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Weekly Column

02/17/13: Food For Thought 

 (Joe and I visited my sister and her husband in Naples, Florida, again, this time for seven days. We had lots of adventures. Here’s the first.

 

Ignorance is never bliss. D.B.

Fascinating Florida can be so- alien. Some of its wild residents aren’t even a little awed by humans’ self-declared splendiferousness. They’ll do their best to consume, for example, bumbling tourists, snicker-snack.

Even certain fowl have tendencies.

Joe and I were exploring the lovely grounds of Thomas Edison’s summer home (now a museum) in Fort Meyers when we stumbled upon a giant egret intently stalking two middle-aged women, who, with their backs turned, were admiring a ten-foot tall shrub’s perfumed flowers. The snow-white bird, armed with a long, pink bill and a snake-long neck, leaned toward them on hinged broomstick legs, froze for many seconds- then moved a step closer- froze- then inched closer- until the nearly five-foot tall avian was right behind them, poised to attack. We held our breaths-The chatting women turned to move toward us, still oblivious, while we stood a little distance away, voiceless, in disbelief.

But, oddly, the egret continued to maintain that rock-still, forward-leaning stance and blinkless stare as the ladies strolled our way. If I hadn’t known better I’d have mistaken him for a statue.

Not one feather moved.

(An aside: fascinating fossil evidence suggests T-rex and birds are more closely related to each other than either is to the alligator. Remembering that, I suddenly viewed this bizarre scene from an eons-old perspective.)

When they got closer I stabbed my finger toward the avid avian behind them and said, weakly, “That huge egret was about to attack you, I think…” The ladies glanced behind them, not in the least alarmed. “Oh, that’s just Tom, a fixture here. He loves to creep up on visitors to provoke reactions. To save face when museum volunteers like us aren’t terrified, he’ll continue to hold that posture for a while.”

She smiled. “Actually, he wouldn’t waste his weapon; we’re far too big to be stabbed, flipped and swallowed.”

The ladies, realizing we were out-of-state visitors, told us where to spot some spectacular Floridian fowl. “You should visit Trafford Lake, just west of the little town of Immokalee. Most tourists don’t know about it, so you’d have it to yourselves. It’s quite a large body of fresh water in the middle of nowhere, but only thirty miles inland from Naples. Don’t miss it. The bird life there is incredible.”

Oh boy, a nice freshwater lake. Maybe we’d wade, as the weather was very warm and humid. Plus, we’d have a chance to observe birds up close and personal; our high-powered binoculars are equipped with image-stabilization control. What a difference that makes!

After lunch we found isolated Trafford Lake and, incidentally, passed a large lion-colored panther loping along the edge of thickly treed forest just off the road across from tidy Immokalee, home to many young families. We drove past at least four elementary schools before turning west onto the narrow, dead-straight Trafford Lake Road.

Two miles later, it ended. The attractive lake, with no human habitation visible anywhere along its edge, shimmered in the afternoon sun.

Huh. Developers blanket Florida. Why weren’t they crawling over every acre, here?

A tiny, dusty park offered a few scrubby trees and two picnic tables. Thick wilderness surrounded the lake as far as we could see. We parked, and padded to the edge of a small, shrubby bluff. Lovely! I’d shed my sandals and go wading. I was hot.

Wait…What was that, about 200 feet out- a big log? One that size could decimate an unwary boater. I raised the binoculars, focused, and gasped! A huge alligator floated out there, still as death. Oh, God- another… and two more! Shocked, we jumped back about three feet and looked down. An eighth of an inch of soil supported a few struggling strands of chickweed and crab grass; underneath that- sand.

Sand crumbles.

We became instantly allergic to this bushy little bluff, and all of Florida’s freshwater lakes.

A wide wharf at the far end of the little park extended a good distance into the lake. The generous roof at its end offered afternoon shade, so we walked out there and looked around. Alligators were everywhere.

IF we hadn’t possessed binocs---

IF I’d waded---

Gulp.

The Edison ladies were right; the birds were marvelous. Dozens of species flourished here. We saw birds preening on shrubby treetops, or hunting on long legs, or drying their multi-colored wings on the lushly foliaged edge of the adjoining twenty-foot wide canal, which bordered the long, dusty road and emptied into the lake. (These canals are everywhere in Florida.) But I was still alligator-shocked, and couldn’t concentrate. Joe, a hardier soul, wandered close to the canal to take photos of a gloriously plumed bird perched on some reeds on its far side. He checked first, of course, for snakes and alligators; except for one small clump of foliage at the waterline, that hardpan sand was devoid of life.

Suddenly, a little splash! He looked down. A twelve-inch long alligator was swimming away from that clump of vegetation. Uh-oh! Where there are babies, there are mothers! (Alligator mothers are extremely aggressive when protecting their young.) Joe hastily retreated to higher ground.

Now we focused our binoculars on the canal, starting by the lake and scanning to about a quarter mile down the road. There! A massive, partially submerged alligator, easily fifteen feet long, was just feet away on the other side, basking amid lush foliage. She watched us without blinking. We knew she could move like lightning.

We’d be easy to eat. 

She’d eventually poop out the binoculars.

Somebody would finally notice my sister’s car…

More ‘gators lined the canal’s opposite bank near her, sunning themselves. One swam lazily down the middle, leaving no wake.

Here’s the thing: there were no warning signs anywhere. Not one. The Edison volunteers hadn’t said a word about alligators, but had boasted only about the wonderful birds.

I know, I know. Go ahead and say it.

‘You dumb clucks; you’re not in Michigan anymore! This is Florida, home to alligators, water moccasins, panthers, and other assorted predators…’

Still…the residents knew.

The point is, WE didn’t. (Have tourists ever mysteriously vanished while poking around in Florida?)

Hmmm…I do wonder about those (absent) developers…

 

 



02/10/13: Flameout! 

Naples, Florida.

Joe and I are shocked by the sudden change in our environment. In just two-and-a-half hours we’ve moved from zero degrees, a foot of snow blanketing a sheet of ice, breath-taking cold- and I mean that literally- to 79 degrees, sun, a light breeze, and some dramatically fluffy clouds. My sister’s husband Joe greeted us at Fort Meyers Airport with a big smile and a roomy car. Who could want for anything more?

My Joe, a cardiologist, had been working 15-hour days, and craved some unplanned time for us to explore this southern world on our multi-speed rental bikes. Kath and her husband are happy to share their lovely condo, only a few minutes walk from the Gulf of Mexico’s glorious sugar-sand beach, which stretches on endlessly to the north and south.

Now, sated after a fine day of sightseeing, we parked our bikes near the beach and padded onto the sand to gaze out at the contemplative Gulf of Mexico. Soon the intensely orange sun would descend, sans sizzle, into that quiet ocean.

We were surprised to see well over two hundred people not only near us, but also far up and down the sandy expanse, relaxing in folding chairs or standing in convivial groups to chat and mingle while they awaited the day’s spectacular finale. Two or three elegantly dressed couples sipped champagne. We heard smatterings of Russian, Spanish, and German.

Elderly men in casual dress played the ancient game of Bocci amid laughter and jokes from wives and relatives. Children ran about playing tag. Nearby, two charming mutts with floppy ears, bushy eyebrows and stumpy tails wandered to the ocean’s edge to observe five little sanderlings zip confidently along its quiet waterline, searching for treats just under the wet sand. Pelicans skimmed the ocean’s flat surface about two hundred feet out, hoping to scoop up one last foolish fish before settling down for the night.

Then, suddenly, it was show time. “Bonnie! Bert! Come!”  The dogs trotted back and hopped onto their owners’ laps. Sunglasses were placed over their eyes. They didn’t mind a bit. Clearly, this was part of their routine.

Nobody moved, or spoke. Everyone, including the dogs, looked out to sea.

Our giant sun slid behind billowy white clouds, changing them in a magician’s instant to vivid purple, lavender, orange, yellow, gray, cream…

Down, down it plunged. At first, just an orange sliver disappeared-

Then more,

more---

Now it was half gone---

Three-quarters gone---

Every soul there was witness to our home planet’s massive rotation.

Just the tip of the flame-ball remained above the waterline –

Then, with one last shattering light show, the evening sun vanished into night, to become morning light on ‘the other side.’ Final radiant beams shot through the proximal horizon, momentarily brightening the sleepy, mercury-silver ocean.

Everyone applauded! Somebody barked once. The sound rippled up and down the beach, laced with sighs of appreciation.  No one moved for a few more seconds, savoring...

Quietly then, the audience gathered families and belongings, and left. In ten minutes we were alone.

Still spellbound, we stayed on to absorb residual magic, then slowly pedaled home.

 

 

 

02/03/13: Nanobeanology Research 

I sat in my kitchen and took the first sip of my second mug of freshly ground whole bean coffee- and reared back. Blehh! This tasted sour, bitter and burnt. Why?? The bag was new; the first batch had tasted fine! It made no sense…

No way was I gonna drink this pestle-with-the-poison. I wanted the brew-that-is-true!

I poured it down the drain.

I always buy whole beans and grind just enough to brew a single mug using a Melitta filter. The result is usually wonderful- but just now and then, from the same bag- blechh! For years I’d absently wondered why, but then wandered off to the garden. Today though, in deep winter, that awful taste got my attention.

Here’s the thing. (Bear with me, now.)

I’ve been filling my head with Nobel Prize winner Richard Feynman’s lectures on nanotechnology (‘Tiny Machines’), after having re-read his biography. He revolutionized the study of quantum electrodynamics- QED- because he was immensely curious, and because it was fun.

What a fine man! What a Character!

Here’s an example of how he worked.

Feynman was asked to join the Challenger disaster panel of select investigators, which would meet in Washington DC. Twelve guys- higher-ups in NASA, including Chuck Yeager, Neil Armstrong and the usual politicians- would try to figure out why the space shuttle blew up. They proposed intricate tests that would cost millions and take forever, though inconvenient clues pointing to what had happened, and why, were piled high. Feynman, who was fiercely allergic to the Establishment and political correctness, left the room during a break and filled a paper cup with enough crushed ice to cover an O-ring seal he’d brought along. Toward the end of the meeting he plucked the seal out of the ice chips and, with a simple explanation, and no fuss, dropped it on the table. It snapped. Here was a graphic demonstration of how an O-ring behaves when frozen, as it had been on launch day. 

Known O-ring tolerances ignored = death and destruction.

Feynman had gone straight to the heart of the problem.

Oh, boy! Red faces all around!

Embarrassed by his cut-to-the-chase demo (recorded on film with great glee by the press), the commission’s head, Mr. William P. Rogers, tried to eliminate Feynman’s written critique because it certainly didn’t show NASA in a good light. But when our rebel-with-a-cause threatened to expose the cover-up they reluctantly included it- as an addendum (carefully pruned for political purposes) at the end of a very long-winded report.

Never mind: he’d made his point.

Inspired by my long-time hero, I put on my scientific beanie hat to probe for a simple, reasonable answer that would explain that bummer brew.

Beans. For fifty years I’d enjoyed freshly ground coffee beans- but had never actually inspected them. So, after doing some elementary beans-gone-bonkers research I dumped a cup of whole bean Joe onto a plain paper towel, upped the lights, and looked.

It was a revelation.

My newly developed researcher’s eye spotted shells with no beans; elongated shells curved like a flamingo’s smile; quakers- unripened beans which don’t roast well; lots of shards and bits, and a ‘pale,’ which is an unroasted yellow bean that stinks when ground. ‘Pales’ occur from drought, or from harvesting immature coffee cherries. One ‘pale’ will blehh a brew.

Fascinating!

I poured out the rest of the bagged beans, and methodically sifted through them, as well. Jeez! More bean rubbish! Who knew!

I acquired a decent pile- four tablespoons- of 'oopses.'

Surviving beans have yielded quite acceptable coffee. (Visit www.zecuppa.com/coffeeterms-bean-defects.htm for more good bean dirt.)

I’ve adopted a new ritual. From now on I’ll inspect every ration of beans before I grind; that task takes less than thirty seconds.

A triumphant grin emerges every day as I drink the brew-that-is-true.

Feynman would have approved.

 

 

1/27/13: Cat-astrophe! (From a Cat's Point of View) 

First, here’s an update regarding my car-wounded home in Traverse City. (Read late December’s column: ‘Ding Dong: Chaos Calling’).

The outer wall has been rebuilt. The plasterer comes next. The main door’s been repaired and re-hung, and boasts new hardware. The ruined handmade screen door’s still waiting for attention. Local artisans at Ace Welding have carefully repaired my antique iron fence; Les has reset it into the front garden.

Progress!

But I live down in Saginaw much of the time. There’s still plenty to do at our little farmhouse while Sunnybank is recovering.

I decided to ‘bottom’ our 8 x 5 mudroom. (The English call cleaning a room from top to bottom ‘bottoming.’)

This job would be an archeological dig, for sure.

I unearthed legions of dead boots, tiny mittens and dog-chewed hats, moth-eaten picnic blankets, old records albums, collected duck feathers and pinecones, coats we’d forgotten about, far too many hangars- till the place was stripped. I hoovered away two decades of insects, cobwebs and dust, damp-mopped the floor, and then had a think.

Here was a narrow, rarely used little room with a small, high, six-sided window, which offers all but the vertically challenged a nice country view.

We made it our exercise room.
In went our ancient treadmill. A monitor, CD player and some earphones (to keep the machine’s noise down) allow us to enjoy old movies, documentaries, etc., while trotting along.

 

                                                                                                               ***  

Now comes the ‘meat and potatoes’ part. I call it-

Cat-astrophe! (from a feline’s point of view)

Cats are the ultimate narcissists: they spend a lot of time on personal grooming.

A dog’s idea of personal grooming is to roll on a dead fish. James Gorman


It’s early evening in Saginaw. I’m shocked, and more than a little unnerved, having just witnessed a quick-as-lightning drama.

Earlier, I’d dragged a big black sack half-full of discarded clothes and hole-y, frayed towels outside onto the backyard deck. I hadn’t tied it closed; more stuff would go in there. Now, gazing outside, I noticed Brer Fox, a frequent visitor to our three-acre property, watching it from about two feet away, with intense concentration.
And no wonder! That sack was alive with motion!

What happened next occurred at warp speed.

The black plastic writhed. I saw a cat’s arched back rise up for just a blink from the baggy depths, in pounce-posture! There was a horrified squeak. An unlucky, desperate mouse bounced out of that bag as though on springs, landed on the deck still alive- and was instantly snatched- and swallowed whole- by the incredulous, delighted fox.

The sight was stunning.

A millisecond later the furious cat shot out of the bag, landed where the mouse had touched down before being vacuumed up, and found himself facing the fox. Both were massively startled. Cat, fur stiff with rage and humiliation, held his ground and snarled. His tail looked electrified.
Brer Fox, mouse-replete and unrepentant, trotted off with a satisfied smirk.

His dinner had disappeared; Monsieur Feline knew exactly where. Acute disappointment expressed itself as an angry yowl- but suddenly, he noticed me. Nonchalant indifference fell over Sir Cat like a mantle. Paws were cleaned and whiskers preened just so. Dignity and composure restored, he ambled off.
(Mouse? What mouse? It never happened.)
But his flat ears and lashing tail betrayed the lie.

I stood there, wistfully reflective about wee Mousie, who, to paraphrase Petronius, had abruptly ‘gone over to the majority…’
A weaker paw, a slower jaw, a chance to live, for that mouse-in-maw... Ah, well.
Captain Hook died because he wiped with the wrong hand…This incident was another demonstration of just how tenuous life can be. A moment’s inattention- and foxes- can stop time forever, in the blink of an eye.

This will take some time to digest.
(Did I really mean to say that?)

 

                                                            

                                                            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1/20/12: All Things Wise And Wonderful 

 I still felt tired from the past month’s health adventures, so my husband downloaded an absurd, delightful app for his iPad, called Talking Tom, to cheer me. It’s a virtual cat. He’ll purr when I stroke him, and he interacts with me emotionally- and vocally. It’s really amazing, and not a little weird.

 

For some reason this Tomcat experience brings to mind three really special live felines…

Here is their true story, first told a few years ago, titled-                                          

 

All Things Wise And Wonderful

Animals demonstrate uncanny abilities that we humans observe with wonder, but little understanding...

A beloved relative of mine lives life with zest. She’s a vivacious, multi-talented, extremely intelligent woman who’s designed her beautiful home, loves books, has a green thumb, and travels the globe, relishing her retirement.

Clare has always shared her home with cats. I’ve seen how they happily communicate with her. Joe and I, when visiting, are dismissed as irrelevant by her trio.

Felines decide who is important to them. Someone once commented that dogs have masters; cats have staff.

They know all about love, though.

Some years ago Clare was struck down by an auto-immune hepatitis, a life-threatening illness that attacked her liver and severely weakened her. Routine tasks- laundry, cooking, cleaning—were almost impossible to manage. Severe jaundice developed. After enduring extensive tests a regimen of powerful medications was prescribed. Her doctors advised that time and rest would tell the tale.  She thankfully took to her bed and slept away the weeks, awaiting events.

People she cherished helped, but her three cats, Tigger, Chloe, and Ladybug, went much further.

As a unit they moved into her bedroom and positioned themselves. One snuggled around her neck, one nestled in the crook of her arm or slept on her tummy, and one made sure her feet stayed warm. For many weeks they never left her, except to take turns grabbing a quick bite, and doing their toilets. They purred, massaged her with soft paws, and washed her with their rough tongues.  Those cats were shadows, following her even to the bathroom.  She was never alone. She had virtually no strength, developed a severe rash, and coped with other miseries brought on by the illness.  Her faithful felines monitored every breath. They were intertwined with the bedclothes, and such a part of her and each other it was hard to tell whose paws and tail belonged to whom.

It was a near thing. Months later, Clare’s exhausted body finally began showing small signs of improvement; further biopsies showed she just might recover without permanent organ damage.

Then, one bright morning, she came awake slowly, aware of a distinct change in her environment. It was totally quiet. There were no sounds of purring! An unfamiliar lightness on her neck and chest jerked her to full consciousness. For weeks there had always been a tangle of cats—now, they had simply gone. 

By some mysterious means, the prescient trio knew she had passed a critical point, and would recover.

Amazed, Clare lay there, savoring the morning; a profound feeling of deep comfort and awe washed over her. She knew what their absence meant. In a week she would undergo more tests; they would show great improvement.  Of that fact, she had no doubt.  Her beloved friends had made the determination long before the doctors would.

She was right.

From that moment, Clare began to pick up the pieces of her life. The doctors, encouraged by her steady progress, gradually tapered the potent medicines. She tired easily, though, and retreated to her bed for frequent naps. The furry trio, except for occasional quick, unobtrusive visits, let her sleep ‘undraped.’

It was an astonishing demonstration of feline love and devotion, and their deep knowledge of the battle raging inside Clare. When they realized she would recover, perhaps through some chemical she emitted that they recognized—(she’d finally ‘sniffed right’)—they relaxed into their old routines without fuss.

Clare continues to use Tigger, Chloe and Ladybug as astute monitors of her health.

She doesn’t worry, if they don’t.

 

 

 

 

1/13/13: Not Again! 

Life is weird. And certainly challenging. I was snoring away in our little farmhouse in Saginaw on Thursday night …when- WHAM! I was attacked- again.

Here’s the scene.

I felt just fine Thursday evening. Joe and I thoroughly enjoyed some first-year reruns of the TV show “The Big Bang Theory.” (If you haven’t seen it, you simply must. It’s hilarious.)
I went to bed about 8:30, feeling normal.

At ten P.M. I woke up suddenly. Hmmm. Something definitely wasn’t right. I felt – very strange. And, there was an ominous familiarity about it.


No, NOT AGAIN!

That horrible vomit-virus was back!! The very one that had attacked me suddenly in late November, and landed me in Munson Hospital for two days. (See my late November column titled Malevolent Ghosts.) As soon as that thought crossed my cranium I scrambled out of bed, ran for the kitchen, grabbed a pot, ran for the bathroom, and was so, so sick. Oh lordy, I was sick. One more second’s hesitation and our new carpet would have been done.

I couldn’t keep any liquid down. Not even ice chips. Even hearing about food triggered another bout. Joe wanted to pop out for a quick hamburger, after hours of tending my miserable self, and when I heard ‘hamburger’ I lost it again.

This was crazy. Twice?? The last time, in Traverse City, I’d eaten my one meal and was cleaning up; then it pounced. A three-day nightmare followed.

This time, though, we were better prepared; Joe, a physician, had stocked up on Zofram, a dissolve-under-the-tongue prescription pill that stops the urge to vomit in seconds. This medicine really helped me the second time around. But, one pill was supposed to last about four hours. After initial relief, though, I needed it again after two.

I got more and more dehydrated. The pill supply ran low.
Eventually, it wouldn’t dissolve.

I was dry.

Joe admitted me to Saginaw’s Covenant Hospital Friday afternoon, where I was hooked up to an IV and gradually rehydrated.  The IV form of Zofram was administered, which was more powerful, and worked much better. I slept the rest of Friday, all night, and all through today (Saturday). This morning I easily kept down a little yoghurt and an egg, and by 5 o’clock I wanted out, though I still have a slight temperature. Now I’m home, sipping pedialyte, and feeling a thousand percent better.

But I had no column prepared. So, now, on Saturday evening, I offer this hastily scribbled account, and another warning.

This virus is vicious. It dehydrates its victims so quickly that there can be general systemic collapse. It almost got me in November.

If you suspect this may be happening, Don’t Wait. Get help. Apparently it’s blanketed the North American continent. (See flunearyou.org)

I find myself nervously tiptoeing around proverbial corners, wondering if three times is the charm.

There is one good thing it offers, I suppose.

The victim loses weight fast.

 

 

 

 

01/06/13: Rip, Toss and SuckItUp 

Remember the old saying- an idle mind is the devil’s workshop? That fits me.

I was driving my friend Les nuts with constant comments and questions while he artfully began Sunnybank’s extensive repairs resulting from the Big Bang. (Read my column from three weeks ago about that).

Since I couldn’t record my music, or plan my next book in peace and quiet in Traverse City, I flopped aimlessly around, and began to merge with the carpet.

Uh-oh.

Anyway I looked at it, I was definitely gonna be underfoot.

So-

I’ve temporarily relocated to our little farmhouse in Saginaw to do something useful. For years I’ve put off thoroughly cleaning the nice little 1,200 square foot home, built in the 1870s, where we’d raised our family. Here was the perfect project! I’d convert ennui to energy, and put things right.

I began making appointments with Saginaw businesses.

I booked Terminex, carpet installers, carpet cleaners, the Culligan water softener man, deck power-washers, and a jackhammer crew of five to rid me of three loathsome, unevenly curved, improperly poured steps leading to the front door. (Last year I’d rented a regular jackhammer.  Other than dislodging a few cement chips it didn’t do spit. I needed HUGE.)

Just to keep it exciting, I booked all these people for the same day.

Here’s the step situation. Ten years ago I was dumb enough to hire a clueless contractor to pour three steps leading to the front door. They’d look like half of a three-layered cake. I supplied dimensions, even a clear photo. I drew guidelines. Didn’t matter. While I was away the skunk-drunk fellow made an awful, awful mess of it. (Turns out Clueless Clyde had never done it before.) By the time I drove down to view it a week later the damage was done. For ten years those sagging, uneven, embarrassing steps have made me wince.

Now, I’d terminate ‘em.

The house would be tossed, scoured, debugged, vacuumed-- thoroughly sorted. I grinned. Just the thing for an old duck to tackle.

First, the basement. (Always do the worst thing first thing.) I donned a mask for mice droppings, work gloves for brown recluse and black widow spiders, and clothes I didn’t care about ruining. A hard hat provided some insurance; bashing my head on low beams and ductwork was a constant problem. My short stature helped, though, in our five-and-a-half foot high basement.

Rule #1: If Joe and I popped off tomorrow would the things down there be interesting to anyone else?

99% of the time, that answer was- Nope!

Nope = Chuck it!!

Rule #2: NEVER compromise Rule #1.

Stuff went from bulging cupboards into giant 3 ml contractor’s bags- mummified mice, moth-eaten clothes, zillions of recycle-ready jars, magazines, papers, bags, boxes of every size, old canning stuff…all were removed.

The house windows rattled with our yells: “Dump that! Recycle this! Have mercy on the children!” while the Rolling Stones narked on about ‘Satisfaction,’ and some country singer howled “…’Ain’t dumpin’no munny on runny ole eggs from a frumpy ole chick like yooo…” Nibbled, ancient tax returns and receipts, big boxes of extinct office patient files (shifted here during Saginaw’s flood in ’86), decrepit letters, 30-year-old mouse-nibbled wallpaper, broken toys – heck, even the rusted metal file cabinets- went. A truck with a shredder machine came; it ate 15 big cardboard boxes of files, snicker-snack.

We gutted that basement.

It echoes.

Joe brought in a big-as-me shop vac, and he hoovered it, from rafters to cement floor. He’s over six feet tall. It was a miserable task. For hours the aluminum beast shrieked happily as it sucked up every unmentionable thing.

Meanwhile, outside, the jackhammer guys were demolishing that awful porch landing and steps. Four shattering hours later they staggered off with the last chunk of cement. We stared into a gaping hole. (Now Joe and I just have to remember not to fall into the pit. We go around it, then hop onto the teeny tiny temporary steps, and stretch high to lock and unlock the front door. No problemo. ANYTHING is better than you-know-what...

I am a happy woman.

Les will build me a nice landing and stairs in spring. I can wait.

And upstairs, during all that--

-The carpet people ripped up 800 square feet of thirty-year-old carpet, hauled it out, swept the area, and installed a nice new mill-end piece that just fit.

-The Terminex man patiently poked through the house, setting traps.

-Two guys power-washed the big backyard deck clean of dirt and mold. (It was mid-December- the last day of 40s weather. That night it snowed for the first time! Howzat for perfect timing?) 

-The Culligan man installed the tank. I now have wonderful water. No more chipping calcium deposits off of the furnace’s humidifier, no more chalky shower walls to scrub clean, no more faucets that squirt everywhere but down…Ahhh.

This place was a hurricane of activity.  I loved it. Smash, rip, blast, whack!

One odd thing happened. Our ancient washer and dryer workhorses packed up. That day! What exquisite timing! We’d been operating the washer with pliers for years, and replacing stuff in the huffingpuffing dryer, and now they’d decided to die together. Huh. 

I immediately rang the fix-it-up chappie at the scratch-and-dent store. He remembered me and offered a reconditioned Maytag washer/dryer- right then! Plus, he’d haul away the dead ones. Hooray!

(When we buy mechanical things we maintain them. Result: our machines- including cars- usually last a very long time. I can make a penny scream, by golly.)

I’m nearly done scrubbing kitchen cupboards, dusting every book in our library, patching wallpaper and hauling more nice stuff to Goodwill. Our little home sniffs of furniture polish, and Comet cleanser. I’ve ‘Dee-magnetised’ every flat surface. translation: No clutter.

I’ve even cleaned the lampshades and ceilings.

-In spring:

The brick man will shore up the exterior walls. We’re tired of herding terrified birds and bats outside.

I’ll rip out the old evergreens surrounding the house. They’ve grown 40 feet tall -no kidding- and are sniffing around the stone foundation.

I’ll replant new, tame ones.

The exterior will be repainted. It’s been ages.

I’m tired, but content. I have the satisfaction of knowing my children, or a future buyer, won’t paw through our personal stuff, or face a mess. That used to haunt me.

Things are tapering off down here, and idle me might start ringing Les more. Uh-oh…

Idle people get fat.

Idle people shed brain cells.

Idle people drive me nuts.

I drive me nuts.

I need another project.

Hmmm….

 

 

12/30/12: Julia's Cabinet - A Love Story 

Dear reader,

My life at the moment is full of family, laughter, and reunion celebrations, leaving me no time to fashion a proper column. So I re-offer this one.
Julia’s cherished cabinet still graces my kitchen, and always will.

 

May the New Year bring blessings to us all.


I’m sitting comfortably in my favorite bought-for-a-buck from-the-old-library upholstered chair, which, oddly, I keep in the kitchen. Curled into it I enjoy gazing at the garden. Today, though, my eyes linger on the antique Hoosier cabinet by the sink.  I love its lines, and of course, its story…

One lovely July Saturday 41 years ago Joe and I went rummaging. Foldout tables, with small children playing tag around them, displayed clothing, linens, knick-knacks, and tired paperback books. Serviceable sofas and chairs were sprinkled about. Potted red geraniums and bright daisies decorated generous porches.

Near the main road a man was pulling out ancient farm machinery, kitchen chairs and old furniture from a large, ramshackle barn. A hand-painted ‘For Sale’ sign was wedged into a wringer washing machine’s barrel.
Freshly married and nest-building, we decided this place looked promising.

Another extremely old, bent man waved his cane, acknowledging our arrival. He didn’t speak. His son (no spring chicken himself) grinned and adjusted dusty, well-worn overalls.  “We’re selling lots of goodies. Look around…” We stared at treasures he’d dragged into the sunlight.  A thick film of dust covered press-back chairs, a generous, well-scrubbed kitchen table, and 2 ornate brass bed frames. But one particular cabinet caught the sunlight, and my eye. I gasped, walked around to its front…and fell in love. Hard. 

While Joe and the younger man entered the barn to admire an old motorcycle I caressed the Hoosier cabinet, thrilled.  The old man watched me quietly, then spoke for the first time.

“Today’s my 94th birthday, young lady, and I asked Ethan to clear the barn.  Funny sort of present, but it’s what I wanted.” A pause. “ You like this.” It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded.  Oh, I coveted that cabinet.  I’d sell my soul for that cabinet. But could we afford it?

“I’m tired.  It’s past time to clear out things I’ve been holding close for too long. Like this Hoosier cabinet.”  He sighed. “65 years ago I married my first wife.  Julia was a lovely girl, and when she finally agreed to marry me, I was a happy man. I was considered a good catch back then, young lady, as I was able to offer her a small farmhouse, land, and dairy cows.”  His twinkling eyes and toothless smile flashed, briefly. “This cabinet was meant for our kitchen, and I can still hear her laughing as she planned where to put it.  Choosing it really made Julia happy.”  He looked away, and continued.

“On the way home from church the day we married our carriage horse bolted. Julia was thrown out; she hit her head on a big rock, and died, right there, still in her wedding garb. I thought I would die, too.  Wedding guests following us tried to help, but it was too late. I don’t remember much after that, for a long time.”

He rubbed his eyes.  “Eventually I married again, and my wife and I had Ethan, here.  But I’d never let her use this cabinet…” His voice trailed away.

Then- “You’re newly wed, aren’t you?” Amazed, I asked how he’d known! He threw back his head and laughed, then thought a minute, nodded, and leaned toward me, eyes filling. 

“It’s yours.  If- you promise never to sell it.
Tell future children its story.

You must promise me.” 

Stunned, I promised.
His face shone.

Suddenly serene, he said, quietly, “Julia is pleased.”

He walked very slowly toward his house, cheeks wet with tears, but not from grief.

We both knew that something wonderful had just happened.

 

 

 

12/23/12: Ding-Dong: Chaos Calling! 

It’s been quite a week. First, in one of Florida’s fascinating, swampy state parks, I nearly bumped noses with a giant alligator who lazily offered to help me lose weight fast. Two venomous snakes lying near my feet ignored me, though, preferring water frogs. (See last week’s column.)

Then, just when I’d sorted all that out and flown back to Saginaw, Michigan-

BRiiing! The phone rang.

Here’s the scene, one week ago.

It was evening. In our little farmhouse in Saginaw County where we’d raised our family, Joe and I were watching a richly visual, mostly wordless television documentary about French insect country life, which riveted me, by the way.

Then the phone jingled.

Rats.

“Hello,” I murmured, my eye locked onto two dragonflies copulating to Bach’s lovely music.

It turned out to be a strange man who yabbled on about an SUV penetrating my Traverse City residence.

Right. Go home and sleep it off, sir.

But gradually, and with growing disbelief, I grasped that this was a Traverse City policeman, who patiently explained again that my alarm had gone bonkers. They’d rushed to Sunnybank House to find an SUV parked on the big front porch, with its nose poked into the wall and front door!

Apparently, while traveling down Sixth Street, its driver, a young teen, had veered into a large van parked in front of the neighbor’s home. Horrified, She’d jerked the wheel away, then pressed hard on the brake-which turned out to be the accelerator. Her car turned toward the house, roared over the curb, flattened my vintage cast iron fence, gained traction on the lawn, rocketed full speed through the front flowerbed, roared up the broad porch stairs onto the porch and- KABOOM!! -hit the front door and wall, which buckled. The house shuddered with the shock. Instantly the alarm shrieked, the stairs collapsed, the car steamed, the teen screamed…

And there, dear readers, began an interesting evening.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Oh, heavens. Sunnybank House was truly wounded. Police lights flashed; car headlights lit the scene, as it was nine p.m. and raining. EMS arrived to help the terrified driver; neighbors gawked in disbelief. Shortly, a big tow truck arrived. Its operator surveyed the situation with amazement. After working out the logistics, the guy secured the car with a winch and gingerly, skillfully lowered it down and hauled it away.

I know all this because family and friends took photos.

The porch steps and railings had splintered, and were flung around the lawn. Heavy twin iron urns flanking the porch were cast aside.  The two central porch pillars were gone, leaving the roof unsupported. Headlight shards were buried in the doorbell.

It was surreal.

Now, the good news.

-The driver was unhurt- a wonderful Christmas gift. Everything else can be rebuilt. It’s just stuff.

-I wasn’t there. (I probably would have been snoring, as I retire early. Fogged with sleep I would have bolted out of bed, initially imagining that a plane had hit the house. Desperate to help, but unable to pry open the front door I’d have been forced to run out the back door, through the garage and around the block in my nightgown, and then, I wouldn’t have been able to mount the stairs- because there weren’t any.

Another certainty: I’d have stepped on a nail, or torn timber, or, even better- my nightie would have snagged on something, leaving more than the house’s frame exposed…The mind boggles, don’t it?)

-It wasn’t snowing, hailing, sleeting or blowing. All was calm, all was bright (and wet), lit up like a Christmas tree by police, who worked the scene with admirable efficiency. They kept me informed, and assured me they’d monitor it all night. 150 miles away I was fine with that. We can’t pay our city guardians too much.

-It hadn’t happened in summer, during gardening season.

All in all, the situation could have been MUCH worse.

Hmmm…There really isn’t a lot of bad news. Yes, I’ll be majorly inconvenienced for the winter because Sunnybank got mega-bonked, but -life happens while we’re making other plans.

I can probably still live there, at least part of the time, and get underfoot watching my talented friend Les rebuild.

Update:

The next morning he entered the house via the back door and found the front hallway’s plaster wall flung all over, exposing the lath. The Victorian door’s heavy brass knob had rocketed into the dining room. Fat wall and ceiling fissures extend to the second floor. One handmade, curved window in the second floor’s tower has broken. It appears that that entire bearing wall must be stripped to the studs, inside and out, and fortified. Plaster ceilings and walls on two floors, and in three bedrooms, need replacing. And every day new ‘uh-ohs’ reveal themselves.

Les, a master builder who specializes in putting Victorian homes right, and who knows every inch of mine after working on it for twenty years, is more than up to the job. He thrives on this stuff.

So, this is more good news.

‘Tis the season!