Never too Old to Learn

I must admit that sometimes I can be hard-headed.  I like to think of myself as cautious, practical or determined, but sometimes my skepticism is misplaced.

Take cleaning the glass on the fireplace doors for example.  Over the years we've had homes with fireplaces or wood stoves.  Sometimes these had glass doors that became sooty after burning a winter's worth of seasoned oak.  In the past I've ignored advice to clean the soot with water, ashes and newspaper.  Instead, I've spent hour scrubbing with window cleaners of various types.  I've even been known to buy expensive cleaners made just for fireplace doors.  And why not.  There was no way ashes and newspaper would work.  It was too simple.  It sounded like a joke that would simply make a mess more unmanageable than the one already on the door.

But, the chimney sweep was scheduled to come, and although it is July, the blackened mess from last year's fires was still clinging to the glass doors.  In desperation to clean the doors before the sweep arrived, I tried cleaning the burned on soot with the ashes.  I grabbed a wad of newspaper, dampened it, dipped it into the heap of ashes and rubbed it across the sooty doors.  Miraculous!  In just a few minutes even the most heavily burned on soot was gone.  A quick wipe with a wet paper towel and the doors were shiny and bright.

I've been thinking about the years of struggle I put myself through just because I was too skeptical to try the simple solution.  And now I'm wondering what other things could be simpler than I make them.  Maybe this old dog needs to learn a few more new tricks.

Atlas Shrugged Off

I try to stay up with the current technology, I really do.  I blog, I Facebook (is that really a verb?), I Tweet, I text and use email, I read online, I use GPS.  These are wonderful tools, and I enjoy the benefits associated with each of them.  The GPS in particular has helped Grandpa and me find our way more than once.  Nevertheless, there is something about a paper road atlas that a GPS system can never match.

Maybe it is having the whole world or country or state or town in your hands that makes it so attractive.  I love turning the pages and looking to see where the road goes and how it joins other roads.  The GPS gives me only a small glimpse of the world, but the road atlas shows me the whole city or state at once.  I can see how fast the interstate will take me to the next city, or I can plan a leisurely trip following the small crooked lines of the back roads.  I can find every rest stop or state park for a picnic lunch.  While I scan the page, I might find some interesting historical place and change my plans for a side trip.  In Iowa, you can find all the bridges in Madison County at once.  In Colorado, you can find the small jeep trails that lead you to vistas far away from the hustle of life.  In Virginia, you can find the homes of Madison, Jefferson and Washington at a glance.

On the down side, the road atlas can be deceiving.  You must note the scale of the map.  Connecticut and Missouri each take one page, but 1 inch equals 8 miles for Connecticut while one inch equals 25 miles in Missouri.  You might think you can drive across Missouri quickly, but it will take you three times as long as expected if you fail to note the scale on the map.  More than once, Grandpa and I have found ourselves either wondering if we would ever get across Kansas or flying through Massachusetts in no time at all.

I love to take out the paper road atlas and dream.  I turn to a random page and scan every corner of it.  I look closely and see all that each place has  to offer.  I plan a dream trip, using a highlighter to mark a path that follows the trip that will probably be taken only in my mind.

Shrug off the atlas for GPS?  Never.  There are too many roads to follow while sitting in my chair.

Veterinarian

Duncan is an old cat.  He is seventeen years old and has lived outside all of his life.  He grew up at our home in the country catching mice and birds, alertering us to the occasional copperhead on the patio, and snoozing away the afternoons in his favorite porch chair.  He occasionally got into a fight, but the most serious wound he ever had was a split ear.

After sixteen years of country life, he moved with us to the city, and although he has adjusted remarkably well, he has been attacked several times here.  We aren't sure whether he is getting attacked by another cat or by a raccoon, but the bites have been vicious.  His last wounds were almost fatal.  

Now, if you are faint of heart, you may want to skip these next paragraphs.  We first noticed a patch of hair missing and two puncture wounds on his side.  We tend to try home veterinary practices first, so I washed the bites and put antibiotic cream on them.  But Duncan stopped eating and drinking, and we noticed pus oozing from the wounds, so we called the vet.  She was out of the office, and said that the cat was so old that this might be the end for him.  We still use our country vet, and since it was late, she left the antibiotics on ice hanging on the clinic door for us with instructions to squeeze all of the pus out that we could.

Duncan got his first dose of antibiotics and got his wounds pressed to get the pus out.  We thought he was on the road to recovery.  But the next morning, the poor old cat was sicker than ever and was hiding in a corner.  I picked him up under his front legs to get him out and thought he was peeing on my foot.  Then I smelled it.  Thick, disgusting pus running out of his chest.  Not just a little, buckets of pus.  Well, that is a bit of an exaggeration, but more pus that I had ever seen.  I tilted Duncan forward and more pus ran out.  I pressed around the wound, and pus, thick and smelling of death ran out.  In all I estimate there was 1/2 cup of pus that morning.  We checked him all over and found one more wound that had no pus.  

Duncan was washed and treated with antibiotics for a week and has recovered nicely.  Once again he is enjoying lying on the deck and eyeing the occasional bird in the yard.  I never guessed that city life would be more dangerous for Duncan than living in the country.  And I will be less inclined to play veterinarian in the future.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day.  Three day weekend.  The kick off to summer. Sales at the mall. Projects around the house.  Picnics with family and friends. Swimming pools open.  Boats come out of storage and rev their engines on lakes.  Campers line the rivers crammed with canoes and kayaks.  Memorial Day?

Yes, we have taken a sacred holiday and turned it into something other than a day to remember those who have died, but we still remember.  We remember those who have served in our wars.  After the terrible losses of the Civil War, folks wanted a day to remember those who had fallen.  In those days, the way a person died was thought to give meaning to the life they had lived.  Since so many men had died far from home and in anonymity, a Memorial Day, a day to remember, gave people a way to give meaning to the deaths of so many soldiers.

We still remember those soldiers who have died in the service of our country, but we have also expanded this tradition to include those of our own families who have died.  Yesterday, we went to the cemetery to decorate the graves of our family members who are buried here.  It was moving to see so many other families there too decorating graves with flowers and flags.  The cemetery was beautiful, and people greeted one another as we all placed flowers and remembered.  We drove slowly and looked at headstones of friends who have died.  We noted the flags by the graves of those who served in the armed services.  It was a quiet, sacred time.

Tomorrow we will have our cookout with family as we work on building a storage shed.  We'll enjoy our three day weekend, but we will remember too, and that remembering is our memorial to those we loved.

Planting the New Yard

Such a spring.  After all of the cold and the snow in May, summer has finally arrived.  Oh, I know summer is officially a month away, but with 90 degree weather, it feels like summer.

It has been interesting to see what has come up in the yard at our new house.  The beautiful tulips and iris have put on a show.  The bulbs that I brought with me made the transition and are putting out leaves and flowers.  The only thing that didn't make the move was a high bush cranberry, but luckily there were two here in the yard already.

Grandpa and I have torn out several sprawling half-dead spirea, and we have replaced them with daylillies and canas we brought with us and monarda that I bought at the nursery.  We've torn out dead evergreens and replaced them with hydranges and lots of mulch until we decide what to plant.  Around the mail box we've created a rock garden with phlox and lilies, lavender and lambs ears, daiseys and coneflowers. creeping phlox and Russian sage.  It should be glorious when everything blooms.

I noticed this morning that the blackberries are blooming.  It is usual for them to bloom this time of year, but we also usually get "blackberry winter" when the temperature usually cools off for a few days when they bloom.  So if the 90 degress we are having today is "blackberry winter", we may be in for another long, hot summer.

Inching Toward Spring

Just when I think spring is finally here, just when the tulips are blooming, just when the hostas begin to unfurl their leaves, winter comes rushing back.  The icy Arctic cold dropped from the north last night, but I was prepared.  Old sheets, overturned buckets, flowerpots and boxes protected the tender plants from the frost.  However, the icy blasts are keeping me from planting my garden.  The summer vegetables all like to be planted after the last frost.  Usually, that has passed, but this year is not usual!  One more night of frost is predicted.  

This weekend I will live daringly and plant my summer vegetables.  Those packets of cucumber and bean seeds are begging to be opened and planted.  I count ahead to the days when then should be mature hoping that the soil is warm enough to allow them to sprout and grow.  There is a delicate time between  the last frost and the heat of summer that allows the seeds to sprout and grow strong.  The temperature must be right, the moon needs to be in the right phase, the zodiac needs to be in the right sign.  Oh well, I will just plant and hope that at least some of the requirements will be enough to ensure healthy plants and crops.

Birthing Spring

Spring is having a difficult time arriving this year.  Following a lovely Easter day that was warm enough to be outside sitting on the deck, now sleet is clacking against the windows.  The plants are ready to burst through in full bloom, but still the cold, icy wind and rain persists.  The wild pear is barely unfolding its tiny white buds.  I can almost see them holding together against the cold rain just waiting to unfurl themselves in the warmer spring sun.

Despite the cold and rain, there is just a hint of warmth.  Maybe it is the lengthening daylight or the occasionally warm day, but I can almost feel winter loosening its grip.  Despite the calendar, we are in that shoulder season between winter and spring.  It is a birthing process.  It can't happen all at once.  We have to wait patiently while the earth struggles to renew life itself in warm days, bright flowers, verdant grasses and luscious fruits.  It will come, and in the meantime, I gather the meager spring blooms and put them in a vase as a promise of what is to come.

New Garden

As the first warm breaths of spring arrive, I am digging in the dirt.  To me, getting my hands covered with dirt, getting dirt under my fingernails, and having my muscles ache from digging and planting is a pure delight!  It is a chance to renew the cycle of life.

This is my first growing season since we moved to town.  I have to admit having only a coupe of raised beds and some flower beds is quite a different from having a big garden, raised beds, a blackberry patch and a semblance of an orchard.  But I find that even a small area to dig and plant is sufficient for now.  Grandpa had helped me clear all of the weeds from the raised beds during the winter, so over the last few days I have added compost and peat to the heavy soil.  It will take some time to get the tilth just right, but I have time.  

The pleasure was in finding a few worms in the cool soil.  More will come as I improve the soil.  It is good black dirt that smells of the elements of earth.  I turned the soil with a spading fork and hoed the clods and raked it until it was a deep chocolate blanket.  Then came the planting.  Peas and spinach for now.  Rain is promised over the next two days, and the temperatures are warming. Year after year I am always amazed that I feed the earth, drop in a seed,  let sun and rain do their work and marvelous plants that are so good to eat appear.  How can it not be a miracle.

As I planted this morning, the blue birds were singing.  One bright male, puffed up with pride in his own song perched on the handle of my spading fork and watched me plant.  The moon is right for planting, the earth is good and the blue birds are singing.  It can't be anything but wonderful.

It Might Be Spring

Three Nests

Can you identify which 3 species have previously used this box? (Answer located at the bottom of this page.)

Photo © Sally Sims   http://nestwatch.org/learn/how-to-nestwatch/identifying-nests-and-eggs/

Rain is in the forecast, but for now the gray sky makes the perfect background for the lemony daffodils and hot pink hyacinths blooming under the oak tree. This morning I'm watching the battle of the birdhouse.  The bluebirds and the sparrows are vying for rights to the bluebird house. Both come and cling to the front of the box and go in and out.  Without a doubt, I am rooting for the bluebirds!  Last summer we had two pairs of bluebirds who frequented our yard, and I've awaited their return all winter.  Hopefully, they will be the ones to claim the house, but if not, I may have to do the dastardly deed of cleaning out the sparrow's nest to help them along.  I never like skewing the course of nature that way, but  nevertheless, I've been known to do just that.

The starlings have been a problem already this spring.  During the last big snow they swarmed the feeder.  I would look out the window to see only a carpet of black in the yard.  I resorted to my stainless steel pot lids to drive them away.  I have found that clanging two lids together makes  a deafening cacophony that will raise the dead and drive away starlings.  I'm sure the neighbors aren't happy with the noise, but the starlings are gone at least for the time being.

So feeding birds, driving away the noisy, greedy ones and cleaning out sparrow nests may put me on the wrong side of mother nature, but I am determined to fashion my small piece of nature to my own liking with daffodils and bluebirds.

Answer: From bottom to top, House Wren, Carolina Chickadee, and Eastern Bluebird built nests in this box.

Licking the Beaters

There is nothing like the smell of a cake baking, especially if it is a chocolate cake.  That butter, sugar, flour and eggs and cocoa can combine into a fluffy confection that causes people to moan with pleasure is always a wonder to me.  Who first discovered the process of making a chocolate cake?  Who first got to taste the wonder of it?  As amazing as the cake is, the greater wonder is the icing.  Pure sugar and butter and perhaps a few nuts become an delight that can cause wars. 

At least when I was a child the icing caused war.  My sisters and I would hang around the kitchen waiting for Mother to finish the beating and the spreading of the icing for the cake.  It didn't really matter what kind of icing it was.  Chocolate was the favorite, but the 7minute white icing that hardened in a matter of minutes was good too.  There were three of us girls and only two beaters, so Mother decided that two girls would get the beaters and the third girl could have the spatula and the pan or bowl.  As the oldest, I quickly figured out that more times than not, there was more icing in the pan and on the spatula than on the beaters.  But my sisters figured it out too, and that was the cause of the icing wars.  Yes, curling your tongue around the wire beater and getting every last particle of icing was fun and good, but running the spatula around the bowl and coming up with a true bite or two of icing was even better.  War.  It got to the point that we had to keep track of who had had the spatula the last time, and we had to take turns.  Of course every girl thought she had been cheated at some point, and the ones who had the beaters to lick always eyed the one with the spatula with a certain amount of disgust.

So today I baked a chocolate cake and made the chocolate icing with a pound of confectioners sugar and nuts in it.  Grandpa was at work, so I was home alone.  The sugary icing was too tempting.  I have to confess, it didn't all get on the cake.  I left just a little too much in the pan.  And since I was alone, I licked the beaters AND scraped the pan and licked the spatula all by myself.  And without a bit of guilt.

Food History

I just read my friend's post about food history.  You know the quirks and traditions that each family has and that we pass down through the generations.  She asked what other's food history or traditions might me, and that got me to thinking about how much food has changed from my grandparents generation to my children's generation. As a matter of fact, I think the food traditions might have taken a sharp turn in our family.

For my maternal grandmother, cooking and canning the fresh vegetables she raised and meat from the farm animals was a part of daily life.  Mother tells how Grandma made sausage but stored it in 9x13 size metal pans.  She would press the sausage into the pan and then seal it with a layer of lard, wrap it in brown paper and store it in the basement.  I remember Grandma wringing the neck of a chicken and then cooking it for supper.  Or sometimes Grandpa accidentally killed rabbits in the field with the farm machinery, and that rabbit would end up on the table for dinner.  At times it was all I could do to swallow a piece of meat if I thought about it.

On the other hand, when Grandpa butchered beef, I found it amazing to push on the lungs of the poor beast as they lay on the flatbed trailer while the carcass hung from a tree.  It didn't bother me a bit to look at the entrails and try to figure out what they were and how they had worked.  Perhaps it didn't bother me because that beef was not on the table that night!

I am afraid those traditions are gone for my children. The closest we get to that is growing and canning our own vegetables and buying free range chicken and organic beef at the farmers market.  We have lost some skills and some closeness to the land and the food chain to be sure. In one sense favorite dishes will continue through the family, but some of the ties to raising our own and feeding ourselves are probably gone for good.