Walk This Way on a Fat Tuesday

For nature, crescent, does not grow alone
In thews and bulk, but, as this temple waxes,
The inward service of the mind and soul
Grows wide withal.
(Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, Scene III)

Right about now, on this Fat Tuesday, the party day known as Mardi Gras is either reaching a feverish crescendo or winding down to a hungover whimper in cities along the Gulf Coast and in various other Catholic strongholds around the world.  I've never understood this headlong, headstrong, mad, crowd rush to feast and drink before a fast. It's not particularly beneficial to one's health and could actually harm someone who is serious about fasting. But then I don't imagine there are too many individuals caught up in the crescendo who flip the coin of feasting to reveal the need for fasting and its companion: Reflection.

I'm glad that I've reached the ripe old age where I have an excuse to escape the partying and parades and settle down with The Good Book, some Shakespeare, or a good blog like Cosmos English Writing Blog. My Japanese blogger friend knows a thing or two about taking a step back from the mad pace of life and finding the tenderness, the sweetness we often miss when we grow up, get caught up, and start to "grow wide withal."

One of my favorite places to turn back and wane my temple is Torreya State Park. We traveled from the west, when the weather was at its best, and took a chance to hike and camp there a few weeks ago. Daughter came, traveling from the east (she wouldn't miss it!) to grace SAM and me with a visit, toting her guitar and musical talent along to sing a song or two and maybe inspire...

A post about Torreya, a place to build a story, after hiking, whilst sitting around the fire.

One of several headstones found near a trail in Torreya State Park

Whirled Piece: Ginger or Mary Ann? Julia or Lucetta?

Costus pictus, spiral ginger

The ginger that does grow
In tropical garden isle
Makes its way onto the blog
And so the garden file

It traveled here all potted up
Last year from lakeside yard
It grew but didn't bloom 'til now
A spiraling upwards guard

With gaze that grows from inward out
To focus on a whirled
Piece on Earth, on entwined fates allowed
To mingle here, so gradually unfurled.

Hedychium coronarium, butterfly ginger

JULIA: What is't that you took up so gingerly?

LUCETTA: Nothing.

JULIA: Why didst thou stoop, then?

LUCETTA: To take a paper [blog] up that I let fall.

JULIA: And is that paper [blog] nothing?

LUCETTA: Nothing concerning me.

JULIA: Then let it lie for those that it concerns...

(from William Shakespeare's The Two Gentleman of Verona, Act I, scene ii)

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I never dreamed I would become such a ginger gardener. But who can resist the tropical allure of these beauties? They grow so effortlessly, with so little care and attention, quite unlike a blog, I'm afraid. I never dreamed I would become such a "gingerly" blogger. If a blog is let go, allowed to drop out of sight and mind, it might just die on the vine, so to speak. And the entwined fates (faithful readers/followers/thinkers) will stop mingling here and remain unfurled. Impressions either never arrive or quickly leave, unseen and unspoken.

If you're wondering what Ginger or Mary Ann have to do with this whirled piece, blame SAM. When he saw the ginger unfurling its flower bracts, he suggested that I ask the question. Are you a Ginger or Mary Ann? Gilligan's Island fans will know what I'm talking about. You might even remember dramatic Ginger as Ophelia in this episode. There, now. Shakespeare>Ginger>Tropical Landscaping>Gilligan's Island. Everything comes together in this whirled piece. Oh. What about Julia or Lucetta? Read the play and let me know what you think.

But Soft! What Twilight Garden?

Peanut by twilight garden

"But soft! what [Twi]light [Garden] through yonder window breaks?"

The gardener softly shuts off the light and out of doors her way she makes.

Daylight fades and night begins to fall but just before it does,






The gardener takes the cap from off the camera lens and blows away the Peanut fur and fuzz,

'Cause camera obscura is not the tack she wants to take
as flowers show their peak.

The gardener's figure softly hides in twilight's cloak,
and softly does she sneak

To savor and to archive twilight's bloom for future garden plan.
Whilst present, pleasant, daytime life is fat and full and may be whipped up cream,

"O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all [that] this is [we've learned from life thus far may be nothing]
but a dream..."

(Words in quotes, it's true, are gathered from bits and pieces of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet,
but those in brackets and all the rest come from Walk2Write, direct to you, via blog and Internet.)

Jeff McKenney, MD: A Doctor Rich in Patients (Patience) and Wit But Poor in Dilatory Time

Slow...No Wake

How poor are they that have not patience!
What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
Thou knowest we work by wit, and not by witchcraft,
And wit depends on dilatory time...

(Shakespeare's Othello, II, iii, 376-379)

Some years ago, SAM and I attended a small country church near Paducah, Kentucky, and became acquainted with the sister of a missionary in Honduras. She--the sister--spoke of and presented a slideshow of the incredible work that her brother, Dr. Jeff McKenney, and his wife had begun some years earlier in a remote area on the northern coast of Honduras. It wasn't the impressive presentation or the engaging personality of the sister that convinced us to support the Cornerstone Foundation. I must admit it was reading Dr. McKenney's fascinating account of his tribulations and triumphs that convinced me (and then us) to help fund this medical mission. Dr. Jeff has a penchant (read here) for penetrating the mysteries (to me) of missionary work.

Oh, sure, I understand the basic concept. How can you expect people to understand and accept the Gospel unless you first minister to their most urgent needs? Kindness and good intentions are all fine and good, but when a belly is either empty or split open by bandits wielding machetes, critical attention must be paid to feeding or fixing the belly before the soul.

The main thing I don't understand about mission work is how missionaries like Dr. Jeff and his wife can so easily put aside their own lives to save other lives? Well, maybe not easily, but willingly. It must have something to do with dilatory time or the lack thereof. Such a thing does not exist in such a man's vocabulary or thought process. Time is of the essence there and here. Okay, so maybe I'm beginning to comprehend. I owe, I owe. It's off to work I go...

Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane ["olive press"], and he said to them, "Sit here while I go over there and pray." He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me..." 


Then he returned to the disciples [after how many times of waking them??!!] and said to them, "Are you still sleeping and resting? Look, the hour is near, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us go!"


(Matthew 26: 36-46)

Sweet Potatoes are Taking Over My Garden and My Thoughts--'Remember, Remember the Fifth of November'

Sometimes I wonder--and maybe you do too--if I tend a garden just so I can use it as an excuse to cultivate my convoluted trend of thought. The sweet potato, Ipomoea batatas, is a good case in point. A close cousin to the morning glory in the botanic family of Convolvulaceae, it has such interesting and varied ties to history, literature, and folklore that I couldn't wait to include it in my garden earlier this year. A lady waiting in line with me at the garden center where I purchased a six-pack of plants this past April warned me it might take over. She was right, but I'm not sorry. It has handily covered most of my barren plot of earth, not suitable for growing much of anything else I've planted, and I've already "robbed" the six original plants of their sweet tasting and nutritious roots. Next year, there will be even more, haha.

When I woke up this morning, I fully intended to write a post strictly about my sweet taters, concentrating on information about their nutritional value--they're packed with beta-carotene and potassium for starters--and maybe throw in a few ideas for preparation. Thanksgiving is on its way after all, and how dull would it be without a sweet potato casserole or mashed sweet taters to add some inexpensive color, flavor, and much-needed fiber to the traditional, weighs-heavy-on-the-stomach-and-budget feast? There would be yammering like nothing you've ever heard if I left these beauties off the menu. Or at least there should be.

 So, where did that simple post about nutrition and preparation go? By the wayside, as soon as I picked up one of my favorite early morning reads, Charles Spurgeon's Morning and Evening. It reminded me that today is the anniversary of the Discovery of the Gunpowder Plot, celebrated as a national day of Thanksgiving in England--Guy Fawkes' Day in years past and more recently as Bonfire Night. Who? What? Guy Fawkes was a Catholic fellow who lived in the time of King James I, and he didn't like the way things were going with the Protestants in charge of everything. He was a key member of a plot to blow up Parliament using barrels of gunpowder strategically placed in the building's cellar. The plot was discovered in the nick of time--Spurgeon calls it a "great deliverance wrought by God for us." Fawkes did not meet with a happy ending, it seems. He leaped off the steps leading up to the gallows, breaking his neck and thereby preventing a slower, more painful death by hanging, drawing, and quartering. Terrorists were not afforded the luxury of mercy in days of old when knights were bold and a king's rule on earth was conflated with God's stature in heaven. It's a good thing for them that times and attitudes have changed.

Thank goodness for things that don't change, like sweet potatoes, among other things. According to this site that touts healthy foods, they've been cultivated and consumed since prehistoric times. They were introduced to North America, the West Indies, and eventually Europe by those forward-thinking Spaniards who discovered them on their gold-seeking forays into Peru and Ecuador. The Spaniards didn't like them much at first, but other Europeans soon found good uses for them. It seems that some health practitioners decided that they were aphrodisiac, and word got around quickly, as it usually does where sex is concerned. It must have been common knowledge by William Shakespeare's time. Some of his contemporaries called it the "venereous root." Shakespeare even gave the taters some notice, complete with severe-weather idioms. What better way to emphasize the climacteric plight of middle-aged men and women and their often tempestuous rage against age--and each other--in his comedic play The Merry Wives of Windsor?(Shakespeare was a player, all right--with words, of course):

Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of "Greensleeves," hail kissing-comfits, and snow eringoes... (Falstaff in a nighttime tryst with a married woman who plays a trick on him, Act 5, Scene 5, lines 18-20.)

As much as I'd like to say that sweet potatoes were a regular part of King James' diet, lusty ruler that he was, I find no evidence to support that idea. I can say they will be a regular part of my family's garden and diet, now that I've discovered what a useful and interesting veggie they truly are.

NN/SOTS: Colony Collapse Disorder--'Bee' Enlightened Before You 'Make Your Garden Rich in Gillyvors'

This time of year calls for a bit of shearing--deadheading--to keep some blooms in my garden blooming for a while longer. These beauties waiting to be shorn of their spent blossoms are Dianthus or what Shakespeare knew as carnations, gillyflowers, or gillyvors. So, I got to thinking about another shearing--of sheep in this case--that takes place in a land called Bohemia. One character stands out in this pastoral scene with her steadfast attitude about allowing hybrids into her garden. Why, though? What could be so disastrous about allowing plants that have been hybridized into the mix? Perdita, the stand-out gardener, whose name means "lost," can't bear the thought of allowing anything but the art-less flowers that appear naturally each growing season.

Perdita: Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth

Of trembling winter, the fairest flow'rs o' th' season

Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors,

Which some call nature's bastards. Of that kind

Our rustic garden's barren, and I care not

To get slips of them.

Polixenes: Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Perdita: For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares

With great creating nature.

Polixenes: Say there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean

But nature makes that mean. So over that art

Which you say adds to nature is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry

A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race. This is an art

Which does mend nature--change it, rather--but

The art itself is nature.

Perdita: So it is.

Polixenes: Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

And do not call them bastards.

Perdita: I'll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them,

No more than, were I painted, I would wish

This youth should say 'twere well, and only therefore

Desire to breed by me...

(The Winter's Tale, Act 4, Scene 4, Lines 79-103)

A swallowtail butterfly (Palamedes, maybe?) on thistle, Cirsium horridulum, seen at St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge on May 9, 2010

No one really knows why honeybees have been disappearing in such large numbers over the last several years. Scientists think that a combination of factors are contributing to the decline. Researchers all over the world are studying this phenomenon because the possible outcome could be significant--a worldwide shortage of food. I asked a beekeeper and honey merchant at the Lumberjack Festival a couple of months ago what the latest word is on the disorder. He said he is studying up to be an expert, certified apiarist but hadn't heard anything new coming down the pike. I found out that the majority of his business comes from transporting his hives to fields and groves where there is a shortage of bees and a surplus of plants and trees in desperate need of pollination. Selling the honey is a way for him to make extra income and to educate people about bees and their habits. He also told us to be wary of honey sold in most outlets because it more than likely is "cut" with corn syrup to make it go further. It tastes similar and doesn't look much different, unless you've tasted the real stuff and can differentiate between what's real and its facsimile. A shortage of honey would seem logical considering the shortage of bees. But why is there a decline? Could the bees be confused--upset--by the displacement of Perdita's faves with those "streaked gillyvors"? Presumably, the bees can tell the difference between original, "rustic garden" flowers and the hybrids that have gradually stolen their scene. I wish someone would figure out what's happening to the bees and find a way to help them negotiate this thorny situation.

Prickly pear, Opuntia humifusa, blossom seen at St. Marks NWR, 5/9/2010

A little more light--maybe some funding too--on the situation might help us understand what we as a species are doing to this old planet, right or wrong, and put to shame--where they belong--those doomsayers' predictions that the world is going to end in 2012 or anytime soon.

 

Lighthouse at St. Marks. Guess who took me there on Mother's Day, 2010, after a great lunch out, just the two of us? I could get used to this new-to-me part of Florida.

For this week's Nature Notes/Signs of the Season post and links to other bloggers' observations about nature, please visit Ramblingwoods.com and leave a comment there too. Michelle would appreciate it. We all do.

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.

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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.

A Watched POT(US) Never Boils--Lessons from a Garden and the Gulf

"But with the word the time will bring on summer,
When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns,
And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;
Our wagon is prepared, and time revives us.
All's well that ends well. Still the fine's the crown;
Whate'er the course, the end is the renown."
--from William Shakespeare's All's Well That Ends Well, Act 4, Scene 4--



Time in a garden/blog has taught me:

1. Patience. I have planted several Clematis vines here in the last five years we have lived in this house. Only one variety, Nelly Moser, (thanks to Prairie Rose, I remember its name now) has survived hurricanes and hot summers. It thwarts even my best efforts to doom its existence by planting it on the southwest corner of a brick house in the northwest corner of Florida.
2. Joy. I had some doubts that anything would thrive with my lack of experience gardening in a southern climate. The soil here still needs a lot of help, and the fire ants are a daily nuisance.
3. Peace. Commonly accepted mind-numbing methods (take your pick--there are more than ever to choose from these days) are losing their appeal for this gardener. I have found a place where troubled times freeze in place like a photograph or words on a page, never ignored but ready at a moment's notice to be cooly examined and discussed from a variety of perspectives.
4. Love. SAM puts up with a lot of manure from me and always has. I come from a long line of strong-willed (bull-headed?) people who don't slip easily into someone else's yoke and pull in the desired direction.
5. Kindness. Still in the developing stages.
6. Goodness. Same as above.
7. Faithfulness. Same as above.
8. Gentleness. Same as above.
9. Self-control. Same as above. Just read some of my previous posts, and you'll understand what I mean.
   

Many exciting things have been happening across the Pond for POTUS and his family. I hope he gets a chance to relax this summer in his new garden at home and maybe even on the water. Of course, living in Florida means that water is never very far from my thoughts. Springs, creeks, rivers, and the sea surround us with liquid energy and diffuse life's tensions. We manage to stay afloat in a kayak that can be pedaled like a recumbent bike or paddled if necessary. Early on Saturday morning the Gulf of Mexico laid down like a lake and allowed us to explore the coastline along Fort Pickens. At one point we saw something in the water some fifty yards away that could have been a body for all we knew. It looked to be about five feet long and had a good deal of mass to it. Had a shark gotten to some hapless swimmer or surfer dude? Images from Jaws swam across my mind. No. As we pedaled closer, the object raised its head and then sank in a matter of seconds. It was a sea turtle! We could not get close enough to take its picture, but we got excited by the sighting all the same.

After about an hour or so in the kayak, the old backsides get a little sore, so we head for shore and walk about on the empty beach for a while. It's still early in the morning, and we have a long stretch of the beach all to ourselves. I love to be on the water, but using my feet on land helps me to think more clearly. And tipping over doesn't usually concern me when I'm standing on my own two feet. I have lots of things to think about.

Before we reach the shore, we notice the water there seeming to boil with some sort of activity. (I took a couple of videos but wasn't satisfied with the quality so a picture will have to suffice.) The "boiling" lasts for quite a while even after we beach the kayak. Some sort of jackfish (judging by the shape of the tails) are chasing tiny minnows, and the gulls and other shorebirds are feasting on them as well. But the action drifts off farther down the beach, and even disconcerting news that finds its way into my thoughts simmers down eventually. Son's cool acceptance of a 25% pay cut to keep his job makes me wonder at how silly I am to lose my temper over trivial things. And at the end of the day, daughter's life and limbs are spared when her tire explodes. It does not happen on the Interstate, which is part of her drive home from work, but on Highway 90, not far from home. She is in the left lane and manages to bring the car to a stop in a grassy portion of the median. I am home to pick her up, SAM is summoned, and the tire is changed. The day ends well.

Noxious Veggies? 'Peas' Say It's Not So!

TOUCHSTONE: "I remember, when I was in love ... the wooing of a peascod [pod] instead of her, from whom I took two cods [pods] and, giving her them again, said with weeping tears, 'Wear these for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly."

ROSALIND: "Thou speak'st wiser than thou are ware of."

TOUCHSTONE: "Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it."

--from William Shakespeare's As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 4--

Our bounty of snow peas lately has SAM filling his pockets full of them when he goes out to the garden. We have been eating them every day for the past several days and sharing them with son and his family. Since I like to know the "skinny" on living lean (i.e., staying healthy in this sick economy), I thought it best to do some research on the benefits of what's been filling our bellies. If you can believe it (I'm still having a hard time digesting this information), certain veggies may be hazardous to your health! They naturally contain chemicals like toxic alkaloids and oxalic acid which interfere with metabolism and upset adequate absorption of vitamins and minerals also present in the veggies. I can still remember my parents insisting that I eat things like brussel sprouts and broccoli (apparently not noxious at all), but no, I would be obstinate. I didn't mind tomatoes, peas, and potatoes, especially fried. If I'd only known then what I know now! Still, I don't think I'll be tearing down my pea or tomato vines, at least not until they're done bearing fruit, and I've already unearthed some potatoes. We had them steamed and served with parsley butter for lunch today. Delicious! I'm inclined to think those noxious veggies might have some good purpose for us. I've been known to have a darker side, but silver linings have always appealed to me.

Last summer SAM and I were fortunate enough to attend an Insect Awareness and Appreciation Day in Illinois and learn from various bug experts who were kind enough to bring along some "props." Monarch butterfly larvae favor milkweed plants for good reason. Asclepius keep them supplied with cardenolide alkaloids which can sicken most vertebrate herbivores that try to feast on the larvae and butterflies. Yes, even though the butterflies eat nectar from a variety of flowers and not milkweed leaves, the toxins are stored (sequestered) in the bodies of the larvae which metamorphose into those beautiful adult forms. Those youngsters are protecting themselves and their adult selves from most predators. I hope my preference for noxious veggies when I was young has that same effect for me now that I'm more "mature." I like to imagine that pathogens (swine flu?) and other noxious elements don't stand a chance.

Palm Rescue

"There is a sickness
Which puts some of us in distemper, but
I cannot name the disease; and it is caught
Of you that yet are well."
--Camillo's veiled warning to Polixenes; William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale, 1.2--

I truly believe that winter is not just a season for some people. It characterizes their entire "play" upon this "stage" of life. One bad thing after another creates a habit of bitterness, which builds a pattern of despair, which produces a crop of self-righteousness, which rages against anything that clings--or lays a claim, even if undeserved--to righteousness. I almost fell for the trap. The palms rescued me.

Sylvan Settings and Golden Aurelia--Liminal Secrets to Good Health

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
"This is no flattery; these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am..."
--from As You Like It by William Shakespeare, Act 2, Scene 1--

I hope that my brothers and sisters in exile--holed up indoors while winter rages on outside--find some warm, Southern comfort in this post and the words of Duke Senior. On the last day of January, my Secret Aging Man and I walked some trails in the woods at UWF.

Peanut the Younger often takes chances by leaping onto favorite trees. She really seems to favor this Loropetalum. I'm thinking it must have an extra helping of prana--the life force or energy that is supposed to be holding this old world together. Our massage therapist daughter has taken a class in pranic healing and sometimes practices what she has learned on us.

The Secret Aging Man (aka Hubby) takes his pruning seriously and recommends a session for the crepe myrtle in the backyard. Lately, I have seen these trees around here, severely trimmed and making it look like a mad barber has been turned loose on the town. I agreed with the recommendation, but I'm afraid to show you the results of the session. Maybe I'll wait until there is some new growth sprouting in the spring.

At this time of year, when the evening comes early and the frosty air chases us indoors as soon as the sun sets, silly things like lava lamps take us back in time for a laugh or two.

The simplest things keep us satisfied these days, which is a good thing, because they are relatively cheap but oh-so-valuable for nutrition. Gold standards may change with time, but excellence in nutrition and health never goes out of style. Thomas More's Utopia (first published in 1516) found interesting solutions to the problem of maintaining a high standard of living in a world even then obsessed with possessions:

Now if in their society [Utopia] these metals [gold and silver] were put away in
some tower, the ruler and the senate might be suspected of deceiving the people
by some trick and getting some good from it for themselves--such is the foolish
anxiety of the mob. And then if they made platters out of them or other vessels
made by goldsmiths, if ever the occasion arose to melt them down and use them to
pay mercenaries, they realize that once people had begun to delight in them they
would be reluctant to give them up. To obviate these difficulties they have
thought up a method quite compatible with the rest of their arrangements but
very far removed from ours (for we value gold very highly and hide it away quite
carefully), a method which is therefore hard to believe unless you have
experienced it. Whereas they eat and drink from vessels of earthenware and
glass, beautifully crafted but inexpensive, they use gold and silver, not only
in the common halls but also in private houses, to make all the chamberpots and
lowliest containers.

I hope I am correct in identifying this jellyfish as Aurelia aurita, a moon jellyfish. It does not look exactly like the photos I have found online but close enough by description of size and color. Notably missing are the reproductive organs clearly evident in the other photos I have seen. It was not moving like the Portugese man o' war I saw on Pensacola Beach last month. Maybe its reproductive days are over, which would be a crying shame. It might be one of those valuable jellyfish deemed edible by discriminating palates in some Asian countries. Sushi, anyone?

...Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
--from As You Like It, 2.1.12-17--

"Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made On"

...Be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep...

--from William Shakespeare's The Tempest, 4.1--

Last Saturday, Hubby and I decided to revisit some old stomping grounds we have trod many times over the years. We drove to Carbondale and stopped for a late lunch at Melange, formerly just a coffeehouse and now a delightful little bistro with outdoor seating and a fragrant herb garden. It serves up a reasonably priced menu quite different from the usual college-town fare of pizza and subs. Among other things, it includes a variety of tapas (served after 4 p.m., I believe), bison burgers (meat supplied locally), and herb-flavored cocktails.


Since we had both filled up on the 1/2-pound bison burgers and sweet potato fries (freshly cut and prepared with a tempura batter), instead of taking to the Campus Lake trail at SIU, we decided to try tooling around the lake in a paddleboat. We would still get some exercise but at a more leisurely, sit-down kind of pace. Besides, renting one only costs a dollar per hour. That is cheap entertainment for low-budget people like us.


Hubby let me take the pictures so he could man the rudder, or whatever that thing that steers the boat is called.

Several of the student residence halls surround the lake. I asked Hubby if he had ever wanted to live in one of them. He responded with a resounding "never." The students who lived around the lake had a reputation for extreme partying, and he was a serious student. When I met him, he was seriously considering either changing his major (geology) or dropping out of school. I convinced him to stick with it, and I guess he is thankful now that he did.


We did not see too many people out on the lake or anywhere else on campus and wondered if the students were on some sort of break. It's hard to believe that they could be holed up in their rooms or in the library studying on such a beautiful day.

The resident ducks were sure enjoying the day and didn't seem to mind sharing the lake with us.



I guess our stamina ain't what it used to be, and we headed back to the dock before the hour was even up. The day was rather warm, and Hubby was looking a bit done-in. He had only a few hours of sleep the previous night and was expecting to pull an all-nighter at the drilling rig.


I like to see that the campus landscapers are including some color and variety in their plantings. When we attended school here in the late 70s, the campus was a showplace. My dad told me that Delyte Morris, president of the school from 1948 to 1970, was largely responsible for making sure that many beautiful trees, flower beds, and winding trails from which to admire them would grace the campus. I would bet that his wife had some input on that decision.


I think I mentioned that I remember goldenrod, or Solidago, growing on campus. I did find some right next to the lake. According to my Essential Oils Desk Reference, goldenrod has throughout the ages been relied upon for its usefulness as a diuretic, anti-inflammatory, anti-hypertensive, and liver stimulant. Historically, it even played a role in the colonists' resistance to British taxation. When English tea was dumped in Boston Harbor during the famous Boston Tea Party, colonists drank goldenrod tea to fill the gap, and it earned the nickname "Liberty Tea." I wonder if the name also had something to do with its diuretic properties besides aiding in the quest for freedom from government intervention.



Historically, SIU has seen its fair share of important people too, including R. Buckminster Fuller. His work in design revolutionized humans' potential for creating affordable housing. He had some wonderful ideas and even tried to live by them. In 1960, he built a prototype Geodesic dome house in Carbondale that he and his wife lived in while he taught design at SIU. The dome pictured above is based loosely on his design, providing shelter for picnickers (and sometimes amorous college students), as well as reminding campus visitors of SIU's one-time connection to a genuine genius. According to one site I found, Bucky's dream for the liberation of the mortgage-strapped homeowner was doomed by design. Apparently, "the steady growth of the multi-national-corporate system was working against him. People were indebted to the system and could not afford to support ideas that cut across the grain of the mainstream society being developed in America at that time. Domes were springing up everywhere, but their mainstream acceptance was thwarted when mortgage and insurance companies failed to offer products to serve the growing dome home market. Unions disliked buildings that went up in one or two days; it was better for the workers when it took six weeks to put up a house." Several articles I've read blame unrest (Vietnam War and civil rights) at SIU-C in the late 60s for Bucky's decision to leave campus and shift his work elsewhere, but I wonder if the locally lukewarm, or perhaps hostile, reception for his ideas convinced him to move. A certain "backward" presence in Southern Illinois may account for what appears to be intimidation to outsiders and forward thinkers.


Strangely enough, Bucky's notion of doing "so much with so little" to create sturdy, affordable housing has taken a strange twist with the latest attempt to preserve his very own prototypical home. Fundraising efforts are underway right now to save the deteriorating home in Carbondale and maintain it as a monument to his genius. According to the dedicated people involved in the preservation efforts, only 350,000 dollars is needed to save the home from certain demise. I'm sure Bucky would not be so appreciative of those efforts. He would probably prefer that more dome homes be built in his honor.

Or maybe he would prefer that the neglected agriculture department at SIU receive some kind of new home, dome-like if possible. This building looked old and dilapidated when we were students in the late 70s. I guess the powers that be think most of the students are outdoors most of the time anyway. What do they need with a new building?



As Hubby and I continued our walk around campus, we came upon an interesting sculpture in front of one of the Life Science buildings. I guess it's supposed to represent life. I'm not sure.

The communications building design seems to communicate a lack of imagination.

At least there are signs now to point the way to confused campus visitors. In the old days, you might be lucky to get a hand-drawn map from your student advisor.

Now this garden looks a little more like a representation of life to me. Click on it to find out who's responsible.


Please don't think I'm a total troglodyte. I do appreciate art and particularly sculpture. Hubby and I found these sculptures quite handy as backrests when sitting outside on nice days to study notes or just stare into each other's eyes.

We were "here" too, Mr. Vergette. I'm glad you had the vision to create something meaningful.

The campus is still quite beautiful, almost park-like in appearance.


Pulliam Hall is one of its landmark buildings with a functioning clock tower.


Morris Library, named for SIU's most productive president, promises to become a world-class learning center. I thought it already was. Maybe its long-awaited coffee bar now under construction will help it become even better.


A corner garden (no credit given) brightens an otherwise drab concrete walkway that leads to another old and somewhat dilapidated building on campus. Judging from the shape and design of its windows, you can probably guess that it has some kind of connection to either the arts...



...or religion. If you consider the condition of the buildings, you can probably guess that both of those venerable pursuits seem to be poorly funded now at this forward-thinking campus.

Altgeld Hall is the most unique building on campus and is home to the music department. Though I have not been inside it for quite some time, I found a site that explores an inner sanctum there and in other buildings that was never accessible to me, or to any other female for that matter.

This building across the street from Altgeld shatters the vision of artistic achievement previously in sight.


We used to call it Pro-Faner Hall, for obvious reasons. It's an ugly, concrete monstrosity.

It's a rabbit's warren of confusion, and if you ever try to use one of the maps provided, you will understand what I mean.

At least someone tried to soften the harsh lines of the building with some greenery and some flowering shrubs, which I think are crepe myrtle.

I think the design for this building was conceived in the Cold War era, when public buildings were expected to withstand atomic blasts. This one probably would.


This building, Parkinson Hall, houses the department my husband came to call home during his four years here. He spent many hours toiling over boxes of rocks in its geology labs and falling asleep to lectures given by old fossil professors.

Once in a while, if the weather is nice, you might find a student pondering his or her fate here in the meditation area outside the Student Center.

When the weather got chilly, I always found the inside areas more interesting, like this mosaic wall on the south end of the building. Hubby found out years ago that the knobs sound quite interesting if you rap your knuckles on them. Several of them appear to have been rapped with more than necessary force.

We miss the Big Muddy Room that used to be downstairs. There was a cozy, dimly lit cafe that served the best Italian beef sandwiches, and you could play ping-pong for hours...

...where the arts-and-crafts shop now stands. I guess commerce wins out over students-who-skip-class-to-play-ping-pong.

The Neckers Complex just south of the Student Center used to have this fun wind tunnel between what used to be its two main buildings, A and B. You could always count on a cold blast knocking your hat, scarf, or maybe even socks off on most winter days. I wonder if the designer planned it that way. I bet he/she was from Chicago and figured out a way to capture part of the Windy City's essence.


Across the street from Neckers is an updated relic of Bucky's design known as the Arena. It is home to the SIU Salukis basketball team, and at certain times of the year, graduates have been known to accept their "sheepskins" here. We have several SIU-C sheepskin recipients in our immediate and extended family.

We ended our rather lengthy trek across campus at the group of buildings where I once worked as a student-secretary. The office of Educational Leadership used to be here but has since been commandeered by the Engineering Department. We always felt a little out of place, anyway, tucked in the corner of the building that once also housed the coal research scientists. I wonder if they ever figured out a way to clean up that stinky, high-sulfur coal and convince everybody that it won't cause acid rain out east? A more acceptable product sure would come in handy right now. And some of Bucky's ideas would too.

...Sir, I am vexed.
Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled.
Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
If you be pleased, retire into my cell
And there repose. A turn or two I'll walk
To still my beating mind...

--from The Tempest, 4.1--