NN/SOTS: 'Mistress o' th' Feast' or Hostess with the Mostess?

Shepherd: "Fie, daughter! When my old wife lived, upon
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,
Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all;
Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,
At upper end o' th' table, now i' th' middle;
On his shoulder, and his; her face afire
With labor, and the thing she took to quench it
She would to each one sip. You are retired,
As if you were a feasted one and not
The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid
These unknown friends to 's welcome, for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come, quench your blushes and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o' th' feast...

(from William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale, Act 4, Scene 4)

The lumberjack festival was a cut above the normal list of things to do in Northwest Florida last weekend. I felt pretty good about myself, having given up two hours to meet and greet the public in the name of all that is research-based knowledge. Wouldn't you know, though, that the camera went for a ride on SAM's shoulder and in the Honda on Saturday?--see my comment on the last post--so I made sure that it was fully engaged and gainfully employed the next day at Arcadia Mill.

After making the trek across the swinging bridge, single-file because the stream was so high, I found wild blueberries in bloom again--or are they sparkle berries?--along one of the many side trails. SAM's foot was bothering him so we took a short break in a clearing and sat down on a massive log. We heard voices closing in on us. Two young men and a young woman stepped through the surrounding brush. One of them, dread-locks bedecked, stepped forward and asked us what we were doing. Huh? What could be so mysterious about two pudgy, gray-haired people parked on a log? The sun is shining, the afternoon is wearing on, you can see that we have feasted well and often...This young man would not be satisfied by appearances only. He had to know. What do we think of this site? How old is that log you're sitting on? We got to talking. Well, at least he did. He was verbose. We could barely get a word in edge-wise. He finally understood that we love to hike, enjoy nature and each other's company, blog, and garden--well, at least I do, the latter two things. Many questions were answered, I hope, and that nice young man made me aware of something I had not noticed when crossing the bridge over the stream-too-high. Did you see the sliders? he asked. What? The sliders on the log, just past the first bridge. Oh! Well, you see, I was trying to keep the camera dry and trying to be careful where I stepped. I had missed them! What kind of a naturalist am I? The kind that went back to see those sliders still sitting on their log and not even know for sure that what the young man with the dread-locks called them was correct. It is, and they are--yellow-bellied slider turtles, that is, or if you're a purist, Trachemys scripta, "rough turtle that is marked."

Monday saw SAM at work in Tallahassee and me at work in the garden here, trying something new-to-me and quite possibly to you--seed tapes. I found these at the nearest box store and decided to give them a go. What kind of a gardener am I? I'm still not sure yet.

Please visit Ramblingwoods.com for this week's Nature Notes/Signs of the Season post. You will be glad that you did. Let her and the other participants for this week know by dropping in and leaving a comment!

Nature Notes--A Winter's Tale About Moe and Joe

What? Have I twice said well? When was 't before?
I prithee, tell me. Cram 's with praise and make 's
As fat as tame things. One good deed dying
Tongueless
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wages...
--from William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale, Act I, Scene 2--


Before I begin my story about Moe and Joe, I'll treat you with a sursum-corda look at my pink Gerbera daisies and one of our two baby pink grapefruit trees. They do tend to brighten up an otherwise fading-into-winter landscape here in Northwest Florida. Secret Aging Man picked our one grapefruit since this picture was taken a few days before the last full moon, and let me tell you, it was juicy but lip-puckering tart. If I were the kind of person who always says "I told you so," I would have reminded him that we had a discussion about the optimal time for picking the fruit. I'm learning to bite my tongue, though, about certain things. Most situations in life just aren't worth picking a fight, even if it does boost the old ego or enhance the mojo to take someone else down a notch or two. Secret Aging Man has endured enough ego deflation or mojo meltdown being unemployed this past year to last him a lifetime. It's still true, for better or worse, that a man's notion of self-worth is married to his ability to provide for his family. Thankfully, SAM's persistent, yearlong job search has paid off, and he's "moving forward"--have we had enough of that term yet?--with his career. Now I can tell Moe and Joe's story...

Every time I see a turtle now I think about a guy in Kentucky named Joe Sly--not his real surname--and his anniversary gift to his wife Moe. When I was favored with a glimpse of this box turtle, Terrapene carolina--not sure of the subspecies--several weeks ago as it crossed our back yard, my mind slipped back in time to old Joe and his odd turtle story. Secret Aging Man crossed paths with Joe when they both worked for an environmental consulting company in Paducah. SAM the geologist and Joe Sly the GeoProbe Guy worked as a team looking for subsurface contamination coming from leaking underground storage tanks. Back when state and federal funds for this kind of work just about grew on trees, in the mid 1990s, SAM had no trouble landing a job in Kentucky after selling his own environmental service company. Times were good for most Americans then as the nation's prosperity was kicked into high gear. Even Joe brought home a sizable paycheck for his labor with the GeoProbe, but his east Kentucky frugality never left him. One day while working on an out-of-town project near a lake, Joe spotted a huge snapping turtle in the water. Somehow he managed to wrestle the thing onto dry land without getting bitten and put it into a wide bucket. He took it back to his hotel room that evening and kept it alive in the bathtub for a few days until he could get it home to his wife. As the story goes, when he separated the animal from its shell, he found a gold ring stuck tightly around the proximal end of its tail. Since Joe's wedding anniversary was coming up, he considered himself doubly blessed. He was finally able to give Moe the real gold ring she'd never had as well as able to present her with some of the finest turtle meat ever to grace a table. We never got to meet Moe and hear her side of the story, so this might just be one of those Tall Tales that men at work tell each other to lighten the load.

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

For more posts this week about nature and the change of seasons, please visit Ramblingwoods.com.

We'll Be Back! Warp Factor One! (The Grups and Other Mad Hatters)

The true Southern watermelon is a boon apart and not to be mentioned with commoner things. It is chief of this world's luxuries, king by the grace of God over all the fruits of the earth. When one has tasted it, he knows what the angels eat. It was not a Southern watermelon that Eve took; we know it because she repented. (Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calendar--Mark Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson)

Our first Southern watermelon provided a tasty treat, and it wasn't even cold when we took the first bite! I picked it warm from the garden in the morning, not long after I saw that five-foot snake a few weeks ago. True to form, I took a sharp hoe with me, just in case that snake had any friends lurking about.

I have been chipping away at the weeds in the melon patch, not wanting to spoil the fruit's slow-but-sure development by depriving it of its necessary shelter from Florida's elements.

I picked another fruit of the vine last week, and even though it was bigger than the first specimen depicted above, it was a complete disappointment. Of course, as you can tell, these are two different varieties of melons (Sugar Baby Something and Something-Else), so the maturity rate is difficult to ascertain. What does one look for when determining the appropriate time to harvest a watermelon? Do you thump it? Look for browning of the vine's tendrils or the melon's stem?

SAM had an interesting conversation this morning with someone in Colorado. He was following up on an advertised job opening with an environmental company. In case you don't know, someone who receives unemployment benefits in the United States of America is required by law to document an earnest effort to obtain employment with weekly reports of progress--no rocking-chair, sitting-on-your-arse-money earned here anymore. The lady he spoke to was kind enough to explain that the manager--an early-thirty-something male with eight years of experience--had made it clear to her that no application would be considered if the applicant had more experience than him. SAM explained his predicament--federal requirements being what they are--and the office manager graciously agreed to receive his e-mail application and resume, experience and all. What a nice lady! Too bad she's not the manager. The situation reminded me of that funny episode in Star Trek--the Original Series. If you've lived long enough, you will probably remember it. It's the "Miri" episode--the one that dissed the "grups."

Son and his family don't intend to diss the grups, but they somehow manage to accomplish it nonetheless. While we were surf fshing in the Gulf of Mexico, something as simple as Son's hat served to scoop up a fish. Now where did Son learn a trick like that one? Certainly not from the grups, who have decided that they must band together to oppose anything new and unfriendly to their efforts. They have produced the following instructions for posterity's sake:

Five Reasons to Hire a Grup Rather Than a Yup:

1. Office Intrigue. Advanced age usually takes care of that problem younger people have with "wandering eye." Presbyopia definitely reveals its advantages in this case. Young flesh and firm bodies don't mean nearly as much to someone who has difficulty seeing them.
2. Experience versus lack of it. Again, sight plays a part, but in this case it's hindsight, which is, as we all know, 20/20. Remember that tired, old expression "Been there, done that"? Well, it isn't that old, but there is an allusion in classic literature, written long ago by William Shakespeare: (Rosalind in As You Like It, Act 3, Scene 2, Line 304) "I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal."
3. "Takin' It to the Streets." These days, the yups in charge want to rely on the newest information published by the experts (of their choosing). Usually, though, the experts know what they know because they've studied it in the last article published by some other scholar of choice. A grup has lived in the big, bad world long enough to know that theoretical information only takes you so far. Failure--yes, children, everyone who has lived long enough will fail at some point in something--prompts one to rely on instincts as well as head knowledge.
4. Dogged determination in the face of sound bytes. Grups, generally speaking, are not fashion hounds. Some rules in business (and academia, interestingly enough) are not meant to be broken, bent, or wrapped up in and pitched out with today's newspaper, especially when dealing with investors/stake-or-stock-holders. Those people tend to like things that have a solid record of return on investment. Recycling tried-and-true concepts is usually cheaper in the long run and not as costly in terms of other resources.
5. Good--even if they are old-fashioned--manners. Grups may not always practice socially acceptable behaviors at home or at the office. Nevertheless, time has conditioned them to realize that certain behaviors like not following up with a client or indulging in selfish interests on company (taxpayers'?) time will eventually be noticed and dealt with by "Upper Management."
   

David Austin's "William Shakespeare" somehow found its way into my garden and my heart. It's a parvenu of sorts, not adhering to Walk2Write's strict rules for roses: No allowance for pampering, excess watering, or non-shrub roses.

If it behaves itself beyond this summer season in Florida, it might be allowed to obtain full-time, in-ground--with benefits--employment in this garden.

Ethel Gloves in Training

A very nice gift arrived via the UPS man yesterday afternoon. It had been awaited with much anticipation. Mr. Brown Thumb surprised me a couple of weeks ago with an announcement in one of his posts. He let me know in my comment section that he had something special waiting for me on his blog. A link to one of the Spring Fling sponsors, Ethel Gloves, provided a hint. Wow. I hadn't even entered a contest. The last time I won something was about 20 years ago at a school carnival fundraiser. It was a cake in a cake walk, and I had to buy a ticket to participate. Mr. Brown Thumb's prize sure has that other one beat. And it didn't cost me a thing. He said he wanted to share his bounty of gloves from the sponsor with me and some other bloggers because we had encouraged him in some way. Mr. Brown Thumb had no way of knowing what was going on in my life, but his gift came just in the nick of time. My other gloves had worn out, dry-rotted, and my state of mind recently has been a bit shakier than usual. Maybe it's starting to dry-rot too.


It's funny how things have worked out for me since I started the blog a little over a year ago. Some of the things I had planned for my life did not happen the way they were supposed to. Wah! Okay, enough of that nonsense. Some things did happen that were unexpected but wonderfully so, like the gift from MBT and another one from a special lady in Tennessee. Tina from In the Garden gave me one of her handmade garden markers when we met in New Harmony, Indiana, last autumn. We shared a special afternoon together with our husbands and her son. I'm not sure which gifts I treasure more--the items you see here or the encouragement, friendship, and support they signify.

Since I want these gloves to feel right at home, I took them for a little excursion around the garden. I thought I would ease them in by letting them get a feel for the kind of work they'll be doing soon enough.

These gloves do look like they're capable of withstanding some tough tasks, but the length might not suffice when rose trimming time comes. Most of my roses are the shrub variety, like Knockouts, and here in Florida they require a good haircut at least twice a year. I gave them all a crew-cut back in December when we were home for what we thought was going to be just a visit. June will probably be time for the next round of haircuts by W2W, the local rose barber. And there will surely be bloodletting, only the blood will be this barber's instead of the clients'. Marnie of Lilacs and Roses has a funny post about rose trimming time. She is all too familiar with the havoc those thorns can cause.

The gloves will have plenty of quality time pulling weeds in the flower bed on the east side. They'll also be deadheading these Gerbera daisies every few days. I'm collecting the seeds and hoping to spread them about in various beds when the weather cools off in the fall.

Our baby grapefruit trees probably won't require much glove time. I just thought I'd show off the blossoms which will be finished in a few more days.

Now it's time to get serious with the gloves. It will soon be time to add a new layer of pine straw to the berry patch, and I really hate getting that sticky resin all over my hands. Gloves, I hope you're up to the task.

I love tomatoes, but for some reason I do not like that green plant juice that gets all over my hands when I'm picking the fruit. It stinks and makes my skin itch. These pretty gloves will not stay this clean for much longer. The tag says they're machine washable. I hope so because after a few weeks in the garden they will need it.

There is nothing better than freshly cut broccoli; unless, of course, you don't care for cruciferous vegetables. I seem to remember a recent President had a problem with broccoli, among other things.

The gloves didn't seem to mind taking a tour of the garden and getting oriented to the kinds of tasks they'll soon be assuming. They look so nice right now, I almost don't want to get them dirty. But they look like they're made of sturdy stuff.

"Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education."

--from Puddn'head Wilson's Calendar in Mark Twain's Puddn'head Wilson, 1894--

Waste (a Crisis) Not, Want Not

In between babysitting Micah a couple of weeks ago and suspending our ADLs this week because of the flu, Secret Aging Man and I kept fairly busy. Early last week we traveled to Lower Alabama to dig up thirty blueberry bush suckers. We (SAM, actually) dug a trench and replanted them along one edge of our property in northwest Florida. I soaked them in a bucket of water overnight before planting to mitigate some of the shock they must have received. The guy who sold them to us said he has managed to make a tidy sum of money in the past month (selling them to suckers?). He estimates he has sold 3200 of them at 2 bucks a pop. If these suckers end up thriving here, that guy may have some future competition in the local blueberry bush market. He called them rabbit-eye bushes. If he's correct, these specimens of Vaccinium virgatum should be quite prolific and productive for us here in the Deep South.


The steady rain we've been experiencing the last couple of days should help these youngsters get established in their new home. Before he planted them, Secret Aging Man checked with our neighbor about planting them quite near the property line. Since they can grow quite large, we didn't want a crisis cropping up in the future over possible encroachment issues. You know what some people say about good fences. On the one hand, they "make good neighbors." On the other hand, though, "something there is that doesn't love a wall." Some people don't like obstacles in their way and find creative ways of overcoming them. Take a "crisis," for example. Now there's a word that keeps cropping up everywhere you look and listen. It's the kind of word that makes you sit up and take notice and maybe even get a little (very?) nervous if you're so inclined. You look for direction, help, comfort, and some kind of solution to this crisis so you can get on with your life. Where have I heard this word before? From the pen of Thomas Paine, I think.

"These are the times that try men's souls. . .'Tis surprising to see how rapidly
a panic will sometimes run through a country. All nations and ages have been
subject to them: Britain has trembled like an ague at the report of a French
fleet of flat-bottomed boats; and in the fourteenth [actually, the fifteenth;
jeez, Paine!] century the whole English army, after ravaging the kingdom of
France, was driven back like men petrified with fear; and this brave exploit was
performed by a few broken forces collected and headed by a woman, Joan of Arc.
Would that heaven might inspire some Jersey maid to spirit up her countrymen,
and save her fair fellow sufferers from ravage and ravishment!" (from Thomas
Paine's pamphlet, "The Crisis," No. 1)

Joan, old girl, where are you when we need you? We could use some spiriting up right about now, from what we hear every day about the current crises (plural!) threatening our very existence as a nation. Don't worry too much. I don't. I'm encouraged to hear that nothing gets wasted in Washington, not even a crisis. After all is said and done, "it's an opportunity to do things that you think you could not do before." Attaboy, Rahm! Carpe diem!

The Deep South is not only full of blueberry bushes but also plenty of history. We found one of the meccas for Civil War buffs practically next door to us in Lower Alabama. Fort Gaines on Dauphin Island, south of Mobile, can hold your attention for a few hours as you explore what another crisis did to this country. At least in that crisis, people knew exactly who the enemy was and what all the fuss and fighting were about.

Something there is in me that likes a ship's anchor. This particular one belonged to the Hartford, a Union ship commanded by a man who defied the odds against him and tempted fate. "Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead!" You can almost hear old man Farragut's voice echoing throughout the place.

A fortification this elaborate and large, built to withstand attacks that might come from enemies domestic and foreign, required the use of many bricks. The bricks were fashioned using slave labor, but the skilled masons who constructed the buildings probably hailed from surrounding communities like Mobile. If conditions on the island were not ideal--and they probably weren't if you consider its primitive state at the time--you can bet those craftsmen did not complain. They built to impress the officials who had hired them. They anticipated more work coming their way from those Confederates and wanted to do a good job. You can tell that they did.

We didn't spend all of our time on the island pondering fortresses and history lessons. Still, we found some relics from the past sprucing up the place. I'm not sure, but it looks like these pieces of wood have been here for a long time. Mobile Bay must have changed over the years to encroach on the habitat of what I believe are the remnants of a bald cypress tree. As you can see in the video below, some things never change, like the tools and tasks of a blacksmith. This guy was busy during our entire visit to the fort. He looked like he was enjoying himself, engaging with the audience even while hard at work. I wanted to know but was too shy to ask in front of all those other people standing around. Does it pay more than minimum wage, and where do we sign up?

Hard at Work and Play

Jack-Be-NIMBY,
(Jack-Be-Quick!),
Jack (BN)'s found an oil slick!

(W2W, 2008)


Hubby on Sunday kept his boss and his wife happy (you mean they aren't one and the same?) by negotiating a balance between work and play. First, he drove out to the rig early in the morning to pick up drilling samples and monitor the drilling progress. I will refer to these roughnecks as JBQs (Jack-Be-Quicks). They have a tough job to do and have to be quick on their feet and with their hands, or they are liable to lose some toes or fingers. They work eight hour shifts and during this current oil boom rarely have a day off except for the following reasons: they get sick, the rig they work on breaks down and needs repair, or they get time off for bad behavior (sent to jail). The last reason, sadly, accounts for more time off than any other one. I theorize that the nature of their work throws their home life out of balance and upsets the equilibrium of their Qi (energy). Drilling into Mother Earth somehow pits her yin against their yang, and their tension after work finds an outlet in barroom brawls or "domestic disturbances."

The JBQs work too hard, it seems, and the danger and resulting tension they face every day on the job sometimes boils over in reaction and spills onto the mundane things in life, like language. My husband knows what a word freak I am, and he has kindly consented to provide me with a set of colorful oil field terms he hears while at the rig as well as their meanings:

Blow the hole down: Drill fast!
Blowout: Gas or oil spews out because of underground pressure.
Bottom hole pressure: The underground gas pressure that gets measured at drilling completion.
Break out a joint: Separate joints of pipe from others.
Circulate bottoms up: Time required to get rock cuttings (samples) from the bottom of hole to the surface.
Gas to surface: Natural gas making its way to the surface through the drill pipe.
Going in the hole/Running in the hole: Lowering drill pipe into the bore hole.
Lost tools in hole: Losing a string of pipe.
Make a Trip: Coming all the way out of the hole to replace a drill bit.
Make up/Break Out: Twisting two pieces of pipe together or loosening them.
Mud up: Initiate use of drilling mud to condition the hole.
Nipple up: Weld two different sizes of pipe together.
No bottom hole recorded: No pressure in the formation.
Pumpjack: The equipment used to pump the oil to the surface after completion of the well drilling.
Strip log: The geologist's record of drilling time at each formation.
Stripping rubbers: Doughnut-like rings placed below the rotary table, used to strip the mud off the pipe when coming out of the hole to replace the bit or perform a drill-stem test.
Tight hole: All information on well is kept secret.
Tool pusher: The boss of the drillers. He makes sure the crew uses sufficient pipe "dope" and "trips" when needed (comes out of the hole to change the bit).
Twisted off: This term can mean either the torque of the drill rig twists the pipe off or the driller quits suddenly.


These pits hold the drilling mud, a mixture of bentonite clay (kitty litter), water, and various stabilizing chemicals, which circulates the rock cuttings from the bottom of the hole upwards. The JBQs "grab" samples of these cuttings and collect them in little bags for the geologist to evaluate for the presence of oil. The drilling "mud" or fluid is the lifeblood of the well. Drilling could not be accomplished without this circulatory system.


The draw works pictured here is the apparatus that allows for lowering and hoisting of drill pipe in and out of the hole. It also has brakes to put so many points of weight on the drill bit (or hold off weight).


Like a ship, the drill rig has a crow's nest, but in this case it's not for sighting land. Here, one of the JBQs stacks the pipe vertically in a rack when drilling is not yet completed but there is a need to remove the pipe from the hole, such as when for tripping for a bit or running a drill stem test.

All of the equipment for drilling is brought in on skids and set up within a matter of a couple of days. To the left of the picture you see the doghouse, where the driller monitors and controls the action of the drilling and also where the crew members take short breaks. The derrick in the center of the picture, of course, is where all the action and drama unfold. The blue structure on the right side is the water tank holding the water to be used for mixing with the mud chemicals. In the foreground are the pipe tubs (right) and one of the pipe racks.

This setup can be seen more and more frequently on various highways and byways throughout the southern part of Illinois.



After working at the rig for a couple of hours, hubby brought some balance back to the day by going on a hike with me to Giant City State Park. The temperature soared to nearly 100 degrees Fahrenheit (mid 90s in the shade), but he never complained, at least not until I stopped moving at intervals along the trail to take pictures.


I know that I saw this plant blooming earlier in the spring. Now it seems to be putting on fruit. I really need to get a wildflower book for this area so I can identify plants like this one (hint).

Of course, this plant is easy to recognize as a blackberry vine. I found it growing right out of a rock along the trail.

You can't keep a good man down (on the ground). Hubby insisted on climbing up the slippery, moss-covered rock into a shallow cave.

Well, I'm not exactly a tree hugger, but I do find them to be excellent places to hold onto and keep one's balance when stumbling about a root-laden trail.

I like this perspective of the road from the trail, seen between two rocks that separated from each other during some cataclysmic event like an earthquake. This spot was one of the few cool places (literally) along the entire path.


The sign gently warns visitors to not remove or disturb anything found in the area. Footprints should be the only thing left behind after a visit.

Occasional rumbles could be heard while we were at the top of the trail, and we discovered that these noises came from motorcycles making their way through the park, undoubtedly on the way to visit some of the local wineries. We followed suit in our car after hiking, but not before we made a small detour to visit a place called Boskydell, south of Carbondale. I lived in this area with my parents for a couple of years while finishing up high school and met one of the sweetest ladies imaginable, who changed my life forever. Her name was Rose Lipe.

This group of dilapidated buildings is all that remains of a once well-kept farm that Rose owned and maintained until her death in 1995. We drove up the driveway, thinking that no one lived there anymore, only to be surprised by a young, bikini-clad woman peeking out from behind some weeds. The house looked uninhabitable, so I'm not sure what she was doing there.

If you click on the picture above, you will see proudly proclaimed that this barn was build by friends. Rose had many of them.

Rose meant a lot to me. She was my Sunday School teacher in this little one-room schoolhouse, my 4-H leader (we met here for some of our meetings), and a wonderful friend who taught me a lot about hard work, fun, faith, love, and happiness. She knew how to balance them all.