if you will, characters who are not carrying the tale but are vehicles being driven by what surrounds them. Interestingly, that driving force moves not only the characters. It also approaches and attempts to scale manmade boundaries. Societal structures such as familial stability and moral values crumble.

Cactus found along a St. George Island trail

Remember the dinosaurs brought to life in the cinema version of Michael Crichton's Jurassic Park? Dr. Ian Malcolm, a scientist invited to visit the park and give it his stamp of approval concludes that "life will not be contained. Life breaks free, expands to new territory, and crashes through barriers, painfully, maybe even dangerously." Dr. Malcolm is someone quite familiar with unpredictability in nature as well as humans. He describes himself as ever ready to meet the next ex-Mrs. Malcolm. Stability be damned.

Things go awry when wilderness is hemmed in or otherwise "tampered" with. Nature takes over and tells the story. It's a powerful voice. Is it allowed to speak in any of your stories?

St. George Island Lighthouse

Please see A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "F's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: E is for Emerson and Essays

2011-04-06T06:16:00.000-05:00

Image of Ralph Waldo Emerson borrowed from this site

What's the first thing that comes to mind with the word "essay"? Ugh! It's that theme paper I had to write in Composition class, the one where I had to make a point and defend it. No wonder essays went the way of horse-drawn carriages. They're kind of fun to read for nostalgia's sake but not consumed on a regular basis by the reading public. It's more relaxing to do stuff like look for Waldo in a picture than try to see things from another Waldo's (Ralph W. Emerson's) perspective. Take a deep breath and think happy thoughts. Don't tax your brain. It is April, you know, and by now we've all had enough of taxes.

Who writes essays anymore? Actors and musicians are idolized, but other arts are ignored. Yes, writing is an art, even the nonfiction kind. The mind of a writer paints in colors imagined by the reader, with brushes assembled hair-by-hair in experience. That experience can be personal and/or gathered from other writers. A written story continues--while adding to--someone else's story, a thread picked up and added to a skein of yarns:

There is one mind common to all individual men. Every man is an inlet to the same and to all of the same. He that is once admitted to the right of reason is made a freeman of the whole estate. What Plato has thought, he may think; what a saint has felt, he may feel; what at any time has befallen any man, he can understand.

Who hath access to this universal mind is a party to all that is or can be done, for this is the only and sovereign agent.

Of the works of this mind history is the record. Its genius is illustrated by the entire series of days. Man is explicable by nothing less than all his history...This human mind wrote history, and this must read it. The Sphinx must solve her own riddle. If the whole of history is in one man, it is all to be explained from individual experience. There is a relation between the hours of our life and the centuries of time...We as we read must become Greeks, Romans, Turks, priest and king, martyr and executioner, must fasten these images to some reality in our secret experience, or we shall learn nothing rightly...

Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays (First Series), "History," 1841

What are you taxing your brain with or adding to the skein today?

See A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "E's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: D is for Daughter-in-law

2011-04-05T07:06:00.000-05:00

D is for Daughter-in-law

I'm back on my diet of shorter posts. The one I fixed for yesterday was certainly more than a mouthful.

Whoever thought up the term "daughter-in-law" must not have been on good terms with one. Don't you think it sounds like someone who's just an entity in a legal contract? It's too cold and impersonal for my tastes. Thankfully, I can say that in our family's case, being on good terms with our son's wife and mother of our grandson has been delightfully easy and a real blessing.

We don't have the same heritage. We may not always agree on everything. We do share a common love and bond that's too strong for human willfulness to break. I think our differences make us stronger.

The term "daughter-in-law" in Spanish is hija politica. I don't care for it either. Politica? Yuck! An emphatic No! to that word. I've decided to give our Peruvian lady in question a much better title: nuestra Dios, la hija de. I hope it's okay, grammatically, that is. It sounds downright poetic, I think. Now we're speakin' the same language.

Cumpleanos feliz, Daughter of Our God!

See A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "D's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: C is for Chiasmus

2011-04-04T06:41:00.000-05:00

Eastern Fence Lizard, Sceloporus undulatus, seen on a Fort Braden trail near Tallahassee

C is for Chiasmus

Pattern defines Nature and Nature defines Pattern. In the chiastic nature of things, some animals' longevity derives from their ability to reflect or mimic their surroundings. If an animal doesn't blend in but stands out in its surroundings or looks out of place, like this lizard on a trail marker, it's liable to be spotted by a predator or a curiosity seeker and picked off the tree. And, of course, it would have trouble hiding itself from its prey, losing the element of surprise when looking to snatch its next meal. I know I might be taking this analogy a bit too far, but if it weren't for the orange paint, you would see that the lizard conceals itself in a tree bark's pattern, and a tree bark's pattern conceals itself in the lizard.

Writing that makes use of chiasmus gathers strength from a similar principle, especially if it explores an uncomfortable, unpopular idea. The more obvious chiasmus is, the more likely it is trying to elicit support for--or at least response to--something. Take, for example, John F. Kennedy's famous call for volunteerism: "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country." Humans by nature don't usually jump at the chance to help unless asked nicely or forced to do so. All it took was a little chiastic, patriotic reminder from a popular President to get people on board with him and spur them into action. Of course, that was back in the days when love of their country and its ideals came naturally to most Americans.

Some writers prefer a subtler approach to broaching a controversial subject or two. In Ernest Hemingway's short story "Hills Like White Elephants," he takes on Prohibition and abortion with one swell foop. Both of those taboo topics eventually appear, but they don't just jump out at you. Time means everything to this story. It was written in 1927. Prohibition in America was in effect from 1919 until 1933. It's no wonder there were so many expats running around Europe then. Censors in this country were keeping close watch on anything that reeked of Prohibition criticism, and of course pregnancy was not something that people talked about in public. Abortion? Forget it. The publication of Hemingway's story would not have been possible if not for a little sneakiness on his part to get past the censorship and attract attention, the kind of attention that would sell his story and get him book deals.

You realize--if you're in the habit of looking closely at stories--that the setting here is a train station, something often associated with 20th century progressivism. (You can read what that's all about here and here.) That point is obvious in the first paragraph. What's not so apparent but stands out, if you know what to look for, is Hemingway's use of descriptive and syntactic reversal in the first two lines: "The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun." Not only the setting described but also the pattern of the first sentence (order of nouns, verbs, prepositional phrases) is at odds with yet somehow mirroring the next one, right off the bat.

You know how your right hand suddenly becomes your left one in a mirror image? What's natural becomes manmade, prepositional phrases are suddenly at the fore, and passive voice in both sentences parallels the "two lines of rails" which are empty at the moment. Nothing is happening in this mirror image! Or is it? The taboo topics get presented beneath the censors' radar, and the story sells. The power of chi. It's Greek to me. It's Chinese to someone else. Either way, it's a force to reckon with in storytelling as well as storyselling.

See A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "C's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: B is for Boskydell

2011-04-02T04:12:00.000-05:00

B is for Boskydell

Ode to Rose (Shy) of Boskydell

Farmer, preacher, poet shorn
Take your place in fields of corn--
I see you now as you were then,
Over-alled lady with a ballpoint pen

Your name was Rose and aptly so
My conscience was pricked; God's Spirit said "Go!"--
Your tractor broke down on planting day--
I offered to help and you said okay

We walked the fields with seeds in hand--
Those beans did grow and fill the land--
I hear you now as I heard you then,
Over-alled lady with a poet's yen

"Write!" you said "and write some more"
"Don't wait too long or they'll close the door"
But I'm only 15--there's plenty of time
To write some prose and make some rhyme

Thirty-five years have come and gone--
Learning was piecemeal; degree's now done
But what do I know? What I learned from you then,
Over-alled lady with a smile and a pen:

Valleys are carved from trickling streams,
From torrents, from downpours that level our dreams--
And carve them deep into dells so dark
The pen lies still, the outlook stark--

The words you write will mean the most
If they come from bosky--not fields, no boast--
Bosky? Yes. A place, not describing, a Green-Knight glen,
A "bliss by turns with blunder" sojourn with pen--

Stay not here and stay not there,
Your head's not yours when your lot's too fair--
Put the bosky in the dell, shady, carved-out fen
Beside a hill of roses--over-alled lady shares her pen.

See A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "B's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

A to Z Blogging Challenge: A is for Aromatherapy

2011-04-01T06:12:00.000-05:00

A is for Aromatherapy.

Once upon a time, people were more attuned to the world through their senses than we are now. Survival dictated that touch, seeing, hearing, tasting, and smelling--the last two by design intertwined--would protect fragile human beings in a harsh wilderness world. Before there were civilized societies, a person could literally smell and capitalize on an opponent's fear. I'm guessing that it's only been in the last century or so that we've lost much of our sensory acuity and abilities.

You can follow a trail of contaminated breadcrumbs leading right to the culprit for this loss. What was the word of career advice that Dustin Hoffman's character in The Graduate received and that sums up our grandest achievement as a civilized society? Plastics! Move forward, young man, into the New Age of Synthetics. Science has managed to duplicate just about anything you can imagine in nature, and the result is anything but natural.

Now we can have it all. Fake boobs. High-beam smiles. Perpetual any-color-but-gray hair. Stuff resembling food that you pick up on the way home so you can spend more time with those various boxes made with plastic. The ones with little people in them who tell you what to think, believe, feel, desire. Other boxes to record and store your words and send them on to other people with similar boxes.

Craving escape from the World of Fake, I garden and walk in the woods as often as possible. It's not enough. It never is. I want convenience, and I want it in a concentrated dose. Soothing herbs and flowers and grasses and trees in bottles. One drop at a time. Not quite the elusive cure for Snores-Bores-Squeaky-Doors Syndrome but pretty close to it. It keeps the muse happy, anyway. And she can't smell the fear. What a slave driver. Back to the box I go.

See A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "A's" from Challenge sponsors and other writers.

Counting Chickens: Superstitious or Intuitively Cautious?

2011-03-24T15:47:00.000-05:00

Peanut "counting" Daughter's friend's chickens

Remember when mom or someone older and wiser used to advise against counting your chickens before they were hatched? I can't count how many times while growing up that I heard the warning. Or, "don't put all of your eggs in one basket. You never know what might upset it." More often than not, when I failed to heed the warnings, something did happen to alter my plans or tip the basket, sending those eggs crashing to the ground. And it's not easy for me to just go with the flow like so many people are capable of doing when something doesn't go according to plan. I tend to kick against the goads, so to speak. Stubborn, that's what I am.

I'm wondering if I'm also becoming superstitious. Lately, those old words of caution are reverberating in my thoughts. I am keeping certain plans and dreams for the future close to the chest or vest now. What I'm hoping is that superstition isn't playing me for a fool but that intuitive caution is taking over as I get older. I don't want to be pessimistic, just not overly optimistic. It's a delicate balance. Gardening is one way I keep things in perspective. I've learned to not say anything about planting seeds but wait until the harvest. And I'm certainly not going to spill any beans about writing works in progress (WIPs). How about you? Do you lay out all of your cards on the table or keep a few facedown?

Disclosure: The author had nothing to do with this chicken incident but can verify that no chickens were harmed in the making of this post. The cat, however, may have suffered some psychological or emotional trauma. She is being monitored and will be treated appropriately.

'Three Dimensions and If Possible Four'

2011-03-18T11:25:00.000-05:00

We walked on a mountain last Saturday. You don't believe me? I've got proof. Some of it went home with us, stuck in shoe-sole crevices and trapped in trouser creases. That fine quartz sand drawing tourists to Pensacola and other beaches along the Gulf of Mexico has washed down from the Appalachian Mountains over millions of years. Tiny grains, eroded and deposited, not just once but endlessly by wave action and sea-level changes.

We had some tense moments last week...more than what we're used to these days. SAM and I drove back home last Friday afternoon to watch Grandson while his mom and dad went to a church retreat in Destin. The date was clearly marked on my calendar. March 11. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? Wrong. On the surface, everything was smooth, for Grandson's sake. As soon as I turned on the TV to watch the evening news, SAM reminded me. Disturbing images and sounds. Turn it off. Okay, I will, for a while.

You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across--not to just depict life--or criticize it--but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can't do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can't believe in it. Things aren't that way. It is only by showing both sides--3 dimensions and if possible 4--that you can write the way I want to. (Ernest Hemingway to Dr. C. E. Hemingway, 1925, Selected Letters)

While Grandson made sandcastles on the beach, his other Grandpa who lives in Japan tried to get word to his daughter. Phone service was unavailable. Somehow, he managed to get a message to her on Facebook. "I'm all right," he wrote. That's more than I've been able to manage lately. Sometimes the words refuse to come out, and I can't even manage to call or send a simple e-mail message to someone dear to me. Or leave an encouraging comment on a Japanese friend's site. March 11--even before 2011--had already left its mark on me in "three dimensions and if possible four."

And life for a few years was pretty flat until this little guy showed up to hold my hand and make his mark on me--on March 11, in "three dimensions and if possible four." It's beautiful, don't you think? Life. Sometimes I need tangible reminders.

Gardening Tastemakers--Are Consumers Losing Their Appetite?

2011-03-10T11:00:00.000-06:00

Recycled from an older post: Invitation to a secret garden at Alfred B. Maclay Gardens State Park

I know this post won't win me any popularity points with the folks who live for and/or make their living by gardening. Oh well! With the steadily souring economy having forced belt tightening all around the world, lately I've begun to wonder if gardening tastemakers and the consumers they cultivate are getting a bad taste in their mouths. And, considering the changes they've wrought on the environment for hundreds of years by promoting unrestrained, irresponsible horticulture, is it really such a bad thing? I'm in trouble now, for sure.

One of many Camellias to be found at Maclay Gardens

When we first moved to Florida, I was naive about choosing plants to add to our property. Many, if not most of them, are considered exotics and even downright invasive. I found them in nurseries and big box store garden centers. So they had to be okay, right? After all, one of the first things I noticed on entering the state with all of our worldly goods in tow was an agricultural check station. We had to stop and have the moving truck and our drilling company trailer inspected for any plant material that might be considered a threat to Florida's environment. At least that was my initial impression. However, once I started gardening in earnest, I realized that there were other, rather powerful interests behind controlling the influx of plants to the state.

Having relocated from the Midwest, I still clung to my old favorites in the plant supply business. Park Seed Company, Wayside Gardens, and Jackson and Perkins Roses continued to wow me with their seasonal catalogues, and I was thrilled to finally be able to grow some of those Zone 8 plants I had always wanted to try. And then there were palm trees and citrus trees to consider. Could I order citrus from the companies I had trusted for years? Uh-oh. There are rules regarding the importation of citrus into Florida. It's a big, big monoculture in this state. What's monoculture? The dictionary defines it as "the use of land for growing only one type of crop." According to the bee guy who spoke at the recent Butterflies, Bees, and Bats seminar we attended, some of the latest research being done on honeybee Colony Collapse Disorder indicates that monoculture style farming may be greatly contributing to the pollinator's decline. But that's another story, and this post is already getting out of hand and running away!

I've learned a lot about gardening since we first moved here, and that education is due in no small part to becoming a Florida Master Gardener. Does the designation mean I'm suddenly an expert or will it ensure my progress on a path to everlasting fame and glory? I'd rather eat dirt than become an "expert" in anything. That title and a few dollars might still buy me a cup of strong coffee, if I'm lucky. I have discovered a few interesting things along the way, like where to turn for valuable, research-based information on landscaping and related topics: EDIS--the Electronic Data Information Source of UF/IFAS (University of Florida/Institute of Food and Agricultural Services)--has over 4000 articles to help guide consumers. One of the more interesting ones I've found regarding invasive plants details quite a bit of the history behind Florida's and other states' growing problem.

It's nothing new, this introduction of plants into a once-pristine environment. According to the article referenced above, "welcoming non-native species into our landscapes for centuries [emphasis mine] has created a multi-billion dollar ornamental plant industry and a gardening public that takes this largesse for granted, selecting primarily on the basis of color, shape, and size. Today's public is unaware of the origins of most ornamental plants and of the danger some species pose to natural areas." And I've always thought the farming industry was to blame for ruining nature. Ha! John Q. Public and his cohorts are in on it too. That means me--and you, if you like to garden or golf or shop or even just admire those beautiful urban and suburban landscapes where you work and live.

So, is there any hope for recovery or at least respite from this constant assault on the environment? It's doubtful, considering the 2.5 billion dollar annual wholesale trade in plants alone here in the U.S. The Great Depression in the 1930s slowed nursery sales somewhat, but we know that slump didn't last long. Sluggish economies always rebound, and a public hungry for lovely ornamental plants will clamor for satisfaction once more. I just wish that public (including me) would exhibit better table manners by learning as much as possible from reliable sources of gardening information like EDIS. We all should be taking smaller bites and chewing slowly--thinking critically--if Florida or any other state in this union has any hope of retaining a shred of its true, natural identity.

The Nature of Ephemerals--Disappearing Gold in Georgia--Trout Lilies and Other 'Miracles'

2011-03-02T07:36:00.000-06:00

Trout lily, Erythronium umbilicatum, seen at Wolf Creek Trout Lily Preserve on Feb. 26, 2011

Seeing is not believing. For this reason, the question whether miracles occur can never be answered simply by experience. Every event which might claim to be a miracle is, in the last resort, something presented to our senses, something seen, heard, touched, smelled, or tasted. And our senses are not infallible. If anything extraordinary seems to have happened, we can always say that we have been the victims of an illusion. If we hold a philosophy which excludes the supernatural, this is what we always shall say. What we learn from experience depends on the kind of philosophy we bring to experience.--C. S. Lewis, Miracles

I don't blame you for not believing me when I tell you there is gold in Georgia. It's almost gone, though, so don't drop whatever it is you're doing, grab your gold pan, and head for the hills. By the time you get to Wolf Creek Trout Lily Preserve--unless you live nearby--chances are the trout lilies will be done blooming for the year. That's the nature of ephemerals: here today and gone tomorrow. Like the balance in the checking account after paying the bills each month.

Remember that anniversary last Wednesday that SAM and I celebrated? He, sweet man that he is, stopped on his way home from work on Tuesday, February 22, and bought me a potful of calla lilies, a bottle (or two) of wine, and a balloon.

The lovely balloon that he brought home to the apartment in Tallahassee on Tuesday was not the one he had originally chosen and purchased. He said that one was snatched away by a gust of wind just as he was putting it in his truck. Well, guess what? We find it on Saturday, waiting for us in the woods in Georgia. Spirited away there one day and discovered here four days later...

After touring the trout lily preserve, we decide to visit Birdsong Nature Center, another Georgia treasure. At the conclusion of the Butterflies, Bees, and Bats seminar the week before, the couple sitting in front of us compliment me on the banana muffins I have brought to the event. That reminds me! I need to e-mail them the recipe. Better yet, I'll add the recipe to the blog under a new tab and send them a link. The more readers, the merrier! Anyway, after introductions all around and some pleasant conversation, we confess that we are walkers through and through. They think we might enjoy visiting the lily preserve and checking out some other trails in the area. Birdsong, a former plantation full of history and mystery, is high on a list of favorites.

Now, I ask you, what if I had brought store-bought muffins to share and not those homemade ones? Would those nice people have been so helpful and forthcoming with their suggestions and directions? Maybe so, but I think that making a little extra effort butters the serendipity pan, so to speak.

Speaking of buttering the pan...Somewhere along a Birdsong trail, just before we find that errant balloon, we spot these mushrooms growing on a rotting log. SAM convinces me that they are edible. He says his dad used to find the same kind in the woods in Southern Illinois while deer hunting and brought them home for SAM's mom to batter and fry. The ones we find are fresh and tender and, in the nature of ephemeral things, not likely to stay that way for long. So, I figure, why not? We pick one cluster of many that are growing on the log. Cross my heart, that's all we take! Only problem is, we have nothing to put (hide) them in except my camera bag. Would anyone notice? Or care?

Honestly, I don't take plants from their natural setting. The trout lilies were safe with us, notwithstanding the manhandling pictured above. Mushrooms, on the other hand, aren't plants. Here today and here tomorrow, thanks to their mode of reproduction. To my way of thinking, they are suitable game for bagging or snagging, or whatever you want to call it. All's fair in love and spore!

SAM wants to try them grilled, and I prefer them sauteed in butter along with some garlic, wine, and heavy cream, served atop a piece of toast. We divide the haul in half and try them both ways. All of the evidence--if you can believe it--in the nature of ephemerals, disappears without a trace.

The "bird window" designed by Betty Komarek, one of the nature center's founders

Our impressions of Birdsong, however, will remain with us forever.

One of many well-tended walking trails at Birdsong

The Listening Place, a screened pavilion which overlooks Big Bay Swamp

Some artwork to admire while relaxing in front of the bird window

Almost Springtime Holey-ness in Tallahassee

2011-02-23T06:08:00.000-06:00

A paper wasp's nest lies still on the ground

Magnolia tree hole swallows the sound

Of footsteps approaching Trillium treasure

Twisted tree roots, untwisted, what would they measure?

A woodpecker's flute flung to the floor

Leaf veins laid bare for lacy decor

A stream carves a bit deeper its bedrock of limestone

One violet we see, for now all alone

"We share a walk, a life, a love, a moment,"

SAM and I say--

Thirty-one years together,

Forever,

Today

Keeping It Short, Simple, and Sweet--Seriously--'Orchid' You Not!

2011-02-14T14:36:00.001-06:00

Winter makes me long-winded. It must have something to do with those cold blasts of air sweeping out of the north and taking my breath away. I'm sorry! This short post will make amends, I hope. At the Gardening Friends of the Big Bend meeting last week, SAM and I had our first encounter with an orchid enthusiast. Mr. Jodie Shumaker of Florida Star Nursery and Supply Company in Marianna, Florida, presented a program that made me sit up and take notes. I'm pretty sure SAM enjoyed it too. What's not to enjoy about Red Velvet Cheesecake, among other snacks?

Wilsonara Lisa's Delight 'Rayna' Orchid

As noted on a simple pad of paper, here are some of the things I learned (I hope I heard what was said and then read my chicken scratch correctly!):

Orchids have a lip or landing platform that attracts specific pollinators
There are only 4 pollen capsules per blossom but 25,000 pollen grains in each one
100,000 seeds may form per seed pod and are carried by wind
Most orchids are epiphytic, meaning they live on other plants such as trees, often high above the ground
Some of them are terrestrial (the vanilla plant being one of them)
There is no food reserve stored in the seed as in most plants. A special fungus attacks the seed, sending its hyphae into the seed cell, which then acts like a guillotine, cutting the hyphae for its own consumption of the sugars and nutrients stored in the hyphae
There are even subterranean species living underground
A small clump of cells from the orchid's meristem can grow hundreds of plants, known as mericlones
Many intergeneric crosses may be created, and the Royal Horticultural Society keeps a register of the patents
It would be easy to get carried away with purchases when provided with as many choices as I had that evening. Good thing SAM was along. I bought one. That's it! Wilsonara Lisa's Delight 'Rayna' is a cross between Cochlioda, Odontoglossum, and Oncidium orchids

My Japanese blogging friend Sapphire (Through the Sapphire Sky) published a most interesting post last week to celebrate her upcoming blogiversary. She shared some of her favorite bloggers' sites, including mine! What a sweet thing to do. Seriously. She is kind, gentle, and modest. I love learning about Japanese art, culture, and just life in general through her eyes.

There is another special event taking place this weekend at the North Florida Research and Education Center. It's open to anyone with an interest in nature and gardening who lives in or might be passing through the Tallahassee area. A workshop on "Butterflies, Bees, and Bats" will be presented on Saturday morning. Here is a link with the specifics. I've heard there's to be a plant sale after the presentation. Do you think our porch at the apartment is full enough? Nah!

One more thing (I promise): Mr. Hammons has provided a list of blogs where all of the clues to his mystery may be found. Click here for the list or click on the picture of the sailboat on my sidebar. Happy clue hunting and Valentine's Day!

Reading Civics in a Modern Novel and Trying to Solve a Whodunnit

2011-02-10T13:11:00.000-06:00

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed
When not to be receives reproach of being
And the just pleasure lost which is so deemed
Not by our feeling but by others' seeing.
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?...

(Shakespeare's Sonnet 121)

Listening to various pundits on television and radio worry about the ability of Americans to hold their own in a global economy, I have to wonder. When and where did public education here begin its unhealthy decline? Whodunnit? And can anyone change its course this late in the game? A few weeks ago, I watched Richard Dreyfuss, the actor of Jaws and Mr. Holland's Opus fame, speak on Fox News about his dreams for America. They aren't farfetched or unrealistic. He has launched something he calls The Dreyfuss Initiative to get Americans interested in civics again. Civics? What's that? "The study or science of the privileges and obligations of citizens." Obligations. Hmm. That sounds like I gotta do somethin'. Somebody makin' me and my kids do it. Not sure I like it. Think I'll call a lawyer or my congress-person. Eureka! The trail of blood (money) is much easier to follow now.

Back when I was a freshman in high school--don't even think about asking how long ago that was--I opted for a sort-of civics class in lieu of U.S. History. (Note: by the time I was a senior we had moved to another school district, and guess what? I had to take that history class anyway.) At that time, I thought learning history was just a waste of time, memorizing a bunch of dates, famous names, and battles. Yawn! Apparently, some educators thought the same thing and came up with an alternative class. It was called "Contemporary World" or some such thing. We got to play board games like Guns or Butter and learned stuff like what Lieutenant Calley had done in Vietnam. Fun, huh? According to this PBS account of Calley's folly, his actions may have contributed a great deal to the notion that the draft (involuntary military service) wasn't such a neat idea.

The draft or military conscription actually ended in 1973 at the beginning of President Nixon's second term. He and his Republican backers pushed for it. Interesting. There was some talk last summer that the draft might be reinstated. Apparently, Rep. Charles Rangel (Democrat) from New York introduced a bill that would make military service mandatory once again. (It didn't pass, by the way). He considers that there is a disproportionate burden of military service falling on the backs of the poor people in this country. I tend to agree. Somewhat. With decent paying jobs so hard to find and the skyrocketing cost of higher education putting it out of reach for most people, there aren't many good alternatives anymore.

Military service guarantees food on the table, clothes on the back, a roof over the head, free healthcare, and a ticket (courtesy of the GI Bill) to earn a college degree. I should know. My family certainly received those goodies because of my dad's military service. Besides, the pay isn't so shabby anymore. The federal pay freeze being proposed does not apply to service members. And in December of 2010, the GI Bill education benefits were expanded. Remember the one side of the civics coin? Privileges. It's not often that we hear about the other side of the coin. Obligations. It's obviously a dirty word. No one wants to think about the cost of those privileges.

So what does all of that (above) have to do with a certain novel, pictured above? Whether I read nonfiction or fiction, I want to know what or who informs the characters and maybe even the author(s). What are they reading? Taking to heart? Immersing their thoughts in? Sharing ideals and dreams with? In the case of C. W. Gortner's The Confessions of Catherine de Medici, the MC and narrator of the novel takes her cues from a variety of philosophers, ancient as well as more recent. Plutarch and Machiavelli, for example.

Catherine de Medici, dispatched by her uncle, Pope Clement VII, to marry the heir to France's throne is still a child when she takes her wedding vows. Immature, yes, but not ignorant by any stretch of the imagination. The aunt who raises this orphan makes sure that the girl not only learns to keep her hands occupied with the art of embroidery but also engages her brain with academics. And what an education that was. It continued when Catherine was sent to become a royal French bride: "We spent six hours every day, adhering to a regimen of mathematics, history, languages, and music..." Private tutors, extensive gardens to walk in, lavish dinners to feed a growing body so the brain could do its work. Privileges.

What about obligations? In the MC's own words: "I realized being a princess of France was much like being a Medici; the king's daughters [her new sisters-in-law] dwelled always under the expectations of their rank. One day, they too would wed, leave for distant courts, where they would be strangers representing their nation..." A new world order was beginning to take shape even then in the sixteenth century, when alliances were being forged among nations. Wouldn't you know that women, as usual, bore the brunt of the burden for making it happen and the blame for when it didn't? Literally. The children born to those royal marriages of mixed heritage were expected to cement relationships between rulers and guarantee trade and understanding among their subjects. Sometimes that cement didn't hold, especially when differences of opinion respecting religion got in the way.

Strange, how that happens even now. And those conflicts don't always have to involve the major religions. Fascism, communism, radical environmentalism...You name it, there's a fanatic-"ism" ready to fly its banner over people who are ready and willing to listen. History and civics lessons fly out the window in those cases. Books get shoved aside and forgotten. Important ideas to be studied, remembered, and discussed are removed from curricula.

Take Machiavelli's The Prince, for example. It shows up in Gortner's novel not once but twice. The first time it appears, Catherine shows it off to a young man who will one day figure prominently in her struggle to maintain her family's control of France. He is Gaspard de Coligny, and when she shows it to him, proud of the fact that it was written for and dedicated to her great-grandfather, Lorenzo the Magnificent, he quotes from it. Takes it to heart, he does. Maybe. Sort of.

The book's second appearance occurs many years later. She gives one of her grandsons his own copy, inscribed with his name:

I handed it to him. "The Prince by Machiavelli," I told him. "My favorite book. I think you are of age now to appreciate its wisdom."

He fingered the book as if it were a jewel. "Thank you," he breathed, his eyes glowing just as my own late son's, his namesake, had when given a new falcon or pet hound. Only this Charles was clearly a scholar; the veneration with which he retreated to the window to open the book demonstrated he would never find satisfaction in swords or armor.

Maybe not swords beaten into plowshares but certainly a hope for future peace. In books, of all places.

Before you sail away from this post, consider taking a look at one of those places where this writer informs herself. It's a blog called Cruising Altitude, and there's a golden opportunity in the air up there. Mr. Hammons has a contest going, and he's provided us with a mystery to be solved. Try your hand at it. I'm going to. In blogs, of all places. Clues abound.

Teach a Grandson to Fish and Get Hooked on His Lines!

2011-02-02T06:30:00.000-06:00

Walk2Write and I head to the far reaches of the western Florida panhandle for another much anticipated weekend at home. Son, grandson Micah, and I plan a fishing trip for Saturday morning. For me and the better half to get our weekend fix of the grandson, we offer to keep him for a while Friday afternoon. During our time together, Micah finds out it is my birthday next weekend and immediately proclaims, “Grandpa! I know what I want for your birthday! I want a party barge with brownies and cupcakes and lots of fish everywhere!” Who knows where he came up with that concept, but it sounds like a good deal to me.

Saturday morning, I meet son and grandson at our usual boat launch, where a nearby meandering tributary of the Escambia River flows into the bay. For the first hour, we do only fishing and no catching (my normal modus operandi). Finally Micah convinces his dad to bait his Diego fishing pole (a kiddie pole about two feet long with four pound test line) with a stiff, long-dead minnow, one of many saved by Micah from a previous fishing trip, and bagged in a zip-lock baggie as a precious commodity. After a few minutes of trolling, the pole jerks a few times and Micah starts reeling it in as quickly as his little hands can create a repetitive, circular motion. He cranks and cranks on the tiny reel, and within less than a minute we spot a giant redfish on the end of his line. It takes out line a couple times, but amazingly he hangs onto the pole and continues cranking. We see the fish about three feet from the boat; it’s large, estimated 22-27 inches (the fish, not the boat). The net is readied by son, and we think this river monster is destined for the frying pan just before the 4-pound-test line breaks. Grandpa and son are more disappointed than grandson. Micah just smiles and exhales a big “Whew!”

Another dead minnow is acquired from Micah’s zip-lock treasure bag and baited on a jig head. Son rigs the tempting morsel on a sturdier grown-up pole, equipped with 40 # braided line and 30# mono-leader. Within a few minutes of trolling, the pole starts its up-and-down dance and Micah tries to pull in the fish but can’t handle the larger rig. Grandpa takes over the task with grandson’s robust approval, and within a minute or so a 22+ inch redfish is ours for the keeping. After landing the catch, Micah excitedly exclaims “Grandpa we had teamwork!” and we give each other a high five. A few more nice size speckled trout are landed, but the redfish have gone back to sleep; no one is disappointed, especially grandpa.

Micah looks up at the sky and says, “Grandpa! I see a dolphin in the sky. Do you see it?” I scan the shapes formed by the clouds, but have to honestly reply that I really don’t. Micah says, “I can see his face!” I have to think we may have a little artist on our hands. The clouds dissipate, but Micah’s enthusiasm doesn’t.

After a long period of trolling, Micah puts his Diego pole down on the bow of our little plastic boat. Son uses his fatherly voice and says, “Micah, put it back in the rod holder. A fish could pull it right out of the boat and into the water.”

Micah matter-of-factly states, “No Daddy, they’re not so strong.”

Son reiterates with a little more emphasis, “Micah, put it in the rod holder. A fish could pull it in.”
“No daddy, they’re not so strong.”

“Micah, do it now! You don’t know what size fish you might get. It might be small or a really big and strong one that can pull your pole in the water.”

“No, they aren’t so strong, daddy.”

Grandpa interrupts the dialogue and addresses son, “You know that you are getting payback." Son looks puzzled.

“What do you mean, payback?”

“I mean, your three-year old son already knows more than you do. Sound familiar?” Son just grins.

Back at the ranch (house), Peanut enjoys a peek and a sniff at the catch-of-the-day. Can we keep it? From the way she licks at it, you'd think she's either made a new friend...or developed a taste for sushi. Paws up and step away from the fish, cat!

Kristin Hannah's 'Winter Garden'--Breaking the Ice of Silence

2011-01-26T10:59:00.000-06:00

In Kristin Hannah's Winter Garden, silence is as much a part of the landscape as its dormant apple trees and "whitened landscape [that] caused a kind of winter blindness." Silence threatens to split a family apart when its patriarch succumbs to heart disease early in the story. The two adult daughters and their elderly mother who are left with an orchard business and each other to care for discover that leaving things left unspoken can have lasting if not tragic consequences. Heart disease, indeed.

Meredith, the oldest of the two sisters, discovers early on--at the age of 12--"the empty spaces that gathered between people." Family members can live together for years and not know each other. What does it take for a tragedy like that to be averted or at least mitigated? The telling of a story--one that begins as a fairy tale and ends as a family history. That fairy tale, though, must be coaxed from their widowed mother by daughters who reveal their damage in typical fashion:

Meredith is a workaholic whose love for her husband threatens to be consumed by the orchard business she's inherited. Her marriage devolves into a series of gestures and one-liners:

Jeff shook his head. It was a minute gesture, barely even a movement, but she saw it. She had always been attuned to him, and lately their mutual disappointments seemed to create sound, like a high-pitched whistle that only she could hear.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing."

"You didn't shake your head over nothing. What's the matter?"

"I just asked you something."

"I didn't hear you. Ask me again."

"It doesn't matter."

"Fine."

Sister Nina travels the world as a famous photojournalist, recording the effects of famines, natural disasters, and genocide. Many of the images she captures tell of unspeakable horror, letting her--and the millions of people who will ultimately view her work--maintain a safe distance from it all:

Changing cameras, adjusting lenses, checking the light. Her adrenaline kicked in. It was the only time she ever really felt alive, when she was taking pictures. Her eye was her great gift; that and her ability to separate from what was going on around her. You couldn't have one without the other. To be a great photographer you had to see first and feel later.

Emotion delayed becomes a way of life for the three women at the center of this novel. Their only hope of sticking together as a family after the glue dissolves--patriarch dies--lies in the truth of their mother's past. It must be spoken to be understood. The daughters will hear the voice of a survivor, someone who lived through a terrible time in Russia's history. Fear of reprisal then and crushing judgment now has rendered the mother incapable of telling her daughters what happened to her and the family she left behind. The fairy tale she has always told them in the dark before bed while they were growing up becomes the vehicle that will carry them forward to reconciliation and understanding.

January 23, 2011, view from a levee, low tide, at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge

When I was growing up, it didn't take much coaxing to get my dad to tell a story about his past. Trouble was, I couldn't remember details. I'm more of a visual learner. Words need to be in print for me. That way I can come back to them anytime I want and share the details exactly as they were written.

In 2001, after years of needling him to write it all down, my dad finally recorded, two-finger method on an old manual typewriter--he didn't own a computer--his story. He agreed to let me "process the words" and create a document so that all members of the family could have a copy. We had a family reunion that year, and I still recall how glad my dad was to have us all together at once, his Memories fresh in our minds.

Great Blue Heron seen at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

My father grew up in a place that was claimed by various occupiers for periods of time: Russians, Austrians, Italians, Germans, and Hungarians. Here is a hint of what the climate was like when he was growing up:

Since that part of the world is at about the same latitude as North Dakota, the winters were quite severe, with snow covering the ground from the middle of November until the end of March. To get around in the winter, one either walked or used horse-drawn sleds; when the ground was free of snow, to get from one place to another, one used horse-drawn carriages and wagons to move freight and people. Automobiles were very scarce, so much so that children would run out to the gate of their yard to gape at passing cars.

A bygone era, certainly, but not forgotten, and family was always the center of attention in my dad's telling of it. He didn't have any siblings. His cousins were his playmates, and his tomboyish aunt Veronica became his best friend:

She taught me how to whistle on my fingers, how to construct a slingshot, how to whittle my own toy flute out of a willow branch, how to throw rocks for both distance and accuracy; in short, she taught me all that a boy needed to know.

Anhinga drying its wings at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

Her greatest gift to me, however, was her ability to tell fairy tales. Since there were no mechanical or electronic means to amuse people--particularly children--no TV or radio or phonographs, reliance to entertain children was placed on either reading to them or telling them stories. And what stories that aunt of mine could tell! She had a never-ending supply of tales to tell; she knew all of the Grimm brothers' fairy tales; she was familiar with Russian legends and could recite them at the drop of a hat. She could easily have taken the place of Sheherezade, the girl in the tales of the One-Thousand-and-One-Nights.

Turkey vultures sharing our path at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

Certainly, there were newspapers, even in those days. My dad walked into town each Saturday to purchase one. At one point, it began to carry news of Hitler's incursion into Poland and the French and British resistance to this threat to their existence. Nothing in the newspaper indicated any danger to my dad's way of life. Nevertheless, he noticed something strange happening:

It was a week or so into September that I saw on my way to school more and more bicyclists--by the hundreds--streaming south and just about clogging the main roads, from early morning well into the night. Most of them were young men of military age fleeing Poland and on their way west to France and eventually to England by way of Yugoslavia and Greece, to join the western powers in the fight against Germany, we later found out.

We continued to be relatively unaffected by events outside our immediate experience, at least in my point of view, through the end of the war in Poland and that country's partition between Germany and the Soviet Union, and for the first part of the following year. It was therefore a tremendous shock to us all when the Soviet armies invaded our part of Romania on June 28, 1940...The invaders' arrival brought profound changes in all of our lives, uprooting us from our homes and precipitating the breakup of our families.

Lighthouse at St. Marks NWR

From what I gather in my dad's text, perhaps the worst part of the invasion was its element of surprise. There was no time to prepare:

For all practical purposes, we were kept in the dark by our authority figures, who--I am guessing--feared panic and civil disorder more than they objected to the loss of some territory. Perhaps they just reasoned that since they could not prevail against the Soviets, they might as well not make a fuss about it.

Prickly pear cactus with fruit at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

Like most people, I was excited, bewildered, and apprehensive experiencing all the changes brought about by the Soviets' arrival. Perhaps the deepest impression on me was the upheaval of the familiar social order. The mayor was the first victim of the ensuing "cleansing." He was an ethnic Pole, named Adolf K--, a full-time butcher and dealer in meats and part-time city official; while not exactly beloved, he was highly respected by all and did both his jobs to most people's satisfaction.

Suddenly, some individuals started calling him "an exploiter of the working class," with no clearly discernible reason for this label; he and three of the four doctors who lived and practiced in Sadagura disappeared overnight, as did all three attorneys, several teachers, and other people considered to be community leaders. Rumors were bruited about that they had all been "oppressors of the proletariat" and that they had been arrested for their own good; they were to be re-educated in some Russian camps and be made to once again recognize their duties and responsibilities to the state and to their fellow citizens.

Yaupon holly, Ilex vomitoria, at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

A pall of almost palpable fear spread among the town's people, primarily because the loudest of denouncers were formerly considered to be dregs of society: drunks, jail birds, shiftless opportunists; they suddenly became organizers of rallies in support of the invaders and were bent on what they alleged was "righting the wrongs" committed by "blood suckers," "kulaks," and "exploiters of the working classes," meaning the previous owners of businesses, farms, and other assets, regardless of their ethnic origins or religious affiliations.

The spreading of news about the arrests/disappearances of people was by word-of-mouth, not very loudly or at great detail, for fear of being considered counterrevolutionary. One never knew whom to trust, whether what one heard was the truth or another rumor...

American alligator at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

Winter Garden, you see, made a big impression on me, even though it's fiction. Its story within a story is typical of what life is like for people everywhere. An older generation's experiences should not be dismissed or forgotten simply because we are constantly being told to "move forward." It's never good to keep silent and still about the past. Memories and stories do matter, or at least they should.

Monarch butterfly, Danaus plexippus, at St. Marks NWR, Jan. 23, 2011

Are you doing anything to encourage people to tell their stories? Are you helping to preserve them in some way?

The Significant Other Blogfest--Walk2Write's SAM

2011-01-21T07:18:00.000-06:00

“A writer is a terrible thing to waste.” At least that’s what I keep reminding myself when at 2:00 A.M. I roll over to find an empty bed. I don’t worry because this has happened several times before – the brainstorm of creativity my wife is compelled to pour out of her soul and mind, no matter the time of day or night. And I’m the primary benefactor of all her skill at mixing poetry, prose, history and thoughtful insight into our world’s current state of affairs, and putting all those complexities together in a story that reflects the simple day-to-day living of our lives. I am usually the very first person to read her latest blog posting. This way when the inevitable question is posed by me, “What exactly does this mean?” my enlightened-self delights that I know the answer before almost anyone else, and have figured it out almost all by myself!

Getting back to the first statement about a wasted writer, I must say that to prevent this tragedy, encouragement must be presented consistently and honestly. Can my dear wife-writer get absorbed at the keyboard or go through the bog of writer despair when the flood of ideas are sealed up in the gray clouds of her mind? Of course. These are the times I most try to lift the fog and play “let’s make up funny character names for your first novel.” I can’t reveal any of the character names because one day they will be famous. Also, I like to encourage her by offering up silly parodies of famous stories or limericks (some decent and some not so). One thing is for certain; I am blessed to be married to an awesome writer. Seeing her joy at completing a story and then reading those marvelous letters of the alphabet, strung together better than any pearl necklace ever seen at your local jeweler, encourages me that life is good, and my wife-writer knows how to keep it that way.

This Blogfest encourages us "significant others" to give a glimpse into the character of our spouse, best friend, or person who inspires us the most. Yes to all of the above! My wife, who is also my best friend and inspires me to reach beyond my comfort zone, has the patience of Job, but will not hesitate to speak her mind if I stray from the course set by hands much more capable than ours. She loves to garden, cook great meals, and spend time with her family. She works harder than should be necessary to keep our marriage going strong. She can be a clean freak, but has surrendered a little ground to me through the years (hooray for five pairs of shoes by the front door!).

I don't want to sound too sappy, but I don't know how I would make it in this world without her. She gets annoyed at the "entertainment news" fed to us Americans on the networks and is fed up with politicians' shenanigans, like most everyone else I know. Another major irritant for her is people too full of themselves or those who do not treat everyone with respect. She fights this negative energy surrounding us by studying history, observing the world around her, and putting her thoughts down in print. In a way, writing is her coping mechanism and her way of dealing with a world gone a bit nuts. I have to say that I did not always recognize that her literary journals were in reality a method of making sense of the big picture, and ultimately her way of making our world a better place. But my wife and best friend has this gifted way of opening eyes not quite focused on truth and redirecting sight to a place of light and seeing. This thing called blogging is pretty cool, and a cyber-family can be a real social benefit and community. In conclusion, to all you writers, poets, and philosophers - keep doing what you do because your efforts are never in vain.

Here's a link to the hosting site for this blogfest: Cruising Altitude.

A Winter Fruit Frenzy and Anticipating 'The Significant Other Blogfest'

2011-01-19T12:08:00.001-06:00

Rubus spp. (thornless blackberry), maybe Arapaho, Apache, or Navaho

According to Henry David Thoreau (Walden, Chapter 1, Economy), "the finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly."

What are those fine qualities of our nature that squish like ripe blackberries between clumsy fingers? And why don't we protect them from harm? Maybe we do if we are "tenders" in various applications of the word.

We can be tender in our conscience, in our words and actions, and we can be tenders of things like gardens...or stories.

I've been putting off writing anything but these posts you read here and the comments I leave scattered around Blogland. Lots of things have been occupying my thoughts and time lately. The blueberry planting in our yard at home has been doubled, though we probably won't see much fruit from it for a few years. I had to "conquer and divide" the original plants, robbing from their roots to propagate new ones.

SAM and I added a few more fruit trees to the yard this past weekend. In addition to the plum trees in the foreground, beyond the palm tree/flower bed, we now have a couple of pear trees--"Flordahome" (not misspelled, by the way,) and "Hood." As I understand, they were both developed by the University of Florida and should do well in Santa Rosa County.

We also found a self-pollinating, Oriental persimmon, "Fuyu," for a good price at a feed supply place in Milton, the same place we got the pears. It's a non-astringent type, meaning that it can be picked and eaten before fully ripe. It won't pucker your mouth like those persimmons native to the U.S. that are more seed than anything. The root stock is from the native tree, though, and the scion is Japanese.

This site by a nursery close to Tallahassee, Just Fruit and Exotics, provides a wealth of information about what to expect from various cultivars and how to care for them. Their price was considerably higher than what we found at the feed store. I'm sure if we had purchased it there, the staff would have been knowledgable and helpful. You get what you pay for. The guy at the feed store insisted that the pears were self-pollinating, but I didn't believe him. As the UF site indicates, they're not.

As in most fruitful relationships and sometimes occupations, it takes two to tango. Writing is no exception, though many people would have you believe that it must be done in solitude. I don't believe it.

There's a blogfest going on this Friday, January 21, that might just prove my point, whatever it is. I've signed up SAM to share some thoughts about me, my writing, and how it affects our relationship. Check back here on Friday to see what he has to say.

Click on this site, Cruising Altitude, to see if you and your significant other would like to participate. I know, it's short notice, but sometimes spur-of-the-moment is better than well-planned. Seize the moment!